Any serious writer will tell you what clarity really means. It means freedom from encumbrances-encumbrances such as, requiring everyone to be confined to pre-specified space, time, schedule, program, hoards of strange and illogical-irrational man-made rituals, sprouting “causes” which suddenly sprang out seemingly from nowhere like a thick veil of impenitrable fog onto the surface of earth in the plot of a science fiction.
In a well-written science fiction, we look for logic/ration and agreeable values which the readers would see clearly, identify, and read on with empathy/sympathy, often with a confident expectation for good at the end at least. We like positive outcome and reading the flow that would bring it when we finish the reading journey of the book.
Clarity, therefore, is very essential in any written work or a piece of art presentation. Here is a random definition: clarity noun1 the clarity of his account: lucidity, lucidness, clearness, perspicuity, intelligibility, comprehensibility, coherence; simplicity, plainness, explicitness, lack of ambiguity, precision. ANTONYMS obscurity, vagueness
Someone may argue that an art does not need a clarity like a book does. An art is therefore open to interpretation of the beholder. In the same argument so does a book no matter how clear its plot and sequential flow of argument is. Expanding on this track further, so is life anyway.
Using a photo as an example, we can see the validity of the clarity argument. Are pictures not the same as words? Words, when organized well, tell a good and enjoyable story. So do pictures.
On my washing machine I note a “fuzzy” function button which I don’t use. Somehow I have no use of it.
3 my mind was so fuzzy: confused, muddled, addled, fuddled, befuddled, groggy, disoriented, disorientated, mixed up, fazed, perplexed, dizzy, stupefied, benumbed; foggy, misty, shadowy, blurred. ANTONYMS clear
Back to the other side of the argument. I like the Impressionist art. So I am not against a seemingly somewhat “fuzzy” appearance. I can see clarity in their pictures though. I can see clearly the beauty they present. I realize that a picture/photograph has the advantage that words do not have. A picture visual is a presentation at a glance. Words require time to read and digest. Effective organization of words therefore helps a person’s mind to absolve.
When I am a reader I prefer clarity. Like a good picture, it saves time. So does writing. Nowadays there are AI writers and human writers. If all the words are perfectly organized, all books will read the same. What is the point of reading then? Is that why many turn to watching visual moving pictures that can tell a clear story at a glance?
What motivates me to read is there are human writers too. And human writers are not perfect. And I am human. There is something the AI cannot imitate. Every human has a living spirit. Words written by a human has a spiritual content, which can stir up the special resonance between humans, the writer and the reader.
This is an unedited picture I took at random one afternoon sitting at a window. What can you see?
Kate is glad she did not make it to that alumni night after all on that fateful night of reunion on 2017-5-17. This is the account of what really happened that night of the alumni dinner. After pausing a long while at the bridge watching the swiveling black water thinking about her past life, she drove towards that meeting hall in the city at the other end where the river mouth whispered gently into the ears of the sea.
It was a dark and lonely drive. She stayed occupied in her mind anticipating the scene of the reunion.
“What am I going to say to all these strangers?” She thinks of the old men and women whom she has not met, not in their adulthood anyway. She tries to think of Noel, the only boy in school who owned a motor cycle and tried to court her by daily standing outside Kate’s classroom looking at her.
She was not prepared to meet any of them, especially Noel whom she rejected. While driving and musing to divert her mind to something more meaningful like a poet writing about how he wandered lonely as a cloud, and saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. (William Wordsworth)She also recalled a story about one day a woman decided to plant a single bulb. This single bulb turned into many more and soon she had a field filled with daffodils. The daffodil field had refreshed many tired and wearied hearts and her story motivated others and changed the belief that a small thing was too small to matter.
Why was she not interested in Noel’s courtship? The reason given was she had to travel far and not likely returning.
Yet she returned after decades. This night, like the swiftlets returning to their habitat (dark caves or houses as in the case where Kate was raised) and the fastest speed is 69 mph (111 kph), which was the speed Kate was driving. As Kate chewed over such mixture of data she realized something was not right.
She should have have reached the city of brilliant lights in less than half an hour but she had been driving well over an hour at least! She recalled making one turn towards the beach road shortly after she left the bridge. The sea and the river ran parallel so there was no reason why she had not reached the city. She could hear the monotonous sound of the sea waves on the way and she knew she was on the beach road.
She stopped the car and listened in the dark. It was strangely quiet. There was no street light on this stretch of the road. With her car light she could see a mist rising ahead. He phone went dead and frozen. No WiFi signal. No telecommunication signal. Her car clock was dead. Where was Kate?
Resuming driving she made a decision to turn off to a side lane, seeing a distant gleam of light. Finally, a colonial style house appeared at the end of the lane. To her relief, its door was opened and she was greeted kindly by a friendly and pleasantly looking woman of indeterminable age, neatly dressed in the style of the sixties. The woman was a housekeeper of the beautiful house whose owners were away overseas. She served the weary Kate cups of warm tea with fresh milk, and some freshly baked scones.
This was the conversation which Kate remembered vividly in the aftermath.
“Thank you Ma’am, for being so kind. May I borrow a phone to call my friends? We are supposed to have a reunion alumni gathering.” Kate asked politely after a cup of tea. and scone.
“You are very welcome, Miss Kate, I am afraid we do not have a phone in this house. Neither do I carry a phone.”
“Am I correct in what I am seeing? That wall clock shows a time at 11:55 and it has frozen since I arrived. Perhaps I am mistaken.” Kate tried to sound calmly.
“You are right, Miss Kate, we are living in a frozen time here. “
“My car clock, and phone went dead and none of the communication ways seems to work.” Kate replied.
“Not surprising, Miss Kate. We live in a zone without modern communication.”
Kate’s mind worked like never before. “Am I dreaming? Is this real?” She asked herself silently. Then she looked into the face of a familiar looking young woman looking at her from the opposite wall, with a puzzling look on her face.
Kate stood up and looked closer. It was a mirror and the reflection of a very young woman, like her twin in her twenties. Kate was looking at herself in the 1960s. “Have I gone back in time?” She asked.
The housekeeper answered, “No, you have merely stumbled into a parallel time zone which has been frozen in time. “
“Are there others in this time zone?” Kate asked. Memories of sixties rushed to her like wild mustangs.
“Yes, of course. Whom do you have in mind?” The woman asked.
“Perhaps my high school mates? If that is possible…” Kate made a wish silently. She believed in miracles.
“Why not?” The kindly woman answered as if it was a matter of simplicity and fact. “Just do as you normally would do when on this day as a young person.” She added.
“I was driving, on my way to attend a graduation gathering and that was the last time I would meet with my high school classmates. I flew off the next morning. Something happened. ” Kate reminisced that fateful night.
“Well? Did you have a good time?” The woman asked.
“I never got there. I was driving and lost my way somehow and ended up in a house like this one off the side lane.” Kate looked up and burst out loudly, unable to keep her cool, “It’s the same house, this house!”
“Well?” The woman asked without showing any surprise.
“Yes, I had a rather quiet and pleasant time drinking tea and eating scones. After that I drove home as it was rather late and long passed the party. I never got to say goodbye to them. And we all grew old separately.” Kate spoke calmly as she thought about that night of missed appointment. Then she remembered that she received a rose before she boarded the plane. There was no card. She never knew who the sender was.
“Do you want to live that redeemed time with a different outcome or would you rather go home now?” The woman seemed to be able to give her a choice.
Kate thought for a moment. Just a moment with a tiny bit of a glimpse of what could have been. Then she said resolutely, “I wish to go home.”
There was no further conversation. Kate and the woman said goodbye and she drove back to her sister’s house safely and swiftly. When she reached home her digital equipments and the car clock were all functioning perfectly and it was exactly midnight as she walked into the house.
She flew off the next morning. Her former classmates sent a message through Pretty Flower and said they had a nice time, though they wished they could have seen her. Being old and easily tired, they all went home shortly after the dinner. They sent their combined best wishes for a safe and good journey. She received a rose before she boarded the plane. There was no card. She never knew who the sender was.
Two years had passed since one November up a mountain lavishly painted with snow. It was a new experience for a hermit and yet a traveler in life for decades. The snow came just as notified through the weather forecast on the internet. Nothing really changed when it came and the locals above the city of the clouds lived as usual. The traveler was somewhat caught in surprise but the priceless Canadian “chauffeur”, a fellow traveler like the hermit-traveler was not shocked. To her it was really nothing because she came from the snowy and colder part of Canada. She was well prepared with all the normal preparations for her sturdy land rover, and her trailer home, hardware and software. They went to school as if nothing happened. Some students were deterred by closures of roads, and the school had to suspend the penalty for no-show of the students. But not this brave woman from Canada all equipped with her amazing driving skill. So the hermit traveler went to school as usual snow or no snow. What a memorable day riding/gliding on snow and seeing many cars in ditches as well, while praying real hard not to slide into the ditches as it seemed the norm to join the rank then.
Looking at the old photos, priceless memories returned and said, well done my friend! Yes, well done, my dear friend across the distance in the colder and more extreme-weathered land. It is comforting to know that you and your loved ones are together, staying healthy and well, holding onto your dreams and visions.
I can remember that day. I was with several tourists. Someone wanted to see an orphanage and so we were brought there. It was part of the travel package. We saw the lake, the dam, fishermen, flowers at roadside, colorfully painted schools, a boy who drew a pair of glasses on his face, toothless kids with wide grins, noodle making, weaving, and then an orphanage, before we went on to a bullock cart ride into the fabulous sunset on this landlocked backwater village in between two famous cities. What I remember most are the faces of the children, those with parents and those without. I do not remember sleeping that night, in the mosquito netted bed.