@ Hans Kemp a.k.a. Lightchronicler HThe Final Cut.
"Fill your bowl to the brim and it will spill.
Keep sharpening your knife and it will blunt.
Chase after money and security
And your heart will never unclench.b (
Care about peopleb s approval
And you will be their prisoner.
Do your work, then step back.
The only path to serenity."
-Lao Tzu-
The right tool for the job.
It was always gonna come down to that.
And Lucy sure had all the required qualities.
Ho Man treasured his caidao. Given to him by his father twenty-seven years ago, she was still in prime condition. Carbon steel blade, full tang embedded in a rosewood handle carved with a dragonb s head. In the hands of a true master chef there was very little that she couldnb t accomplish; slicing, dicing, chopping, even a little subtle tenderizing using the bladeb s spine.
Dad had been a master and had taught him well. Ho Man held the knife up to the window, angled to check the light reflected by the edge. Lucy needed a little sharpening. Today, out of all days, she had to be her finest.
He placed the whetstone on the counter. Honing the knife was his yoga. A ritual that required purpose of mind, a singular vision, free from rambling thoughts.
b Merge with herb , dad used to say, b eliminate your desire to have the sharpest blade, be it.b
He missed his father. First generation immigrant who, as a young boy, had survived the famine of The Great Leap Forward only to be swept up in the purges of the Cultural Revolution. A daring escape to British controlled Hong Kong changed the course of his life. Embraced by the Brotherhood, trained as a chef and sent to America where he met his wife. In 1972 the couple were blessed with a baby boy, Ho Man.
The Brotherhood. They called themselves Blade Runners long before Harrison Ford made it a household name. The first time Ho Man heard of them was on his dadb s 50th birthday. Already an accomplished chef in his own right, working in his fatherb s restaurant on Doyers Street, dad had taken him to the backroom and given him a nanmu wood box, Lucy inside.
b Son, today I retire.b
Ho Man chuckled. Always cutting to the chase, his Dad. He remembered it like yesterday. The initial panic at having to run the restaurant by himself, swiftly overtaken by the dawning realization of the responsibility placed on his shoulders. In his hands actually, to be more precise.
Soon he would turn 50 himself and he would pass the baton to his son. But not before this one last job.
b Be the blade, be the blade,b Ho Man started pushing the knife back and forth across the stoneb s surface. A single bevel knife such as Lucy had to be sharpened to perfection. Precise, clean cuts mattered, like a proud signature under a completed work of art.
A final touch up with the honing rod. Ho Man rested the knifeb s edge on his thumbnail and gently pushed it away. The blade caught instantly, Lucy was on fire.
The right tool for the job.
It was always gonna come down to that.
Inside the kitchen as well as outside.
@ Michelle Viljoen 4It was cold out, the morning air crisp inside my lungs. I saw a man before me, placing his warm coffee on the lid of a trash can. His hands were strong, weathered by Father Time and the elements that came with surviving the streets of New York City. Yet somehow, his eyes were still soft. We smiled, greeted each other, and exchanged words before he allowed me to capture a photograph of his hand as it gently rested next to his coffee.
@ Michelle Viljoen Day in and day out, the machine turns, repairing the worn. Each experience we have leaves a trace behind. These marks become a part of us, worn into our being. We carry our lives upon our skin, bearing the effects of time for the world to see - beautiful traces of where we have been.
@ Michelle Viljoen qWhen the day is nearing its end, and you rest your head upon your hand, soaking up the afternoon sun, the calm begins to set in. After everything is said and done, the time comes to turn the page and set your mind to the unknown of tomorrow.
@ Michelle Viljoen :Voices became white noise as the sun warmed his hand. He was slowly getting lost in a daydream. Minutes took the shape of hours. It always felt like he was destined to be somewhere else.
@ Michelle Viljoen I stood in front of this window for a while, watching the watchmaker repair a timepiece. Before I knew it, I was thinking of my father. I grew up spending significant time at his veterinarian's hospital. I would watch him work, meticulously stitching and mending wounds, his hands working so gently with precision. Always so calm and collected. Watching someone quietly do something they are entirely in tune with is beautiful. It's as if time begins to slow so that we may remember the details in those rare moments for a little longer.
@ Michelle Viljoen OSome days all you need is to pause time and take a moment to breathe. A moment to close your eyes and feel the pressure on your feet. Time to let the sounds from the surrounding streets carry your mind away.
@ Michelle Viljoen His hands danced over the books to absorb the warmth once held within themb each cover standing guard over its world. He has lived countless lives, transported into worlds of another's making, returning to the present for a moment long enough to catch his breath.
@ Michelle Viljoen UI've always found expression without words to come naturally. It was only later in life that I developed a love for writing, though I still stumble over my words more often than not. Perhaps that's why I've always been enamored by the concept of miming, performance art, using nothing but the human form to tell a story. Loud in its silence.
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