Liao Weitang , was in a
bad world. I flew away from the cold Hong Kong,
flew over the scorching Taipei, and the powdery Beijing.
After the plane crossed the sultry rain in Tokyo, the
Bering Strait finally embraced me. It has no attributive,
as if comforting. The plane broadcasted "The Best Time" in time.
Hou Hsiao-hsien was so sad that he was in a mess.
The carefully selected sad songs lingered on me for the rest of the journey.
The music was repeatedly subdued and euphemistic.
The boy talked like I was desperate when I was young. .
Heavy flowers bloom in those lonely times,
I drank the golden night dew, and wrote the flowers and
leaves that adorn the light morning clouds.
It was the best of times and the worst of times, and
I was like the ghost of Dickens roaming the North American continent,
by the shore of Lake Ontario, holding my head like an Indian
with the bones of a dead eagle.
The weather in Toronto is changing. In the dark, I tried
to copy Liang Qichao's poems in Maguan and
Liao Weitang's poems in Beijing. They were both brand new as snow . The plane that came back broke down, and I couldn't watch "The Best of Times" again . I only knew that the Bering Strait stretched far away, and I stretched my hands left and right: Asia and America, it was as open-minded as it was in despair. 2006.10.12.Toronto－10.21.Toronto to Hong Kong on the plane
View more about Three Times reviews
