Chenyu Huang

@binaryfiddler.bsky.social

267 Followers 75 Following

Software engineer, violinist, writer Blog: chenyu.blog Substack: https://substack.com/@binaryfiddler

The violin to the violinist is what the spell book to the wizard. Of course, there are different spells-offensive, dark magic, restorative, etc; there are also books with more spells than others. However, once the soundbox is closed, its character is more or less sealed. The bow, however, is a totally different animal. It is the wand that cast the spell. Without it, the violin falls silent. The right wand amplifies the spell's power, whereas the wrong one shuts it down. And as in wizardry, the wand chooses the wizard.
My neighbors upstairs are terribly noisy, often partying deep into the night. Nothing ruins the sleep like waves of hysterical high pitch laughter at two in the morning. Crummy night begets a crummy day today. After my morning coffee, the home finally fell silent again-my neighbors must have passed out. Though I immediately wanted to crawl back to bed, I dragged the violin out of its case and played as loud as I could for a good hour. It did't sound particularly good, but better than whatever the heck went down upstairs last night, I thought. After lunch, both Henry and I couldn't hold off the sleep bug anymore and dozed off on the couch for most of the afternoon. Purring rumbly-grumbly beside me, I think he was also glad it was over-for now.
After dinner, we walk along the wooded path from the house to Centennial park. Patches of clouds roll across the sky like waves at sea, while the setting sun lights them on fire. At one corner of trail, scattered are the belongings of a group of homeless men who have been camping there for some time. A piece of cardboard lies quietly next to the roadway, a neatly handwritten message reads: Dear Bothell police Please do not throw away our stuff if we are not here. We are moving them to a new location, we can only carry so much at a time. We will clean everything up. We try to leave it in a better place than we found it. Thank you. -Tom and others Perched in the cottonwoods lining the trail, countless crows keep a watchful gaze on us as we stroll. A thousand take flight as we pass. I remember Jeromy used to say: the crows go to Bothell at night.
I let Henry outside for some air while I, too, try to catch a breath. It hasn't been a particularly productive day - I doubt it will be for what remains of it either. It's almost August, the thought flashes through my head. I tense my jaw as it sends a stinging pulse through my body-the fading exuberance of summer beginning to give way the growing shadows of winter. Breezes sweep through. The cottonwood trees outside my house rustle and sing, while rush hour traffic slowly picks up just beyond the tree line. It's hard to tell which is which. That duality between peace and unease is where I often find myself. Though I know, intellectually, everything will work out just fine-career, financial, personal and whatever else-worries and anxieties still creep in, like relentless ivy vines climbing the cottonwoods. I watch the cottonwood leaves dance in a sea of verdant green. A handful yellow ones catch my eye. Are they turning already? Or did they hold on through last winter?
Henry is the epitome of feline evolution—a rare fusion of strength, flexibility, agility, and beauty. He has a spotty tabby coat with a snow-white underbelly. Beyond his anime-sized eyes, his most distinguishing feature is a large brown mark covering the entirety of his nose, making him look like a little clown at a children's birthday party. A faint but notable yellow spot sits on one side of his mouth, as if he’s perpetually forgotten to wipe his face after dinner. Henry is a big cat by normal measures—and has a personality to match. His prowess extends far beyond physical beauty. At the tender age of two, he has confirmed kills spanning five phyla: - A score of adventurous house spiders from the Arthropoda - A showy North American sparrow from the Aves - A slithering garter snake from the Reptilia - An innocent mole from the Mammalia - Countless strayed flies and butterflies from the Insecta If he were a character in an old Western like Rango: The cacophony of glasses and chatters comes to a sudden halt. The rodent residents of the town quietly slip out from the back door. Even Rattlesnake Jack dares not remain in the way. Entering the tavern is Henry. Holstering all his gears, a finely stitched snakeskin belt hovers around his puffy waist-polished so shiny it appears pitch black. Half a dozen talismans made from tarantula fangs dangle from his neck. As he takes off his moleskin hat, an ornamental sparrow feather flutters to the ground. All who witness it tremble in its wake.
We scored our most interesting find beneath a dead tree stump. Chopped down long ago, its mangled roots had created a labyrinth of tunnels and hiding spots. In one of its compartments sat two tin boxes the color of fresh lime, each with a frog face -- goofy-eyed and scarlet-tongued --printed on the front. "Frog Rock," it said on the top. I popped one open. Inside were a lipstick, a band-aid, and a small Lego figurine dressed in a yellow shirt and blue jeans. Flipping over the can, a fully scotch-guarded handwritten message read: please do not remove it. I carefully resealed the box and put it back where it was. As we walked away, I could've sworn the Frog Rock kept a gaze on us.