club solitary

how many lonely people are there out there?

if we all got together, we wouldn’t be lonely,

or would we?

because the lonely you is not lonely for me.

drift

Your lips drew near beneath the clear

white water, I held your cheeks,

dear, longingly.

And in your mouth, beneath our tongues,

tied, its vacuum drowned by eager yearn-

ing.

Your hair and breast and body and legs

float with the current away from this

face and lips I hold so tight,

baby, you're only a quarter mine.

whatever

I'll take your hand, the left,

and ask that it still have life

to hold my hand, the right,

as I walk alone where we walked,

or to lie all night on my breast,

at rest, or to stop all talk with a finger

pressed to my lips.

I'll take your lips,

ask, when I close my eyes, as though

in prayer, that they ripen out of the air

to be there again on mine,

or to say my name, or to smile, or to kiss

the sleep from my eyes. I'll take

your eyes,

nothing like, lovelier under, the sun,

and ask that they wake to see, to look

at me, even to cry, so long as I feel their tears

on your face, warm rain on a rose.

Your face I'll take, asleep, ask, that I learn

by heart, the tilt of your nose; or awake, and ask

that I touch with my tongue the soft buds of the lobes

of your ears

and I'll take them, too,

ask that they feel my breath shape

into living words, that they hear.

I'll take your breath

and ask that it comes and goes, comes and goes, forever,

like the blush under your cheek, and I'll even settle for that. Whatever.

- Carol Ann Duffy

I asked how you knew you loved me.
You said you would do things irrationally.
You took off in a plane, left all things,
to find me in a state so fleeting.

In passion and intensity, we made love,
defying physical, moral boundaries;
those were memories.
The photographs in my mind, in your keep, are fading.

I love you again and again, you said.
You said that with your heart, now, your head.
I wave at you, a desperate shout,
Can you still feel me?
I am here. I am still a romantic.

imprints

When we occupy a space, even for a brief moment, what do we leave behind?  We choose if we are to part with a bit of our soul, in exchange for a bit of memory of that space. With that, we risk being incomplete.  

There are imprints of me, you and of them in these places; imprints of these places in us, if only we dare to allow:

马当路－合肥路
广西南路－延安东路

南阳路－西康路

寿宁路－西藏南路

momentum

Law I: Every body persists in its state of ...moving uniformly straight forward, except insofar as it is compelled to change its state by force impressed.

Law II: The alteration of motion is ever proportional to the motive force impressed...

LAW III: To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction: or the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts. — Whatever draws or presses another is as much drawn or pressed by that other. If you press a stone with your finger, the finger is also pressed by the stone… If a body impinges upon another, and by its force changes the motion of the other, that body also (because of the equality of the mutual pressure) will undergo an equal change, in its own motion, toward the contrary part… This law takes place also in attractions…

statue

When the light falls and casts a shadow, how do I tell if you're a man or a statue? Was it the artistry of the sculptor that your shadow would resemble a man's, or the impartiality of light to distinguish you from that made of bronze?

I find myself examining the unmoving you, hovering in your vicinity, encircling, outlining...

You, in the first dimension, are dark, silent. Impenetrable. In the second, you'd be lost.

From above, I'd see you, from under, feel you, from inside, touch you, and over and over again, I'd know you.

Only in depth will I find you. And where light cannot decipher, I will.

Tonight the sky's a murky sea
And I am caught between
The shadows fade, the air hangs heavy
It's not you, it's never me.

Your heart, you say, is bigger than
My head, I say, I think
Encapsulate then suffocate
In those chambers I will sink

And shrink, and sink
And stretch, and wring but
I'm not that strong I think

To break your heart, to set me free
It will stink
It will sting

kin

How do we sever the umbilical cord that flowed with love, strength and guidance? Does joy and pain come hand in hand? But we have grown too heavy for you to lug us along now, take the blade and make the cut, once. You know we still bear your name, our blood stream fused with your bosom's feed. I hope and pray, someday, we'll meet again, and greet not with sharp words and dagger stares. Will absence make our hearts grow fonder?

mustard seed

Sometimes, between two beings, you don't feel like talking. Content with lying down, next to each other, I just want to hear your breathing, feel your heartbeat. I'm not going to ask you for anything tonight, I've forgotten how or what to ask for. But it suffices to just lie beside you, to hear your heartbeat and feel your breathing. My knowledge of your presence beneath my skin is comfort enough to know that everything is going to be alright.

HOME IS SO SAD

let the warring stop please

disposed

Music for Chameleons | Truman Capote

The Philip Larkin I Knew | Maeve Brennan

Written on the Body | Jeanette Winterson

Life of Pi | Yann Martel
Underworld | Don Delillo

dreams

so jx asked me what my dream car is. realistically or unrealistically?

 ('cept they're both currently unrealistic.. hur!)

my heart stopped when i saw the googled images.. sigh, my weakness.

speaking of dreams...

 

RMB20,000 is possible right?
loft/lane house in the french concession..

3 5 years.

bali

eversince i stepped back from bali into reality, it hasn't attempted to be less brutal. so today, i've found a pocket of time to reminisce those carefree bali days.

 

november be now!

cheat fate

You poked me at my rib, where it was sensitive, intimate. I enjoyed it till it was uncomfortable. But you were hers.

I camped at your desk, daily obssessed with making a gift while you watched and admired. But I was hers.

You picked a saga seed for me. I smiled and knowingly I shyed my eyes away. By the fountain lights that night, you slipped a matchbox in my hand. Don't open it till you go to bed, you said. Inside, goodnight, sleep sweet tonight. And I allowed myself to get silly drunk, to fall into your arms and slip my lips casually onto yours. Beautiful girl, he sang, it rang in my head for awhile. But you were his.

I gave you my heart, my songs, my poetry. Bared out my soul but I was his. And you were his, then you were somewhere else.

Fleeting, they were all fleeting, you created each memory like a temptress. In my head, but never mine.

But you knew, like me, that always always, we were just waiting, for today, for forever.

nothing

There's nothing left to be said.

Nothing left of me, nothing of us.

Nothing before, nothing ahead.

Nothing worth fighting for.

Everything was a lie, faux. Die.

No. 8, Mark Rothko

film

I've recently tried my hand at taking photos, in film, with the encouragement and assistance of M. Chanced upon this and am intrigued by the texture, depth and haunting feeling (haven't quite learnt the jargons yet) that it gives (wet plate collodion process, i read?). I'm excited as i am nervous about what my first roll will look like. Not that i've quit writing, just needed a side road for expression; only to see if it brings me a different perspective to the things i think (or want to think) about.

Photo by Sally Mann

faith

Being hungry and broke is like a man wandering a prostitution street.
A desired need, an empty pocket.
Candy-coated, displayed at shopfronts, they entice you with the pleasure they promise,
and the silencing of a desperate cry.


I have been hungry like a ghost in the seventh month and last night,
I was tempted by an éclair.
I would have caved if not that the things seen are transient.
This is my fast, my crucifixion
and I will remain faithful.

dream

The past weeks have not been easy. An overpowering need for freedom and liberation looms like tar in my blue ocean. But over my hurried 1 hour lunch break today, I travelled to Kunming, Lijiang, Dali and Shangri-La. A colleague and good friend shared her 8 days Yunnan experience with me; of the blue skies and the white clouds, the simple farm life of the indigenous tribes, the fingerprints of God on His creation…

Everyone must visit at least once in their lifetime, she asserts.

The six-day creation was not meant to be experienced in one lifetime. Could that be the lure of an eternal life? My heart is racing and my soul more sure than ever that this is what I am working for, what I am living for: to work so I have enough to enhance the wealth of my being in a place like Dali and, to live my earthly life with eternity in mind.

Now, back from lunch, in my little cubicle buried in work, I feel free.

Freedom, indeed, is a state of mind and the faith of an attainable dream.

once in awhile

once in awhile, we need to laugh our guts out. and when we look back on that night, we'll hardly remember all that we laughed about, and if we repeat it to others, they'll grunt patronisingly. but we, we had a blast and we'll do it all over again. thanks you guys.

Need to be Free

It's been really hard to breathe lately. I feel i need to lie down and rest my head for abit; to find some kind of liberation.


What is it about posing nude for photos that is so liberating?

The eye is an intimidating organ; the pure soulful essence of a being. Having it stare rudely at you (magnified by the lens, at any angle) is almost like stripping you bare. Exploring. Finding. Not finding. Taking. Taking, till there is nothing left.

So let it. Liberation being anti-inhibition.

- photo by edward weston, nude floating in pool

solar/lunar

today, i will think about the sun & the moon;

the rising of one, the setting of the other

the beaming of one, fading of the other.

today i won't think about the sun & the moon;

about the warmth of one & the chill of the other,

the certainty of one & the mystery of the other.

today i will be blinded by one & seduced by the other,

honest with one, lie to the other

busk in the sheer sureness of one, 

chase the shifty shapes of the other.

my everlasting, your everchanging,

eclipsed forever.

gargoyle

What happens when you realise that when your feet touch the grounds of Utopia, it won't vaporise?
You have 2 weeks to pack your stuff and head on a one way ticket to paradise; take only the sentimental things.


I want to take you: to put you in a 60 by 50 by 60 box (that's the largest they've got here).
But you're too dense and too heavy.
And it says 'no winged creatures allowed'.
Your feet start to grow roots and drill deep into the concrete, your face pales as mine lights up.
'Paradise does not exist' says you.
And my heart disperses into an intense thunderstorm, leaving you and your wings drenched, unmoving.

dust

You are the ocean I'm drowning in,
the sky from which I fall.
I ride on your waves of heated passion,
on your clouds of tenderness
I lose all.
I lose all
to your leaves of golden tunes of pleasure
your moonbeam eyes that strip me bare
your thirsty blood lips from which you devour
to the field of poppies in your hair.
I am the dust that sinks to your bedroom floor.
I lose all.

inspiration

There aren't many things that inspire me.
I'm still trying to expand my inspiration list.

But, without a doubt, 上海 has never failed to top it.

I guess I've been asked, by those who are intrigued by how my eyes light up just talking about her,

why I love her so much. My standard answers would be her quaint yet modern façade,

her elegant, edgy persona, how she manages to spring surprises at you from her 弄堂's…

Truth be told, I don’t know.
A large part of me suspects it was another her I associate 上海 with.

The last time I went to back to 上海, I fell in love again.

writer's block

Writer's block is a condition... in which an author loses the ability to produce new work.

I thought, at first, it was the hindrance to express due to the parties that might be reading from the previous blog address. So i moved. But wordpress just does not agree with me when it comes to writing. So i moved back. 

Writer's block may have many causes. Some are essentially creative problems...Other blocks, especially the more serious kind, may be produced by adverse circumstances in a writer's life or career: physical illness, depression, the end of a relationship, financial pressures, a sense of failure. The pressure to produce work ...

some "blocked" writers have been unable to work for years on end, and some have even abandoned their careers...

I haven't even embarked on my career in writing. Let's wish for a new start.