Three days before the winter solstice, it gets dark early. We drove all the way up north to Skokie.
I never know how people manage to mapping the landscape of a city or a region. But I remember places I went, in a very detailed manner, combining with a deep feeling towards the emotions developed in those locales.
It doesn’t bother me a lot when people describe it as “the world’s largest village”; the city is still a “marsh” to me.
Slowly, I begin to realize that we really rely on in our life is no more than other individuals. When I was told the cafe doesn’t accept their chain store payment card, when I got the text with only two words “good plan”, and when I learnt Edith Hamilton wrote the commonly accepted Mythology, moments as such become bubbles raising high enough for me to reach soon. But I don’t forget; I have very good memory. When they come back to me again, I embrace them, making new bubbles for them, send them up there again.
I don’t like James Ensor, his drawing is too intense to look for a long time. Sometimes, his demons ascend; sometime they descend. They are demons anyway, cannot fit into the reality. There is never a world real or contemporary, never an action of judging or evaluating in The Temptation of Saint Anthony. Conflicts and struggling emit a rotting smell; and you never know how to involve in that scene, neither did he.