adam's curse

We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.

I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.

- w.b. yeats

reminiscence

We all revisit chapters of our lives once in a while. Perhaps you too, like me, in one of those quiet nights, wonder about past lovers. How is he now? What is he busy with? Should I get in touch with him again? Or even, why the hell did I get involved with him in the first place?

The night then turns into a haunting one, marked by ghosts of decisions you’ve made, words you’ve said and things you’ve done. Events unfold in your mind, like how one paragraph informs another, and how one sentence leads to the next.

You may reproach yourself, admit you’ve blundered horribly in your quest for perfection, and brood over what are now interpreted as “regrets.” Before trying to console yourself with clichés such as “we all make mistakes.”

When the memories get too uncomfortable, you try to shut them out, convinced that certain chapters of your life are best not revisited for now.

The quiet night gets quieter. Seconds ticks by. Life feels like a book that can’t be put down. You can only keep on reading.

And sometimes, there’s really nothing else left to do but flip the page.

zouk

The world spins as you spin, beginning its transformation into a cacophony of senseless colors and lights. You wonder at the bodies moving on the dance floor, the bodies emptying their glasses, and the bodies uncertain of what to do. The alcohol hits you harder. Harder, as time flees, slipping out of your grasp and like an old photograph, gets forgotten. Distinctions melt to the pounding music, as distances get reduced, and the bodies dissolve into one.

Then, you see nothing.

Except for colors and lights. Still colliding into one another.

turn me on

Photo credit: Sit Weng San

weng san and i collaborated to make a lamp last week. it's on show at Objectifs (12A liang seah st) till oct 24. the work is called "turn me on."

support if you're free!

...

Is it too much to say I’m tired?

I hate using the word tired, as much as I loathe the smell of hospitals. It has been used too often by alienated individuals who are sick of their work.

First, there’s the cancer, next up is the blur vision problem that has not been resolved, then coming in the picture without any warning are the kidney stones. The kidney stones… That phrase has a rather rock and roll ring to it, isn’t it? Think The Rolling Stones. Maybe The Rolling Kidney Stones sounds better.

But what’s the use of saying you’re tired? I mean, so what?

Weeks ago, when my dad was talking about how oily the birthday treat I’ve given him was, and wondering why suppliers don’t provide healthy food, I snapped. I said suppliers don’t or can’t sell healthy food because the world is overpopulated, and that they are only after money. I don’t want to keep listening to him talk about food. I don’t like to keep watching my diet. This is fear. I hate this feeling. We’re living in fear. I am sick of fear.

He shouted too that he hopes I’ll get kidney stones too so that I’ll understand, and that he doesn’t mean this as a curse.

I understand what he meant, of course. But still, I got out of the car and went home. When my dad was home too, I continued the shouting in the kitchen. Do you really think looking at what’s happening to you and mum is not affecting me? I don’t need more reminders of how I should act with regard to food.

He ignored me. I went to my bedroom and we didn’t talk for the rest of the day.

Imagine holding your mum’s hand before she was wheeled into the operation room. Imagine telling her things are fine, even though you think they are not. Imagine seeing her trip on uneven floors. Imagine her stepping on your dog’s tail. Imagine her carelessly knocking into people. Imagine accompanying your dad at the hospital thrice over the span of nine days. Imagine alternating between yelling at and pleading with the (useless) GP and his assistants to see your father first. Imagine apologizing to the other patients for jumping the queue. Imagine recalling how your own dad did the same for you a long time ago, when you had gastric and were trying to get an MC so that you can skip an exam. Imagine yourself at the driver’s seat in front of the emergency block of the hospital, while your dad sits at the pavement, clutching his stomach, waiting for you to get a parking space so that you can bring him in. Imagine you have no other sibling to turn to. Imagine how every second feels like a minute, and how every minute feels like an hour.

Of course, life is not all bad, and I think things are not that overwhelming. I think life is pointless however, and I don’t mean this in a depressing way. I think this is reality. If illness/death comes, it comes. There’s really not much you can do to stop that. What matters are the things you do or didn’t do before illness/death. It can be your own, or others. We all just try to make the situation bearable for everyone, suspending that feeling of emptiness and going about doing things we believe (or make ourselves believe) are important – even for a while.

I am tired. Is this too much to say?

---

"Being happy? That's hard," I said, during the interview.
"I don't mean happy. I don't know what the hell that means," he replied.