saving fish from drowningexcerpt: saving fish from drowning - polyester film industry
My Brief History of shortening life is not my fault.
If the team didn't change my original itinerary, there wouldn't be such a crash.
But this is not the case, and I regret to say that you have it.
I named the expedition "follow the footsteps of the Buddha ".
It begins at the southwest corner of China, Yunnan province, with a view of the Himalayas and permanent spring flowers, and then continues south on the famous Burmese highway.
This will allow us to trace the wonderful influence of various religious cultures on Buddhist art for thousands of years.
Wonderful journey into the past.
If this is not attractive enough, I will be the leader and the private doctor to make this adventure a real value --
But in the early morning of December 2, fourteen days before we set out to explore, something terrible happened. . . I died. There.
I finally said, it sounds incredible.
I can still see this tragic Title: "Social celebrities who were slaughtered in the cult massacre.
"The article is long: There are two columns on the left --
On the hand side of the front page, there is a picture of me in color, covered with an antique textile, which is a delicate picture and completely ruined for future sales.
The report reads a terrible thing: "The body of Bibi Chen, 63, retail maven, socialite, board member of the Asian Art Museum, yesterday was found in the window of her Union Square store, known for its Chinese style. . . .
That hateful word. "chinoiserie"—
Despise in a precious way.
The article continues with a fairly vague description of the weapon: a small, rak-like object that cuts my throat, a rope wound around my neck, suggested that someone tried to kill me after the stab failed.
The door was forcibly opened, and there were bloody footprints --
Twelve men's shoes came out of the platform where I died, then came out of the door and walked down the street.
There are jewels and broken statues next to my body.
According to a source, a paper was written by a satanic cult who boasted that it was hit again.
Two days later, another thing happened: "A new clue to the death of the patron of art ".
A police spokesman explained that they had never called it a cult killing.
The detective noticed "a newspaper", meaning the newspaper tabloids, and when the reporter asked what the newspaper said, he gave the tabloids the title: "Satan's oath of worship kills again.
The spokesman went on to say that more evidence had been found and he had been arrested.
A police dog tracked my blood.
The spokesman said that what is invisible to the human eye still contains "odor molecules that highly trained dogs can detect about a week after the event ". " (
Is my death an event? )
The trail took them to an alley where they found the shopping cart full of rubbish stuffed with bloody slacks.
Not far from there, they found a tent made of blue tarps and cardboard.
They arrested a homeless man wearing shoes that left traces.
The suspect has no criminal record, but has a history of mental illness. Case solved. Or maybe not.
Just after my friend went missing in Myanmar, the newspaper changed its mind again: "The death of the shop owner determined an abnormal accident.
"There is no reason, no purpose, no one can blame, just" monster ", this ugly word is always next to my name.
Why have I been demoted as a "shop owner "?
The story further points out that DNA analysis of skin particles and blood particles in men
The pants and shoes were spilled and confirmed that the man was no longer a suspect.
Who entered my gallery and left these pictures?
Isn't this an obvious crime case?
Who exactly caused this abnormal accident?
No further investigation was mentioned, however, which made them ashamed.
In the same article, the reporter noticed "a strange coincidence", that is, "Chen Bibi organized a road trip to Myanmar, and eleven people disappeared on a trip to visit Buddhist art.
"How do you think they blamed it?
They certainly hinted at this because it was linked to things that could not be fully explained as if I had been destined for a trip from the beginning. Pure nonsense.
Worst of all, I don't remember how I died.
What am I doing at the last moment?
Who do I see waving the tools of death? Was it painful?
Maybe it's terrible. I put it in my memory.
It is human nature to do so.
Even if I die, am I not human?
The autopsy concluded that I was not strangled but drowned in my own blood.
It's terrible to hear this voice.
This information has not been of any use so far.
There was a little rake in the throat and a rope around the neck --
Is this an accident?
If you want to think this way, you must not use your brains, because obviously more than a few people think this way.
I took pictures of the autopsy, especially the horrible part of my neck.
For later study, my body was stuffed into a metal drawer.
I was lying there for a few days and then my sample was removed --
This cotton swab, that one, hairy follicles, blood, and stomach juice.
Then it took another two days because the chief forensic doctor went on vacation to Maui because I was an outstanding person and was particularly famous in the art world --
No, not just the retail community, as suggested by the San Francisco Chronicle --
He wanted to see me in person, as did respected people in the crime and forensic professions.
They stopped by at lunch time and made terrible guesses about the cause of my premature death.
For a few days, they slipped me in, slipped me out, and said thick words about the contents of my stomach, the integrity of the blood vessels in my brain, my personal habits, some of my past health records are quite irrelevant and people are reluctant to hear strangers discuss so openly while eating their sacks lunch.
On that frozen land, I think I really fell into the underground world.
The most frustrating people are there.
An angry woman rushed over Van Ness Street to scare her boyfriend, a young man jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and changed his mind halfway, an alcoholic war vet who fainted on the nude beach
Tragedy, mortal embarrassment, unfortunate ending, all of this.
Why would I be there?
I got stuck in these thoughts and couldn't get out of my breathless body until I realized that my breath wasn't gone but was around me, supporting me up.
That's great. really-
Every time I breathe, I get and expel food from my 60 s habits and efforts
Accumulated like a savings account for three years.
The same is true of others, who seem to be breathing in the hope of disappointment.
Anger, love, happiness, hate
They were all there, with bursts of sound, Pilling, sighing and screaming.
I now know that the air I breathe is not made up of gas, but is made up of the density and fragrance of emotion.
The body is just a filter, a reviewer.
There is no doubt that I knew this at once, and I found myself freed to feel and do whatever I like freely.
This is the benefit of death: Don't be afraid of the consequences of the future.
That's what I think.
When the funeral was finally held on December 11, I had passed away for nearly ten days and would have become compost if it had not been preserved.
Nevertheless, many people came to see me and mourn for me.
A modest guess, though I don't have a strict calculation, is, oh, 800.
First of all, Poochini, my Yorkshire hound, was in the front row, leaning over, with claws overhead, sighing in countless eulogy.
My good friend Harry Bailey is by his side and he occasionally gives him a dry liver.
Harry offered to adopt Bossini, and my executor would be happy to agree, as it is well known that Harry is a famous British dog trainer on television.
Maybe you saw his show. The Fido Files? Number-
A ratings, there are many Emmy Awards.
Auspicious small Poochini.
Here's the mayor-did I mention? —
He stayed for at least 10 minutes, which may not sound long, but he went to many places a day and spent a lot less time at most.
The members of the board and staff of the Asian Art Museum also came to pay tribute to almost all the people, as well as the doctors I trained, for many years, worthy of respect. There are also those who sign up for the Myanmar road trip.
And three of my tenants.
The one in trouble, and-
My dear repeat and daily browser, and Roger from my FedEx company;
My Vietnamese manicurist, Tiou.
My gay hair stylist, Luc.
My Brazilian gay butler, Bobo.
Most surprisingly, Najib, a Lebanese grocer on my corner market on the Russian Hill, called me "dear" in his twenties.
Seven years, but I never gave me a discount, even if the fruit is already cooked, there is no.
By the way, I don't mention anyone who is important.
This is the way it came to me.
Now that I think about it, I guess there are more than 800 people there.
The Hall of the Deyang museum was crowded, hundreds of people flocked to the hall, and the hall was closed --
The Circuit TV monitor plays unpleasant programs.
It was a Monday morning and the museum was usually closed but someof-
Towners on the Tea Garden Avenue thought the funeral was a great opportunity to sneak into the current exhibition, the Silk Road treasures in the Orrell Stein adventure, which, in my opinion, is a testimony, plunder the British Empire at a height of greed.
As the guards drove the break-ins away from the exhibition, they strolled down to my funeral and were struck by copies of the various obituaries placed next to the guest book.
Most newspapers give a hodgepodge of the same facts: "Born in Shanghai. . .
In 1949, she fled China with her family. . .
Alumni of Mills College and guest lecturer in art history. . .
Master of the gods. . .
Board members of many organizations. . .
"Then I was described as a loyal and generous donor listing a long list of valuable causes: this alliance and that society, for the elderly in Asia and for the orphans in China, for the poor, diseases and disabilities of the abused, illiterate, hungry and mentally ill.
My love of art and the amount of money I have provided to the artist colony, the Youth Orchestra of the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra and the Asian Art Museum are recorded --
My lagniappes and the generous primary recipient, before and after death-
Warmly provided an unusual venue for my funeral, de Young, an Asian resident.
I should be proud of my achievements.
On the contrary, I think this is ridiculous.
I heard every bit of chatter at every dinner, lunch and party I attended.
I see vague names in thick and smooth programs, my own names are shown in "Archangel", in less Programs
The Stanford drop-out boy named Yang always seems to belong to his number and the more popular "inner Holy Land ".
Nothing satisfies me, I believe I will be at the end of my life.
I can't say to myself: "That's the most special place for me. it's the most important place for me. it's enough for my life.
"I feel like a rich tramp crossing the world, paving my way with golden fairy dust, and then realizing that it is too late for me to break up as soon as I walk through this road.
As for who I left behind, the obituary says, "there are no survivors," which is a statement about the crash of the plane.
Sadly, my family is gone.
My father had a heart attack.
A brother with alcoholic cirrhosis, although I should not mention this;
Another brother is a victim of a road. rage accident;
And my mother, who passed away from life before I knew her.
I don't expect my stepmother sweet mom to be alive, but the less she thinks, the better.
Open Choice --
The coffin ceremony was my fault and it was the result of my unfortunate relationship with a group of friends at the Tea Party
I had a tasting party in my gallery.
You see, I recently received a container containing magical items I found in rural Hubei province.
Two of them. hundred-year-
A eunuch singer performing at the court theater used an old painted coffin made of tung wood.
In death, most eunuchs, except for the eunuchs on the upper level, only get the most perfunctory funerals, and there is no ceremony, because their incomplete bodies are not suitable for appearing in front of the spiritual tablets of the temple.
In the past, the rich and the poor had prepared the coffin for the Dutch world before the rooster was heard no longer on the new day, and the eunuch was allowed to make such a large coffin, the fact that he is someone's pet --
Beautiful Boys are often.
Alas, this eunuch-worship man drowned while fishing along the Yangtze River. his body went out to sea without a boat and was forgotten.
The eunuch's parents were in Longgang township, where his property was sent, and they faithfully put the coffin in a shed, hoping that one day their son's wayward body would come back.
The descendants of the family became poor due to drought, extortion and too many gifts to opera singers, all of which resulted in their loss of face and property.
A few years later, the new landowner will not take the coffin to the vicinity of the hut, which is said to be haunted by the vampire eunuch.
Abandoned due to negligence, the cottage is covered with dirt from the wind, mud from the flood, and dust from time.
Then, when a new rich farmer starts to build a mini golf course, two with his familystory Swiss-
Style villa, shed unearthed.
Surprisingly, the coffin had only a surface decay and did not crack due to shrinkage;
This is the quality of tung wood, although it is light, but more durable than many of the harder wood.
There are more than 50 pieces of black paint outside, and four short pieces are also available --legged stand.
Under the dirt, one can see the whimsy with elves, gods, mythical animals and other magical patterns engraved on the paint, and these continue on the inner cover of the coffin.
My favorite detail is that there is a naughty Tibetan hound on the lid opposite the body's face.
The interior art on the lid, after being protected by the sun, still presents a fine color against the black paint.
Neatly arranged bundles of paper at the bottom, I decided they were a short history of the coffin's intended tenants, as well as unpublished poems of the same person, for nature, beauty and-The most intriguing-
From young to early death, romantic love for a lady.
Well, I think this is a lady, though people never know some Chinese names, do they?
There are two other things in the coffin: a smaller lacquerware urn with the names of eunuch dogs, Tibetan hounds, and a small ivory --
There are three peas in it. it is said to be the manhood of the eunuch and two accompaniment.
I can see in a moment that the coffin is both a stone and a treasure.
I have a few clients.
People in the film industry
Who would have liked this strange ornament, especially if it had still had petrified peas.
But the ratio is embarrassing.
The top stretches out the length of the coffin like a duck
The bow of the ship.
And very heavy.
I asked the farmer to say his price and he spit out a number which is a tenth of what I would be mentally willing to pay.
"It's ridiculous," I said, and began to leave. "Hey, hey, hey!
"He cried, and I went back and said, this is a sum of money --
Third, his original offer.
I counter that he should keep it if he is so obsessed with a house of the dead.
Then I split the difference and said I wanted that hell box just to store some of the extra stuff I bought and then I would cut the coffin down as firewood.
"It has a lot of storage," the farmer boasted . " He raised the stakes a little.
I sighed and then retorted that he should arrange for his people to send it to Wuhan Port and ship it with my other wonderful bargains. Done! Voilà tout!
Back in San Francisco, as soon as the coffin arrived, I put it in the back room of my store and did use it to store antique textiles woven by the Miao, Karen, and Laua Hills tribes.
Soon after, I had a guest over for tea-tasting.
We sample at different puerh tuo cha—
By the way, this is the only tea that has improved over time;
In addition, you can use kitty after six months-cat litter.
With the fifth round of tasting, we have reached the golden standard of aged teayear-
The vintage wine, properly named "camel breathing" variety, is particularly pungent, but great for lowering cholesterol and prolonging life.
I jokingly said, "but should I die early ? "
I took a huge burial box.
"This magnificent vessel to the future world, the Cadillac of the coffin, is what I wish to bury, raising the top at my funeral so that all can enjoy the art of the interior. . . .
"After I died, there were more than a few in the tea.
Tasting soiree reminds me of my quirky review.
The wit I am talking about is described as "foresight", which is equivalent to "the last wish that must be fulfilled", and so on, disgusting.
So I was forced to lie in the coffin of the wreck, and luckily there was no part of the eunuch dry. The ivory-
There are terrible relics in the framed box, and the bones of the eunuch's beloved Tibetan hound --
Although I can't imagine why someone would want to steal those sad things as souvenirs.
The museum staff in charge of the protection and repair did a little bit of tucking and sanding, although no pieces or cracks were repaired.
This is how they maintain their attitude of authenticity.
A Chinese protector will make it look as good as the new one and paint it beautiful, bright red and shiny gold.
Because the coffin is deep, the bottom is filled with foam plastic in the shape of a pea pod, with a layer of velvet on it
The most terrible thing is beige polyester.
This is how I came to the museum hall to display, lying in a black auditorium --
Painted coffins carved with celestial animals and the names of their intended tenants, he will no doubt come to me with an eviction notice.
If I did make arrangements for premature death, I would ask for cremation like a Buddhist monk without attachment to the body.
As for the proper container for my body, it would be enough not to have a URN.
I will choose nine boxes of different and exquisite boxes, all of which come from the gods, for example, walking --
Pattern Box in Southern Song Dynasty, round Tao Yuanming collecting chrysanthemum, and-
I absolutely like it, I overrated it on purpose --
A simple black brush box
I used to open it, breathe it in, and feel the poetry flowing on my face. The nine well-
In reading my will, the selected box will be arranged on a table with three lines crossed and three lines down, just like the three throws of the Yi Ching coin
Both random and meaningful.
Nine friends, also selected from the best people in society, each of whom would be asked to choose a box with a portion of my ashes.
They will take me on a trip to a lovely place as per my request --
I don't have a sedentary fireplace or Steinway piano top
They might scatter my ashes there, but use the box as a souvenir.
These boxes are the quality of the museum and the value will increase over the years to make people appreciate me more and more. " Ah-
Ha, they will laugh when they look at that part.
So my ashes could have gone a little easier and more fulfilling, and I could have avoided the sight of that hateful coffin opening.
But we were all there, including me, waiting for our turn to see something terrible.
One by one, these friends, acquaintances and strangers from different periods of my shortened life stand by the coffin to say goodbye, goodbye, zai Jane.
I know a lot of people are curious and want to see how the people at the funeral home cover up the fatal wounds. "Oh my God!
"I heard them whispering loudly to each other.
To be honest, I was also shocked to see how strangely prepared they were for my death premiere.
A shiny silver scarf wrapped around my torn neck to form a fluffy bow.
I look like a turkey to put in the oven with aluminum foil inside.
To make matters worse, Beni Truba Serra, the doctor who was sad for me
That is to say, with the display of the greatest pain crying --
I gave the morgue a picture taken by a group of us three years ago when we went on an adventure in Bhutan.
I looked strong and happy in that photo, but my hair was terrible
No hot water wash for three days.
It hangs on greasy long strands, the Crown is covered with plasters, I have a large groove on my forehead and a sun hat is glued to my scalp with heat and sweat. Himalayas, ha—
Who knows it's so hot there when hiking?
Who knows that Benny will give this picture to a girl in the morgue in the future and let her see what I look like "at the best time?
The silly girl will give me the same mud.
Along the Himalayan hairstyle, apply my skin to dark colors like a brupa maiden, so that now people will mistakenly remember my face, like a one that has shrunk and shrunk
It's not that I want everyone to say, "Oh, I remember Bibi, she's beautiful. " I was not.
From the beginning of the girlhood, I have a keen eye for beautiful things. I know my shortcomings.
My body is small and short.
My hands and feet are as thick as unread books and have legs like wild Mongolian ponies.
My nose is too long and my cheeks are too sharp.
Everything is a bit too much.
This is my mother's legacy left in the family, not enough, too much is never enough.
But I'm not upset about how I look.
Well, when I was young, yes, multiplied.
But when I became a young woman, I knew it was better to remember than plain.
I learned to translate my shortcomings into practical results.
I dim my already thick eyebrows, and I'm big-
I have a stone ring on my finger.
I dyed my muddy hair with bright gold, red, and painted black long stripes and woven them into a giant braids with stripes across my entire back.
I decorate myself with layers of color that are less likely, and foil the tone with texture, design, or flow.
I wear big pendants and medals, clowns.
People look forward to the green gaspeite of the cool jade.
My shoes were designed by myself and made by a leather worker in Santa Fe.
"Do you see how the toes are curled in the Persian slippers tradition?
I say to those who stare too long.
"Why do you think the Persians started doing this?
"To show that they are upper
One person said, "class.
"Point their feet to heaven?
"In order to hide the curved dagger," one man speculated . ".
"I'm afraid the answer is not so charming," I would say before revealing this fascinating fact: "The curled toes set off the buzz of the long dress, to prevent the wearer from tripping over the long carpet-paved Hall and paying tribute to their king.
They're just practical, you see.
Every time I say that, people are impressed and later, when they see me again, they say, "I remember you!
You are the one wearing charming shoes.
At the funeral, Zez, an Asian curator responsible for restoring the ancestral memorial, said that my style was "absolutely memorable", symbolizing the best portraits of the Sackler series.
It's a bit of an exaggeration, of course, but it's from the heart.
Deep in my own heart, of course I felt pings and pain.
I can feel the pain of others even for a moment.
I am full of common sadness
Finally, feel so deep
I am really happy this time, I have no children, no dear daughter or lovely son feel the pain it will bring to lose me as their mother.
But at the same time, this sadness
The joy is gone and I start thinking.
Think about it, no one in my life loves me in complete despair.
Oh, I used to believe that this is how Stefan Cheval took care of me.
Yes, Stefan Cheval, the famous movie with the controversial footnote.
It was a long time ago, right before that pink.
The skin congressman declared his painting "obscene and notAmerican. " My opinion?
To be honest, I think Stefan's series of free choice is too exaggerated and old-fashioned.
You know one: American Water powder coverS.
The flag hanging on the death of the USDA image
Stamped livestock, dogs and computer monitors that carry out euthanasia
Or the TV at that time?
In any case, there is a lot of excess in order to show unethical waste.
According to Stefan's own description, the red color of the flag is bloody, the blue color is fancy, and the white color is the color of "discharged sperm.
Of course he's not Jasper John.
However, after Stefan's work was condemned, it was loudly defended by the First Amendment rights group, ACLU, scads from the top art department
First-class universities, as well as all those civil liberal types.
Let me tell you, it was the grand message that they gave Stefan the work he never thought.
They see the complexity of meaningful levels, how some values and lifestyles are considered more important than others, and how we Americans need ugly shocks to recognize our values and
In particular, the tearing of sperm is often quoted as a sign of our greed for happiness without regard to confusion and spread.
In the years that followed, chaos was called global warming and the proliferation of nuclear weapons.
That's how his reputation happened. Prices rose.
Mortals became an idol.
A few years later, even churches and schools have posters and postcards of his most popular themes, and the franchise gallery of the Metropolitan tourism center is selling his limited --
The Edition has signed the serial map, along with prints from Dali, Neiman and Kincaid.
I should be proud of having such a celebrity in my life.
We are the ideal partner in social affairs.
As for the fun of the boudoir, I will be careful to admit that there are countless wild nights that meet the standards of the wine god.
But I can't give up my job to be his addendum.
He always goes to pay lectures, to attend the annual dinner of the trustee in the New York Metropolitan, or to enjoy luxurious perks, and a few times a night, he jumps out of the dark
Lend out his conversation.
Stop for 20 minutes and move on to the next party.
We like to joke when we are together.
But we are not gentle.
We do not express the endless feelings that people may regret in the future.
Therefore, with the passage of the season, the blooming flowers gradually fade, and naturally rot inevitably.
Without debate and discussion, we began to ignore each other.
Somehow we are still friends, which means we can still attend the same party and pretend to kiss each other on the cheek.
So we avoid talking quickly. talk.
On a slow day, we are just talking about it at best.
Speaking of which, a friend told me that Stefan is now suffering from severe depressive disorder and I am sorry to hear that.
More importantly, she said that his signature copy of Giclée was completed with a clear acrylic swish stroke --
He sold on eBay for $24.
99, no booking, including frame.
Like I said, I'm sad.
I have other men as stable partners and with them, I have experienced a certain degree of love, but there is no heartache worth mentioning.
Well, of course, there are a lot of disappointment, and a stupid episode, which is to cut a pajamas for a passionate night, a impetuous disregard for money, because the value of this dress is far more than that person.
But I'm asking myself now: is there really great love?
Is someone the object of my obsession, not just my emotions?
I honestly don't think so.
This is to some extent my fault.
I think it's my nature.
I can't make myself so indifferent.
Is love not like this?
You don't care what people think.
You can't see the shortcomings of your beloved, slight Skittles, carelessness, and occasional mean.
You don't mind if he's lower than you in society, education, economics, and morality.
This is, I think, the worst moral flaw.
I always mind.
I am always cautious about things that may go wrong and about things that are already "not ideal.
"I noticed the divorce rate.
I ask you: what is the chance to find a lasting marriage? Twenty percent? Ten?
Do I know which woman has a heart crushed like a recyclable jar? Not a one.
From what I have observed, when the anesthesia of love disappears, there will always be painful consequences.
You don't have to be stupid to marry the wrong man.
Look at my dearest friend and the trustee of my estate, Vera Hendricks.
She is a very smart lady with a PhD in sociology from Stanford University and is the director of one of Africa's largest non-profit foundations
She is often included in the most influential black women in the United States.
In any case, as smart as Vera, when she was young, she made a mistake and married a jazz drummer, Maxwell, in his opinion, his job was, it is to stay outside, smoke, drink and tell jokes, and then go home early in the morning.
He's not black. he's Jewish.
The blacks and Jews, in those days, were not small deviations in the couple.
His mother reverted the orthodox idea, declared him dead, and sat shiva for weeks.
When they moved from Boston to Tuscaloosa, Vera and Maxwell had to fight the world in order to stay together.
Vila revealed that people hate them as a reason for their existence as a couple.
Later, when they lived in a free environment in Berkeley, where mixed marriage was the norm, the fighting between the two of them was mainly for money and drinking, one of the most common reasons for the discord between marriage.
Vera reminds me that even smart women make stupid mistakes when choosing a man.
When I was almost forty years old, I almost convinced myself to get married and have children.
This man loves me so much and speaks to embarrassing nicknames in a romantic language of destiny.
Of course, I was flattered and moved.
He is not handsome in the traditional sense, but I find that his genius is strong and therefore a strange spring medicine.
He is socially incompetent and has many strange habits, but with DNA alone, he is the ideal partner for childbirth.
He talked about the children of our future, some angels and some kind.
I am very interested in the idea of the child, but inevitably it will be packaged into a package called a mother, which evokes my memory of my stepmother.
After I rejected the man's numerous requests for proposal, his heart was shattered.
Six months later, he married another woman and I felt guilty.
It was all of a sudden, yes, but I was happy for him, really, I was happy, and I continued to be happy when they had a child and then another one. Four!
There's so much to be happy about, isn't there?
One is what I want to have most. for many years, I have been thinking about the child I have never had before.
Will she love me?
Look at Vera's two daughters. I often meditate.
Even when they were in their teens, they had always admired her.
They are the offspring of people's dreams.
May my child have a similar feeling for me?
I will have her sit on my lap, brush her hair and smell the clean smell.
I imagine myself stuffing a peonies behind her ears, or cutting a beautiful hairpin in her hair dotted with emeralds.
We will look in the mirror together and know that we love each other deeply, and tears will come to our eyes.
Later, I realized that the child I imagined was my young self, and he longed for such a mother.
I admit that whenever I hear that the descendants of certain friends have become mass and mass, I have received this news gloating and missing the frustration and despair of my parents, and I am relieved.
What is more socially destructive than letting your own child claim that she hates you and is in front of your child --than-best friends?
As I watched Lucinda Parry, director of communications at the Asian Art Museum, stand up and approach the podium to make my own contribution to my eulogy, I thought of the issue.
She once told me that I was like a mother to her.
Now at my memorial service, she praised my virtue: "The money of Chen Bibi Manor "--
She paused and threw her smooth hair curtains like a horse-racing --
"The money from selling her deluxe three pounds --
Apartment building and gorgeous, bridge-
Check out Leavenworth's penthouse, in addition to her shop, the legendary gods, and its very successful online catalog business, in addition to the personal collection of Buddhist art --
I may add that it is considered a collection
I always trust the museum.
Then applauded loudly.
Lucinda's talent has always been to combine drama and exaggeration with dull facts so that words can be balanced to be credible.
Before the thunderous applause rang, she raised her palm and continued: "The legacy she left us is estimated to be --
Wait a minute. here's-
$20 million. No one is panting.
The crowd did not jump up and cheer.
They clapped loudly, but I wouldn't say it frantically.
It's as if my legacy was expected and it's an ordinary amount.
When the room was very quiet, she raised a plaque.
"We will post this on one of the wings of the new Asia, which opens on 2003, in honor of her generosity. " One wing!
I know I should specify for my 20 million the level of recognition I should be getting.
More importantly, the plaque is a medium-sized square, brushed over stainless steel, my name is engraved on very small letters, and even the people in the front row have to tilt forward, squinting their eyes.
This is the style that Lucinda likes, modern and simple, with no liner type, just as unreadable as the instructions on the medicine bottle.
She and I used to argue kindly that she had brochures designed by expensive graphic artists.
"Your eyes are still young," I told her not long ago.
"You have to realize that those who have given a lot of money, their eyes are old.
If you want this style, you should put glasses on people.
"That's where she is-so-
Jokingly said, "You are like my mother.
There's always something wrong.
"I am providing useful information," I told her . ".
"Like my mother," she said . "
At my funeral, she said those words again at the end, but this time, she smiled with tears: "Bi is like a mother to me.
She was very generous with her advice.