The last one staying.

The last person has left, leaving me the only who is still around here - last day of the year, in the office. Don't get me wrong, i'm not the workaholic type. It's just nice to be the last one staying, having the space for your own,  doing some thinkin' and chillin' (and probably finish the last bit of work too).

So, 2013. You have been hell of a year. You were naughty, you were fantastic. You throw me chances, random encounters, a few minutes of courage and whatnots, you gave me hopes, fears, dramas and silence too. Normally I don't write about you years, but you have been quite something to note down.

During the course of your stay, I finally had the courage to break away from the routine. I've met more people than I have ever met, travelled often, gone out with more guys than I ever dared to. Failed numerous times that I've lost count, yet gained so much more than I would have thought of a year ago.

5 countries, 10 places.

Rode along the pass in Candidasa at dusk with no street light on - in sarong.
Sun salutation at Shwesandaw at 5AM in the morning.
Light trucks and music jam with Serene and whoever were there.
Discovered Singapore again and again and again with different people at different stages at different time.
Metallica live in Singapore.
Lighted our cigarettes to California Dreamin' while the wind blew hard on us.
Sang for a guy inside an abandoned house and got bird shit on my head.
Slowly progressing with my guitar skill!
Danced till the wedges were spoilt.
Received a love letter.
Lost and found: job, people, stuff, skills, words, emotions.
Touched freshly out-of-the-mill paper. They are virgins to my fingers.
Tyler Print
Got my hands on carpentry. Made the first birdhouse ever.
First time: trekking, solo travel, backpacking, play music for strangers, initiated tiny little printmaking workshops, *proper* sketch journal, quit job, jumped off a boat, touched the intriguing cello, followed stranger(s)... and God knows how many little details I have missed. After all, it is these insignificant moments, like slender threads entangled and interlaced ever so randomly, that weaved up such a profound blanket.
And that the people that matter - they are still around.

Until next time, take care!

Melaka flashback.

"It's quite interesting you see, you are generations ahead of me and still we have experienced things that are very much alike.

Well, in the galactic time of the Universe, you and I are just seconds away."

"Observe this woman. She is wearing an red polka-dottish dress, with green boots and an oversized bag. I think she looks pretty much like a flower, you see, she gots the stem, the bud, the petals and all..."

"Hey, where have you been?
I was walking in circles."

"How old do you think you are inside?
Hmm.. I guess 25 or 26."


I wish I could remember all the beautiful/strange conversations I had in Melaka.

Less photos, more exchanges. Big fat bear hug and French greetings from an old man that looks like Robinson Crusoe. A ride to Pulau Gadong and Melaka Club, breakfast with an old lad by the sea that concerned spiritual practice, time travel and inter-racial harmony - with Counting Stars on the radio. Shared a big brownie log on Christmas Eve with the most unlikely companions. The infamous tales of Croatian man from Korean guy. Long walks turned to lying down on the grass field at night. Sun salutation in the morning with ten beds unoccupied made me feel like I was the only one left in the asylum. Crazy long houses, beautiful complexes, abandoned maisons and ukulele tuned in until the very last minute of Melaka. Sole detour after midnight on the very first day half excited half thrilled that I would get robbed or worse.

Mine are nothing but clutters of random encounters and stories. Stories that I could barely put together for your entertainment. But to be twenty-three year old with a heated scratched heart yet recklessly throwing that heart right out there for the people I have met - is quite something that would stay for good.

Não bảo tim không chịu nghe.

Tôi sợ phải viết ra những gì mình cảm thấy, vì đã đủ lớn để bị tổn thương bởi lời nói, bởi mạng vốn dĩ không phải là nơi để tâm sự quá nhiều chuyện riêng tư. Có vẻ như càng lớn mình càng cố để trở nên mạnh mẽ hơn và tự lập hơn, cố để nói ít, làm nhiều, để im lặng thiền tâm cho mọi chuyện trôi qua. Nhưng ôi, con người mà có thể đạt đến trình độ ấy trong những năm hai mươi tuổi, thì trái đất giờ đã xoay theo chiều khác mất rồi.

Dù não có nghĩ gì thì nghĩ, phân tích có hợp lý đến mấy thì hợp, cảm xúc thế nào nó vẫn y nguyên thế. Chắc là buồn giống cái ngày tôi được chú mua cho quả bóng Mỹ rất to và đẹp. Nếu bạn cũng bé vào khoảng năm 2000 thì bạn sẽ nhớ cái quả bóng Mỹ. Nó không đục màu như bóng thường, mà màu bạc và được nhiều hình Disney cơ, hồi bé đấy là quả bóng mơ ước mà tôi toàn phải chơi ké của đứa em họ. Đến đêm giao thừa đi xem pháo hoa ở Bờ Hồ, được chú mua cho một quả màu hồng tròn tròn có hoa hoét linh tinh, đúng là vui như Tết. Nhưng chẳng được mươi phút, vung va vung vẩy một hồi sợi chỉ tuột khỏi tay mang bóng bay đi mất. Cho đến giờ tôi vẫn nhớ cái cảm giác bé nhỏ nhìn lên trời. Khoảnh khắc ngay sau giao thừa, thấy mình mất một cái gì đẹp lắm mà bất ngờ quá chả kêu lên được, chỉ biết đần mặt ra nhìn thôi

Tua tua tua... đến năm hai mươi ba tuổi.

Tôi quen một chàng trai bóng Mỹ. Cứ y như bước ra từ trí tưởng tượng của tôi, y như soulmate. Mọi thứ mới thật như ý làm sao, làm sao tôi lại vớ được cái quả bóng này. Quá bồng bềnh. Nhưng bóng thì nhanh phồng nhanh xẹp. Nhanh đến mức tôi chẳng nhớ kỹ được nét mặt nữa và giọng nói mà đã nói với tôi hàng đống lời ngọt ngào thì bây giờ tôi chỉ nhớ được từ hai từ "mad men". Chàng xẹp xuống còn tôi để tuột dây, chàng bay đi mất như chưa hề nằm trong tay tôi, còn tôi ngơ ngác nhìn lên trời.

Nhìn lên trời.

Nhìn lên trời.

Vì lý do sao đó tôi chẳng muốn chạy theo chàng trai, dù nhiều người bảo khi mình tìm được cái gì đó như vậy thì mình phải đấu tranh cho nó. Hay đây không phải là cái gì của tôi? Chẳng biết nữa, chỉ biết tôi đã không chạy theo. Có lúc tôi suýt chạy theo nhưng lại có lực nào đấy chực cản lại (nhiều lúc tôi muốn mình quên hết mấy nỗi sợ người ta nghĩ gì về mình đi và quên hết các lý do đi lắm lắm). Chàng thì biến mất (nên có khi cũng chẳng đáng để mà chạy theo?) Tất cả những gì còn lại là độc một chiếc bình vẫn còn mùi chanh rửa mãi không hết.

Và nỗi buồn và cả sự tiếc nuối, đương nhiên, vẫn cứ ở lại.

Who those who can still ride in airplanes by Anis Mojgani

“I’m twenty-eight years old and trying to figure out most days what being a man means.

I don’t drink, fight or fuck but these days I find myself wanting to do all three.I don’t really have a favorite color anymore, but I did when I was a kid.And back then that color was blue, and back then I wanted to be an astronaut, an artist, an architect, a secret agent, a ranger for the World Wildlife Fund, and a hobo.When I was six years old I used to always throw my clothes into my blue and yellow hot wheels car carrying suitcase and run away to beneath the dining room table.I’ve made out with more girls than I wish I’d had and not nearly as many as I’d like to.And I’ve been in love three times so I doubt I’m going to try that anymore.And I spend most days making pictures or thinking about making pictures or masturbating or thinking about masturbating.And I’m trying to find God everywhere and figure this thing he made called a man.And the TV tells me its bare-knuckled bombing, so I guess if I had a tank or a missile my penis would be huge.And thats what I want because thats what being a man means or at least thats what they keep telling me.
My pops, he takes care of us.He puts the garbage out twice a week.He drives forty-five minutes to water flowers.

I sit on the bus when a seven year-old boy sits down next to me and asks me my name.“Anis.” That’s a nice name.“Thank you, what’s yours?” Quentin.Anis, do you want to read Robin Hood with me?So tell me what my fists are writing, Mr. President.My fingers, they open up like gates when I type and the wind is swinging in the wake, mother fucker.I lift bridges with poems and forests grow in my mother’s eyes.“I am looking for God, Quentin.”“While this world says “fuck you” for trying.For this world hates your eyes, Quentin.For they are simple and pure.And this world hates your fingers, Quentin, little like the stems of flowers.For not being able to pick up the things you have left behind, because you are still learning to do so.
I don’t drink, fight, or fuck but these days it’s only two out of those three I don’t do, Quentin.And I fall in love three times, so I don’t want to, want to, but I still do, Quentin.And I want to find God in the morning, in the tired hands of dusk.But, instead, I drive sixty through residential streets praying to hit a child so that they may stay forever night and forever red and forever full of light and crayons and simple outstretched limbs…

..Trying to pick up way too much way too fast, forgetting what it means to be a person.
In a world where egos are measured with tabloids, where automobiles are like morals, where beliefs are like naps, you leave them behind when somebody touches you.And in a place where oil takes precedence over life, I find myself sitting on a bus, when a little boy floats down like fresh water, carrying a book I used to read and asks if I want to see what he sees if only for a little while.Then asks if I want to give to him what I see if only for a little while, then says to me he’s going to show me the world.And starts moving his fingers beneath the words, not always noticing what is written, sometimes skipping whole sentences, sometimes skipping whole lines……because his fingers are moving fast and I wanna tell him, “Slow down, Quentin.You can see it all if your finger whispers on one word.Slow down and hold what you see just a little bit longer.”For in a world of fast faces, I’m looking for God everywhere, trying to figure out a little better this little thing he made called a man.”

Tôi muốn khóc khi nghe Anis đọc thơ.