When You Are Hit by a Car, and You Are Fine

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— Datong Yungang Grotto, Shanxi, 2016.8 | 山西大同云冈石窟

 

If you are hit by a car, then normally you would not be fine, but would know what to do, right? However, if you are hit by a car, and you are fine, what would you do?

 

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— Datong Yungang Grotto, Shanxi, 2016.8 | 山西大同云冈石窟

 

This question might confuse everybody. Let me tell you a fresh story, my story.

 

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— Datong Yungang Grotto, Shanxi, 2016.8 | 山西大同云冈石窟

 

One ordinary morning in April this year, I was hit by a car. It happened at a pedestrian crossing with no traffic lights in Jiangsu Road. I’ve crossed this two-way road for nearly five-hundred days since I moved to Shanghai. It was during the week but after the peak. And the traffic was not busy. As usual, I was enjoying some music with earphones plugged in and following a guy in the front. It was just another morning on my way to work.

 

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Then, all of a sudden, a car just missed the guy and drove straight at me. Scared, I slightly turned away and raised my right hand sending out a signal: “Stop!” But the driver didn’t stop. It first hit my right hip and made me lose balance. I fell towards the car. My right arm was pressing on the hood and my left hand holding my phone tight in the air. The speed was not enough to make me fly, but fast enough to lift me up. My feet were dragged along till the end of the zebra line. Finally, the car stopped. I fell onto the ground and rolled once. It happened too fast. But my subconscious was in slow motion, almost like a dream. There were no sounds, no colors, no pain, nothing. I couldn’t remember how I got up. The moment I started hearing sounds and seeing colors, I found my phone was missing. It took me several minutes to find it behind one of the front wheels. When I found my white earphones were stained black, I began to feel angry. All the while, the driver wearing glasses, remained in his comfortable seat. Thinking about this and realizing that I was supposed to be in a hurry, I couldn’t help shouting at the nerdy driver.

 

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— Datong Yungang Grotto, Shanxi, 2016.8 | 山西大同云冈石窟

 

“I was walking right after the guy. How could you just drive straight at me?”

 

“Sorry, I didn’t see you.” He didn’t even look at me. Or was he ashamed to look at me?

 

“Are you blind?”

 

“Sorry…” He said indifferently. I became more angry.

 

“Bullshit! You hit me!”

 

“Sorry…” He repeated it, throwing me a glance with the same indifference.

 

“Aren’t you going to say something?” My anger almost exploded.

 

“Sorry…” He turned into a stone, and the car horns were blowing behind him.

 

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— Datong Yungang Grotto, Shanxi, 2016.8 | 山西大同云冈石窟

 

I was too shocked to think further and too speechless to stay longer. In the end, I gave him a middle finger and left.

 

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— Datong Yungang Grotto, Shanxi, 2016.8 | 山西大同云冈石窟

 

By the time I entered the metro station, my mind spun. How could I forget to take a picture of his car number? Idiot! I should report him. But what would I do if I did? Would I like to deal with the police? Would it be worth reporting him?

 

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— Datong Yungang Grotto, Shanxi, 2016.8 | 山西大同云冈石窟

 

All day long, I was looped by questions. I didn’t feel any pain until the water ran over my body in a shower. There were bruises on my knees, my palms and my hip. And my left little finger couldn’t move. But this didn’t worry me. I actually laughed. Because my family’s newest superstition says that my luck would turn in 2019.   

 

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— Datong Yungang Grotto, Shanxi, 2016.8 | 山西大同云冈石窟

 

Now, two months have passed. The only thing that still bothers me is my little finger. I often play with it, in a way like one long-bearded philosopher would touch his beard. And meantime I would wonder: If you were me, what would you do? Would you report him right there? Or would you walk away feeling shocked and lucky?

 

About the Author:

 

Heather in Sri Lanka, Mar 2015.

Heather in Sri Lanka, Mar 2015.

 

Heather is the daughter of a subsistence rice farmer from Fujian Province, China. She tells stories from her experience as one of the poorest. She writes her dream to share with the world, a very personal place. She has now written two English literary novels and is looking to being published in the UK. Her passion is a splendid cocktail or milkshake of word, image, music and art. She likes collecting books, DVDs, papers, stones, shells and leaves. She desires for all forms of natural beauty. She is currently living in Shanghai and serving as Sergeant-at-arms (SAA) for Shanghai Leadership Toastmasters Club.

 


Follow HeathersChamber for more original poems, essays, prose, drawings and pictures

关注阿太的密室,订阅更多原创诗歌、散文、随笔、画画和图片

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Drawing#29: Torture

Torture

Many of my drawings are inspired by the particularly strange vision of my short-sighted eyes. This is one of them.

It was an evening in May. The moon was like a boat, bright in the sky above the gray roofs. For a moment, without glasses, I stared at the moon. Of course, everything that far was blurred in my eyes. First, I saw three moons like three beautifully  curled bananas. Shortly, an abstract image emerged in my mind of what I saw. At last, I captured an immense feeling of great torture. Then my head was occupied by the details of the image and words, till I sketched it and finished it and named it Torture.

P.S.:

It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see. – Henry David Thoreau

Do you see a face, or a man on a horse and a girl by a river? Did you even see the stone arch over the river?


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

Drawing#28: Dream, Dream, Dream

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“We are all alone and we are dead.” – Henry Miller

Whoever living inside the vase and dreaming and daydreaming, is not the only one, I believe. At least, I see a shade of my own shadow. And I’m not alone.

(This is the last black-and-red drawing by ball point pens. The next will be black and white by ink pens.)


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

Drawing#27: The Pervert

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No Comment.


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

F the Fakes

Fake or not

Fake or not

What do you think of the fake likes and followers on Instagram? The tricks and boosts on Twitter and Facebook? The so-called “art” painted or made by internet?

On Instagram, there are more and more users carrying a name such as “get 900 free followers”. If you are as curious as I was, you would click it and find out how and why. As a person who strongly believes, there is no free lunch or there are no cookies falling from the sky, as I am, I just don’t buy it. After reading some of the reviews, I even got disappointed and somewhat angry – why the hell you want more than 900 followers to get an app that is useless and meaningless to your life?

Isn’t it just like the dark air poisoning our lungs and blinding our visions?

Such is one user with only 2 posts but more than 20,000 followers. Neither of the posts is interesting with something to appreciate. And of course, it would make people wonder how and why. To be honest, it’s just impossible. It’s FAKE!

For the tricks on Twitter and the boosts on Facebook, why would I spend dollars on someone who just do like-for-like and follow-for-follow but doesn’t really appreciate my art works? 

For the art made by internet, I feel something hanging in the balance and something in danger. You’ve learned how to speak a language and you would forget soon after not speaking. You’ve studied all sorts of stuff at school and you think you’ve got them in your mind, but when time is up, you’ve no idea about what you’ve studied. You have to study again with substantial materials and social practises. The word is just a word on paper. If you can use the word in reality, you are creating a world that is unknown unless you reveal it. 

You’ve leaned how to hold a pencil and how to use a pen before. Now you use fingers or cellphone pens. Alright, you don’t need to buy any brushes, paints or paper or any other materials. All you need is two eyes, two hands, a brain, a PC or a smart phone. You don’t need to go anywhere but sit there and keep posting one and another and whatever. But?

Don’t you worry about it, if you just count on the internet, one day you would forget all and become a robot yourself? Just like one would forget how to spell a word properly after using the phone?

I’m afraid, sooner or later, the entire human race would be poisoned and consumed by the “robot”. I wonder who can really resist all the fakes and who can fight with the fakes. It seems as if the fakes already have formed an overwhelming trend. And people can’t stand still as the money and fame are waving before their eyes.

We can’t even tell which art work is made by brush and which by cellphone pen. More and more people call themselves artists, but who knows? Maybe they are creating more junk rubbish?

Yesterday Was A Drama

Strangely yesterday I asked myself, how many Yesterdays have I had so far and how many do I remember? Thus, it seems too many to count and too few to remember. Then I tracked it down to my personal diary. There was one day written in 2013. And the mood of that day was as complicated as yesterday.

It says: Oct.25, 2013

Yesterday, a dramatic woman made an odd day. All the way to the market, all the way home and all day long, she covered her mouth with a hand, laughing and crying with smiles yet without tears, feeling like going to marry tomorrow, acting like the secret of American Dream.

Reading through each word, it seemed as if what happened on that day just happened now. The noises from the market, the faces in the crowds, the aimless footsteps on the way home, the broken laughter and the crying smiles, the hungry eyes and the wandering mind, the complex power of the deep inside waves – all these images were still vivid as a dear heart. And yesterday, there was no fewer dear moments than that day. In the morning, I posted a moment of my mind:

After all these days of building a blog and creating some material for the site, I feel my mind floating high and feverishly, my feet walking on the water, my heart rumbling violently, my passion lying restlessly to the mess, the anger, the pain, and even now my period bleeding abnormally.

Continue reading