Gratitude

At SAM today. Sensorium.


What a day, being pampered in Boobiesland like a child like Alice in Wonderland like a dream of another past like Spirited away.

And give flowers to strangers. The little social experiment. Seeing tiny muscles being livened up, first reserved, then creased into a confusing smile, full of surprise and delight - while not knowing how to react.

Recalls of another day, lose links coming back to confuse me even further, my lone dialogue by the fountain, walking in circle, trying to learn to accept and let it go.

All the while being constantly brain-active and productive. And knowing that people are kind and helpful too.

My thoughts of gratitude for today.

This is what makes us girls

Out of the blue, I decided to visit Hermes Third Floor - an enclosed exhibition space in courtesy of Hermes. And you cannot simply show up at Hermes underdressed.

Some fine arts, a taste of compressed time inside the place where a jacket could easily cost you 4,500$, Orchard road, shopping and shoes piles and wedges in velvety red, eating mostly rice and fruits and vegetables in the name of cleansing our stomaches.. how could we live such vanity life ?

but can we, shall we, for maybe just a Saturday afternoon - celebrate life in all its vanity because there is already so much suffering to bear with ?

for the next day, we will be setting our feet on fire again.



me and Khuyen, we photographed each other.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAHA4Jh5jkw

Melaka sketches

Just found these on scan folder.  Some forgotten sketches from Melaka pastime.

Land of Smiles.

And there I stood, in all its irony and awkwardness, with Emirates crew on the front line and British Airways stewardesses right behind. Me - little Asian girl, a suspected immigrant, who was carrying backpack and shorts too short and shoes too worn out. Technically I'd be swallowed in between such line-up of beautiful men and women who were so polished and energized, but ironically I stood out for my unmatched size and attire.

That's how Singapore has gotten me back on my feet.

Only two and a half hour earlier, I was still in the land of smiles.



Thailand treated me too well and she got me fall in love with her on the first day of arrival. Warm, genuine and most hospitable of all, not to mention the food that you could never, ever go wrong with. She could never be as holistic as Bali or India, but she is real and she is warmest.

On the train en route Chiang Mai, I was pondering on my own thoughts and this came up: after all, what makes a trip so great? what would you deem as fulfilling? I thought of travel companions, of places, culture, scenery etc. but personally, it is the unexpected that keeps you afresh with each and every journey. It might be a random local coffee you stumble upon, a secluded beach, or random conversations. Funnily it's these things off the list that call for a memorable trip. Having no presumption nor standard, when we hit the pot luck it multiplies ten times and make us feel like the world's explorer: "Noone would have experienced this place like I do, because I have seen, and have done things uniquely."

My unexpected finds have always leaned towards people. From the first person I talked to upon landing in Bangkok to the last one before checking in for Singapore. Laos girls whose English vocabulary amounts as much as my Thai, my anonymous street knight who rode me to Ekkamai Soi 10 without thinking twice, only to dismiss at once despite my rambutan reward, friendly bus assistants who would gladly show this foreign girl how to get around by bus without uttering a single English word - and also the folks on board that helped a lot at this point. Opting out from taxi and trying bus/khlong saen saep in Bangkok is by far the best decision I've made, connecting me to places so fast, efficient, cheap and full of pleasant surprises. Bus people are the kindest!!!

I am grateful to take this trip on my own, carrying my backpack and carrying home travellers' stories and encounters. It would be half the fun without hanging out with them even just for a short while. I've just recently thought of, and noticed this stream of travellers globe-trotting, meeting one another at a point, drifting away and reconciling by chance, or by secondary connection. We talk without taking photos, we eat with all our senses and we send postcard to our family and friends.
It's such a source for culture exchange - with context always flexible as one constantly moves. And stories, even though sharing the same format (where are you from, where do you do go, where have you been, what have you seen here and there...), could never be mirrored. It's so beautiful to me like star connections - you have many many points and you just draw a line between them randomly to form shapes and signs and equations. Among those I can still remember, mine were:

train conversation about religion, women and the usual doubts about growing up
a fling which could take up too much space here
long walks
knowing that most travellers enjoy their time in Vietnam
almost accidentally seeing a naked guy
feel like living in a musical
thoughts about female travellers from Europe versus guys
thoughts about travellers from the West and the East

Well, I didn't really go for any pinpointed activity except for a cooking class, I didn't see any spectacular scenery nor being pampered with Thai massage (NO??!!). Overall, it was rather to live slowly and take my time and to show up in unfamiliar places. And thank God I did just that.



Still waiting to finish the roll and see my photos. By the way I filled up one MUJI passport notebook while in Thailand. It feels nice to have passport notebook and have each one a destination, no?

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.