2006-09-17
On Beauty
英雄难过美人关
We don't ever like to admit that Beauty clouds our judgments. Instead, we hide behind proverbs and flabby words of wisdom, reminding ourselves that Beauty is nothing but skin deep.
But the truth often has an uncanny ability of finding a way to bite us back in the arse. And it did, as my siblings and I walked out of the aquarium shop with our fish feed: a bag of fish. (Yes, fish.)
I make it a point never to be the one who feeds our arowana. The thought of throwing smaller live fish into the jaws of a pernicious predator - cannibalism, really! - has never been good for my conscience. In fact, I make it a point never to be around when the fish (our fish) is being fed. But each time we take out a batch of small longkang fish, guppies or mollyfish, (depending on the aquarium's stock), I make it a point to peer apologetically through the clear plastic at the little silver and gold creatures, praying that apotropaic gesture would allievate my guilt.
This cannibalistic buffet time, however, was slightly different - and I could hardly tear my eyes away from the suffocating bubble (do the fish know where they're going?). The tiny acrobatic mirrors were swordtails: red-gold, with delicate skeletons, intricate patterns running down their backs and a slender, elegant lower tailfin.
My little brother voiced the common sentiment. "They're so pretty! How can we feed them to the fish!"
When we were younger, we used to try to keep the prettiest guppy alive the longest (or as long as possible), by letting it slip through the net accidentally-on-purpose, our sympathetic feelings jolted into existence with each pretty flick of a rainbow tail. My maternal grandmother used to click her tongue at what she called an "extravagant waste" whenever she watched my dad or brother or sister (those heartless people) pour pretty fish into the tank. In fact, she often tried to talk us into letting her keep one of the two prettiest fish as pets.
The bottom line was: pretty fish got compassion, and sometimes bail, while not-so-pretty fish became lunch.
What kind of sense do we make out of this?
I don't know. Truly, I don't.
nothing ever happens at 2:41 p.m.