pieces of plastic

This was printed on a box of Farm House Multi-layer Radish Pies (which taste better than they sound):

Preparing me chicken and rice, old friend,

You entertain me at your farm.

We watch the green trees that circle your village

And the pale blue of outlying mountains.

We open your window over garden and field,

To talk mulberry and hemp with our cups in our hands.

…Wait till the Mountain Holiday….

I am coming again in chrysanthemum time.

Mellifluous, hilarious, AND delicious.

UPDATE: This is apparently a poem by Meng Haoran (689-710 A.D.)  A better translation can be found here.

I had a dream last night that I was driving through downtown Fremont in a Flintstone’s-like foot powered car. The place looked nothing like how I remembered and yet everything was familiar to me, as often the case in dreams. People from my past lined the street – friends, people I went to school with, people I worked with, people who I’ve seen once in my lifetime and never gave a second thought to. As I drove down this street in my foot powered car, I waved to these people but nobody waved back. I rounded a corner and saw someone from high school who I had not seen since. I gave him a slight poke to the sternum as a way to say “Hey, what’s up?”. As I did this, I tried to drive away quickly, but my foot got stuck in a rut. There was a brief period of awkward silence – the someone from high school looked at me as if to say, “Why did you poke me for?” When he finally recognized me, his bewilderment turned into nostalgia and the street errupted in laughter as did I. I freed my foot and continued my drive, leaving downtown and the crowds behind. The people slowly became specks in my rearview, the sound of their laughter gradually fading in the distance.