what happens when you hit that three notes.

Like jeans that faded after each wash, like water that evaporates, like stains in your pan, the person one was once so obsessed with would eventually roll out regardless of the bearer's will, whether is it to hold on to, or to forget. Feelings are compressed like mental pills in forms of songs, pathways, scents or change of seasons. They're neither good or bad though: sometimes you couldn't help but half-consciously taking one and to hell with reasoning.

Songs are the strongest memory-striker of mine. Everything that has been long gone could hit me back in three notes. Need not more than that. And here comes a wave of reminiscence by the window - very same spot, minus the rain the daydreaming the affectionate exchanges. Sigh.

Me and this one person share the same surname, surprisingly. In fact, it seems that we always have loose connections that would never trace back to us: we were not meant to be. Such is life, you pick up in a stranger few of the most intimate moments, then the drums roll and the scene changes; afterwards all that is left is the vague recall that once was this stranger you shared loose links with. Like distant-related surname.

I think events (or people) like those are (involuntarily) much needed. There will be a point where I would ask for nothing but a sanctuary but till then, unresolved stories make it a life. One of high hopes, uncertainty, floatlessness, of panda eyes and question marks. Unresolved stories drive me insane for sometimes, but they also give me the reality check of fuck off and let's never see each other again.

Golden Mile Complex.

There we were at the crossover bridge to Golden Mile Complex. The building was rundown, dusty and dabbed with coach bus headlines and Thai disco signs. Surely, it had seen better days.

“…it merges residential, commercial and office use, all into one single full-length building. This model was conceived way before high-rise HBD, in fact HDB hubs like Duxton owe credit to this vertical city…” Said Nguyen as she swiftly sketched out the elevation over her mini card. An architecture-enthusiast, she has been a long-time fan of  Tay Kheng Soon - one of the minds behind Golden Mile complex (I have high doubt that she accounts for more than half of my excitement, everything sounds and feels different once you know the story behind).

Welcoming us was madness of markets, bars, Thai eateries, indoor picnic/gatherings straight on the floor on every corridor every square metre. It was Golden Mile complex as I’d always known it to be: dodgy, messy yet very vibrant. Here are some strange looking fish that might be related to the Merlion?

But it all started after we fought our way to a little staircase up to a single door that it came opened to us; like it was Doraemon’s Anywhere door, or the rabbit hole with two Alices excitedly jumped upon.

The building began to speak to us. It communicates through gigantic exhaust hoses, long corridors, little beveled mosaics, stepped apartments that we call “cuckcoo’s cage”, Corbusian windows and whatnots. All we could do is running to and fro and touching everything like a kid.

Against judgment the complex still lives up to its former function, though degraded. The upper part felt like an alienated factory in contrast with the busy commercial floors. Felt like an organic living thing. Felt like we were diving deep into our very own trove (I wonder who else would wander here to appreciate all of these? Probably not a lot.) It possesses an old charm of the bygones, granting only those who look beyond its dusty walls hidden corners and unexpected views.

And I know exactly where else had I experienced this. The children’s palace in Hanoi - where I had spent my childhood summers and relived the place many times afterwards which I described it as a time capsule. And the same goes to Golden Mile complex.

Nguyen went on to explain to me about its air ventilation, structure (Metabolism), influence (Le Corbusier) and potential expansion into a hub along Beach Road which failed to realization… with each staircase we climbed the dusk brushed on us, till we came ohhh and ahhhh-ing over the void deck high above, the magnificient view of the new stadium and Kallang River.

It is funny how a rundown building could give you so much. And more fascinatingly, how Singapore could give me so much. One minute I could not stand the thought of living in this concrete jungle for years, the other I am taken worlds away to be enthralled by its hidden treasures.

Well, c’est la vie, non?

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. 

On Ido Portal and movement.

Out of luck, I just happened to learn something really great today: movement and being able to move.

For the longest time I was such a sloth: no sports, no work-out, no hard sweats. I was the exact artist type: dreamy, frail and slow. It was only recent that I picked up running, and tried my luck on yoga, working out, basket ball etc. (I am a hopeless dreamer and still trying). Will skip the part of how working out has gradually changed me, I want to share with you one or two things about MOVEMENT.

As we are far from the time of hunting and gathering - from working physically to get our food, we have lost touch with our body. Maybe that is why we club - to releash the tension from everyday works and social roles, to let go, let loose of yourself and your body, and of course to seek for interaction and attention - that's our basic instinct. And today I just found all that in a practice from Kai from Tradeschool from Ido Portal.

What is the reason behind your work-out? Is it because you want to loose weight? Stay healthy and fit? Want to have curves, all parts slim and full magically like the golden ratio? Like a lot of people have told me, I would be able to take in whatever food and don't have to exercise so much to burn all the calories. It's true that I have high-metabolism and (un)fortunately wouldn't gain so much weight, but my body does know whether it is feeling good or not. Just like you I experience meat-sweat, excess fat on my belly etc. and I need to do something, move, run, play, scream to get rid of the nasty feel.

Honestly I am still struggling with my poor self-discipline, trying hard to keep running on a regular basis - but isn't it quite natural - you just move your body because it is embedded in every cell of yours? To get rid of that fatty chunk is great, but first of all you experience a kind of orgasm after each of your work-out session. Feeling great, afresh, sweated, breathing loudly and strongly and accomplished.

So Ido methods that I was so lucky to try out today - is all about how we should move freely and naturally through cross-practices. I have almost zero-knowledge about sports and all that, so I am just rambling a bit here. Kai (our teacher, who attended Ido's workshop in Singapore a few months ago) taught us the basics moves, and from then we paired up, did something like counter-attack but much less intense, the aim is to feel the person coming at you and avoid them by moving around with the basics we just learnt. It was great funnnn and it immediately opened up my thoughts, resulting on this messy entry.

Hear Ido talking about movement and motivation here

So, move your ass. Let's ever, always move.

Làm xấu.

Vừa sáng ngủ dậy, bạn cùng giường đập thẳng vào mặt mình một cái design diễm hường không còn đường thoát: "Chị Linh, ra em cho xem cái này hay lắm nè!".

Nói chung, có bao nhiêu effect trong đời mình mơ ước cũng không dám dùng thì bạn ý đã mạnh dạn đưa hết vào bài. Đây là một quyển booklet có cái bìa như sau:

Nói chung, các bạn hoàn toàn có thể tưởng tượng được ruột bên trong nó như thế nào. Nói ngắn gọn dễ hiểu thì cái này mang ra làm menu đồ uống cho mấy hàng ăn ở Trần Quốc Toản là hợp nhất.

Nhưng kỳ diệu thay, hai đứa đã có mười phút tự sướng hả hê nhất buổi sáng, lâu lắm mình mới có cảm xúc vui vẻ khi critic bài người khác, còn người khác thì loạn lên vì phấn khích, kiểu ôi cuộc đời sự nghiệp học hành là đây, em yêu phút giây này làm sao có thể nào quên cái  ngày thiết kế được quyển booklet trời đánh như vầy. 

Ừ, nghe thì vô lý khủng khiếp nhưng sau khi hai đứa thăng hoa cảm xúc hết rồi, mình mới ngồi nghĩ một tý về sự vô lý này và đẻ ra bài viết này.

Khi nói đến thiết kế - mọi người sẽ nghĩ đến cái gì? 90% là một lũ vẽ đẹp, biết làm các thứ trở nên đẹp, gọn, sạch, sáng, dễ hiểu. Làm cho mấy cái công ty tự dưng nhìn chuyên nghiệp hơn hẳn vì có logo rồi "bộ nhận diện thương hiệu"; biết bốc phét để quẳng cáo nghe hay hớm và nhìn dễ thương như mấy con bò Vinamilk vẫn hát "Sữa tươi nguyên chất trăm phần trăm". Và nói chung chúng nó làm gì thì mình cũng không hiểu lắm nhưng nhìn hay phết và khi nào mình làm nhà/làm quán/làm đám cưới/làm xyz mình có thể nhờ cậy hỏi đáp được.

Cứ thế, nghệ sĩ và thiết kế nói chung bị đánh đồng với "làm đẹp". Làm đẹp làm sạch và khơi gợi cảm hứng trên mọi mặt trận. 

Thế làm xấu thì sao?

Hồi xưa lúc mình còn học cấp ba, nhìn mấy anh chị thiết kế thời trang ăn mặc lập dị thì khá khó hiểu (dù mình cũng ăn mặc lập dị chẳng kém). Kiểu, tại sao có mắt thẩm mỹ và thiết kế đẹp mà lại choàng lên người những thứ giẻ rách gì ý. Nhưng dần dần mình phát hiện ra, mình cũng đang trên cái đà "làm xấu" đó. Và lý do, chính bởi vì sự "làm đẹp" kia kìa.

Lúc nào người ta cũng đòi đẹp và nổi, để chúng tôi hết lòng giải thích một điều là: Form Follows Function. Hình dạng thì ăn theo Chức năng. 

1. Nếu chức năng của bạn A là báo cáo tài chính, mình sẽ làm cho bạn A thật gọn gàng sạch sẽ.
2. Nếu chức năng của bạn A là bán nước mắm, thì mình sẽ làm cho bạn một cái mác hoa hoè không kém bọn nước mắm bán ngoài kia (chắc có kèm thêm tý mùi parody)
3. Nếu bạn A chẳng có thông điệp gì để nói, mình sẽ bullshit cho bạn A những thứ nhảm nhí nhất có thể nghĩ ra được. Và đấy chính là trường hợp quyển booklet của bạn mình. 

Nó đã bung xoè ói mửa ra những thứ kinh khủng nhất có thể làm trong cái ngành này: đổ bóng, viền chữ, hình nền nhói mắt, sóng sóng, lượn lượn. Vì cái nội dung bên trong chán ghét, nên việc quái gì phải làm bên ngoài đẹp đẽ? Và khi cả vỏ lẫn ruột xấu đều, xấu đặc sắc, tự dưng thấy hả hê đắc ý phù hợp làm sao. Xấu xí hay đẹp đẽ chỉ là cái vỏ, điều quan trọng khi làm design với mình là design có mang lại được một cảm xúc gì cho người ta không. Vì cái ngành này là cái ngành giấy lộn, in xong, dùng, vứt. Tờ rơi áp phích hoạ báo mà chúng tôi dành thời gian căn ke từng dòng - rồi phần đông cũng bị ném vào sọt rác chẳng chóng thì chầy. Nếu làm cho cố mà đến lúc người ta cầm lên đọc rồi hạ xuống ném đi không một chút vui buồn gì thì đau lòng cò con lắm.

Vì vậy, khi còn làm được những design xấu mà vui thì chúng tôi cười hả hê như thắng trận. Người ngoài thì chẳng hiểu được. Nhưng bọn tôi, những kẻ mộng mơ ngớ ngẩn viển vông, cần lắm vài giây tự sướng huy hoàng như này. Để còn tiếp tục nuốt nước bọt, ngẩng cao đầu đi gặp khách hàng, tiếp tục đẻ ra những sản phẩm sáng tạo - đẻ ra tiền - đẻ ra những ước mơ để biến thành hiện thực.

7th November 2013.

If I could make the world as pure and strange as what I see,

I'd put you in the mirror,

I put it in front of me.

I put it in front of me.

food for thought

“Heartache may be bad for the soul, but it's great for bookshops. It's when we are at our lowest romantic ebb that we are likely to do the bulk of our life's reading. Adolescents who can't get a date are in a uniquely privileged position: they will have the perfect chance to get grounding in world literature. There is perhaps an important connection between love and reading, there is perhaps a comparable pleasure offered by both.

A feeling of connection may be at the root of it. There are books that speak to us, no less eloquently—but more reliably—than our lovers. They prevent the morose suspicion that we do not fully belong to the human species, that we lie beyond comprehension. Our embarrassments, our sulks, our feelings of guilt, these phenomena may be conveyed on a page in a way that affords us with a sense of self-recognition. The author has located words to depict a situation we thought ourselves alone in feeling, and for a few moments, we are like two lovers on an early dinner date thrilled to discover how much they share (and unable to touch much of the seafood linguine in front of them, so busy are they fathoming the eyes opposite), we may place the book down for a second and stare at its spine with a wry smile, as if to say, "How lucky I ran into you.”

__Alain De Botton.

How beautiful. He just put it down onto words - about how I feel about how I feel when reading my favourite books.