Monday, March 08, 2004

Rain

Rain on the green grass,
And rain on the tree,
And rain on the house top,
But not on me!

It's been raining the entire day today, that kind of heavy, unceasing rain that comes with the dark gray skies and mysterious winds. It was the kind of rain that drove you to snuggle even deeper under the covers as you listened to the rain pattering lightly on the roof and window panes, a soft chorus to the gentle melody of the windchimes. The Outside World was dreary, as if all the colour in the world had been washed away, leaving that dull sleepy grey, shrouding the entire city in a soft mist.

I love this kind of rain. It always seems to come from another world, transforming the entire city to some magical otherwordly existence. It reminds me of Narnia and the Faraway tree, bringing smells of long-forgotten memories and childhood fantasies. I love to imagine the Rain People (James And The Giant Peach) manufacturing each and every drop, before finally releasing them into the world below. I love the soft murmur as the rain strikes the grass, the shiver down the spine as the wind tousles your hair. I love looking at the windows as tiny rivulets of water merge, separate and then disappear. It's almost as if they had a life of their own, choosing one of many possible winding paths, following it through, and then finally vanishing into obscurity. Like people, don't you think? Like life.

I love the rain.


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Finally found the time to watch Big Fish yesterday, and boy was it FANTASTIC! Tim Burton was and always will be one of my favourite directors of all time. This movie was yet another fantastic bit of storytelling from him. *grin* The entire thing was very over the top, ridiculously funny, so much so that you tended to forget the true meaning while watching. But Burton skillfully brought it all together in the end, with the death of Edward Bloom. I cried lots, even though it really wasn't that sad, and I never cry to -that- extent in a movie. But somehow, the movie, the death, struck a chord with me.

Perhaps it was because it dealt with the death of a parent. It spoke of one son's regret as, nearing his father's death, he realised he never really knew his father. It mirrored my own fear, of letting the legacy that is my parents disappear due to my own failure at truly, truly understanding them. It mirrors my regret, at never learning enough hokkien to understand and speak to my grandmother. And now she is nearing her end, and I'll never learn of all the countless ancient traditions, the secret recipes, her wisdom. I never managed to talk more than five coherent sentences to her, and it was always the same thing - if she was feeling okay, if she had eaten, if she wanted to take a seat. Goodness knows I tried, and I think we both sensed the frustration. She understood my cantonese, but I never understood what she wanted to tell me. And I found it sad, that I would never be able to talk to her properly. I used to be able to manage something decent through the help of my grandfather, who was fluent in both chinese and cantonese, and he would help us both understand each other. But then, he passed away in march, and with him, I lost a crucial link to my grandmother.

In fact, I regret never talking to my grandfather more. He was a great man, and I never knew how great, until I attended his funeral. I saw the countless ads in the local newspapers, the many friends who came to pay their last respects. I still remember him taking my hand and leading me across the road to buy my favourite food whenever I came to visit. I remember him waving and talking to everyone on the street - he seemed to know everyone, and perhaps he did. He was jovial, and I respected him, even from a very young age. He was a very very great man.

But perhaps it was due to circumstance - I, who could not visit my grandparents often, since to do so required a long school holiday and a plane ticket to Malaysia. And I guess it is inevitable, that so much of my grandfather's legacy and my grandmother's skill will be lost. But nonetheless, it is sad, that none of these great things will ever be passed on to the future generations. Us with our time constraints, our relentless pursuit of material gain and success. It is no wonder that there is such a generation gap, such an inevitable loss of knowledge. But oh, the regret.

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