Rue De Cardinal
Brisbane, Feb 2023
I took this photo while lying down under the clear blue sky and green trees next to the Brisbane river on a sunny afternoon in February 2023. The caption is from a dear friend, whose words spell out my thought better than mine.
And suddenly, I feel like I need to spend time with that child inside me, time lying on the grass, looking at the sky, wondering and writing about life as time passes by.
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Sydney, Feb 2023
It's been a long while since I last wrote something on my blog. I have been busy working multiple jobs plus traveling and enjoying life, making the most out of 24 hours per day. However, time poverty is not the real reason. I have a lot of free time for almost anything but writing. Maybe, pouring my soul out into words for the world to read is such a risky game to play these days. Maybe, just maybe, living the moments on the fast lane and showing off the superficial glamorous indulgences are ways of reassurance to my loved ones that my soul is still full.
And oh, if I find myself again, will my soul be disappointed in my skin?
And oh, if I find my revolution, will I be triumphant or will I be ruined?
I hate I'm leaving you, with no words left to say...
The chorus of a song ("Hemingway, 74 Rue De Cardinal") I put on repeat for days is speaking for myself. I'm no Hemingway, and my soul have no words left to say.
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Rue De Cardinal
Sydney, Feb 2023
1:11 a.m. and she finally found the solution. She reformatted the code while waiting for it to complete the run. It looked so beautiful with colour coded syntax and correct indentation levels, just like a love poem with rhymes and rhythm. She sat there for minutes to admire a dozen lines of code like a mad painter fall in love with a charming painting. After seeing the output numbers, she happily put her laptop to sleep and called it a day. She hit the shower at around 2:22 a.m. as usual. Nothing beats a hot shower after a long working day, so calming and relaxing.
And snap. She broke down with a stroke, lying on the cold bathroom floor.
The water is still running.
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Paris, Feb 1923
11:11 a.m. and she was busy cleaning out the tables full of empty coffee cups and croissant crumbs. She was definitely a data scientist, not a café waitress. She vaguely remembered taking a hot shower last night, yet she still feel so hazy about how she got here. A quick glance at a newspaper left on a table was showing it was Paris, Feb 1923. How did she travel through space and time over a night? Was this a lucid dream where she still retained a full consciousness of her real life?
As she was still puzzled with questions about realities, a young handsome man walked in and sat down at a corner table. "Un petit café, s'il vous plaît!", he gently asked. As I serve him his coffee, I noticed he was writing down on his notes full of words. A piece of paper fell off the table as the wind passed by. I quickly picked it up for him, unintentionally read the title on the page "Out of season".
"Out of season" (1923)!
That title stroke hard in her memory. She looked up. The name of the coffee shop was "Café des Amateurs". Around the corner, a street sign spelled out "Rue de Cardinal". So this was "Place de la Contrescarpe" and he was Hemingway. The Hemingway, one of her favourite authors of all times! Her heart skipped a beat for a moment, realising that this was not "Inception" but "Midnight in Paris" kind of dream.
- Excuse me, sir ... - I politely asked.
- You speak English?
- Yes, and I'm a big fan of your works. - I could not hide the excitement in my voice.
- Oh, thank you. But I have not published much.
- Trust me, your work will be cherished around the world soon. And your "iceberg theory" is such a brilliant concept.
- "Iceberg theory".
- Yes, and it all started with this short story you are writing now. - I point at the piece of paper I picked up for him.
- Do you mean the "Out of season"? But I think I will write a tragic ending for that story.
- No, you should omit it. Let the readers feel the stories themselves. That's why it's also called the "Theory of Omission".
- But it will make people feel like I'm a lazy writer who cannot tell the full story.
- Ah, how can I explain it to you? I'm not as good with words as you. But (in your future work) you explain it very well:
If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing.
Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon (1932)
- Uh uhmm, thank you!? I have to go now. Excuse me!
Hemingway might not fully understand the strange conversation he just had with a café waitress. However, as a writer with a good habit, he jot down everything she mentioned to him while finishing his coffee. He left with a perplexed look on his face.
She cleaned up Hemingway's cup with a satisfied smile on her face. She met her idol. She talked to him about his famous "Iceberg theory". She believed she did well in preserving an important writing theory of modern literature. She guessed this was why she was sent back through time and space here. Tomorrow, after waking up, she should reread some of his works to confirm if the mission was accomplished. Maybe after she finished writing that data report.
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Paris, Feb 1923
She was still here, in Paris, Feb 2023. It had been almost a month now. And she was still here. This could not be a lucid dream anymore. The "Midnight in Paris" movie also did not last this long. She had been thinking hard about what other missions she still had to do or what other lessons she still had to learn here to go back to her timeline. History had not been her favourite subject in school.
Hemingway stopped by almost everyday. They talked more about the "Theory of Omission", about other literature works, and about life. She had been trying hard not to tell him that she was from the future. She neither revealed more about his famous future works. All sci-fi media had warned her well about the butterfly effect if she changed a small thing in the past. Hemingway noticed the trouble look in her eyes.
- What's wrong?
- Oh, I'm thinking about my writing as well. I think I can never be as good as you. I used to dream of a Nobel prize in Literature. - She diverted the conversation, avoiding revealing her identity.
- No, what are you hiding?
- I'm not hiding anything.
- You are. What you are telling me is only the tip of the iceberg. A story of a café waitress who dreams to be a famous writer one day. But you barely even write these days so I don't think it's your true intention.
- You are right. I don't even know my intention or my life purpose. What do I come here for?
- If you don't even know your life story, how can your readers know?
- Maybe it's not a story worthy of being told. Maybe I just came and died as a normal café waitress.
A sudden thought ran across her mind. She had been living under the assumptions that she was living the "Midnight in Paris" magic. However, this was more like "Many lives, many times", which means she was dead on that bathroom floor, under the running water.
A silent gasp of realisation echoed in her head. That death suited her. With her workaholic all-nighter lifestyle, she had been anticipated this kind of sudden stroke death would happen to her eventually. Knowing that she would stay here until the end of this lifetime, a smile blossomed on her face. It's almost spring time in Paris, 1923.
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