papirfugl

(via fuckyeahhlove)

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 15:38:34 +0800

The privilege of giving life to short-lived things

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 13:55:00 +0800

♫ “Miss Shanghai” by The Shanghai Restoration Project

Holding this song in my hand, I see myself walking upward, ascending the steep hill road which, last night, led me to his place. It’s eight o’clock in the morning I think. I said goodbye and left, let him sleep because I knew. And I guess I noticed, too, the way the street unwinded and unfolded like a lie, leading me into a cul-de-sac of self-denial.

I knew it, didn’t I? I knew this guy, and still, I couldn’t help but go. I guess I’m dumb like that, or weak. Or happy to think less about the way ahead and what it holds, or doesn’t hold for me. This holds. Yes, the present holds, however fleeting it may be. To have the chance to be the girl who walks this walk in blue high heels, carrying even loftier dreams is… The lightness of that burden does outweigh, ironically, the pain of falling later on. Besides, the fall is not that harsh. There are worse things in this world than watching suns rise over harbours, knowing that a night just ended.

Last night’s teal blue dress still on, uplifted by this song, I realise that short-lived things are often fun precisely ‘cause they do not last, do not pretend as if they will. The charm of doing futile things, or, having all this time to think about one’s short-term plans and dreams. It’s not too bad, this being young. Appreciate the privilege of giving life to short-lived things.

♫ “Miss Shanghai” by The Shanghai Restoration...

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 13:34:00 +0800

♫ “Miss Shanghai” by The Shanghai Restoration Project

Now it’s said and done / Say goodbye to people we...

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 01:40:00 +0800

Now it’s said and done / Say goodbye to people we don’t know
Go back to sleep / Let’s sail away to the beaches of Normandie

“Normandie”, Shout Out Louds

Little great things

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 00:17:00 +0800

paying only 16 HK dollars for a tasty dinner. Nick coming over and bringing häagen-dazs at 10 in the evening. knowing Sherin. living on the 21st floor in the middle of Hong Kong. looking out my bedroom window on nights when i can’t sleep, and discovering that in neighbouring apartment blocks, people are still brushing their teeth. lying in bed and talking about Lumet, life, lies, and feminine and masculine rhymes. closing your eyes. reading sontag. making plans (not for Nigel, but for me). getting cha siu bao for breakfast from a local dim sum place. sleeping and waking up to music. sunlight filtered through the linen now serving as curtain in my room. hoping that we might work it out, someday, that time and space can be compressed, and distances erased. a bookshelf full of stories, memories and possibilities. drawing, or pausing to observe. having time to draw, pause and observe. hugging Mart. reading on the MTR. learning to like learning about the Chinese economy. making lists about little great things when really, you’ve already brushed your teeth and should be sound asleep.

★

Shadows aren’t always black.

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 01:46:00 +0800

Shadows aren’t always black.

Times Square, H.K.

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 14:10:00 +0800

Times Square, H.K.

On bullying

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 03:07:00 +0800

All it takes is someone bored enough to move, yet too stupid to suggest that they think before they do.

Tell me what you eat, and I’ll tell you where I think...

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 02:35:21 +0800

Tell me what you eat, and I’ll tell you where I think people will think you come from.

Old habits die hard.

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 00:41:00 +0800

Old habits die hard.

Soho at night.

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 22:51:52 +0800

Soho at night.

If we could climb these trees, maybe we could see each other...

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 22:49:00 +0800

If we could climb these trees, maybe we could see each other better?

Photo

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 22:42:43 +0800

Playing with map design.

Sun, 01 Nov 2009 11:11:00 +0800

Playing with map design.

Photo

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 17:44:22 +0800

The writer must be four people:1) The nut, the obsédé2) The moron3) The stylist4) The critic1...

Thu, 17 Sep 2009 23:35:00 +0800

The writer must be four people:

1) The nut, the obsédé
2) The moron
3) The stylist
4) The critic

1 supplies the material; 2 lets it come out; 3 is taste; 4 is intelligence.

A great writer has all 4 — but you can still be a good writer with only 1 and 2;
they’re most important.

- Susan Sontag, Reborn.

A little steadier

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 03:54:00 +0800

This is why I stick with me.
Independently, we stand
a little steadier, you see.

This way, I won’t take you for granted,
nor for something that you’re not.
A bonus, not a requisite,
you add up as a plus in this long equation,
which I’m always working on.

Maybe you can help me solve it.
Could work. Might not. We could try…
But if my math is still correct,
This… This can’t amount to much.
At most, a decimal,
if your measurement is love.

Pleasure-wise? A dozen times I’ve wanted you
- and asked for more! It counted, too,
as something rather pivotal.
A point affecting how my earth revolves.
But whether you could ever be
a form of gravity to me…
Of this I’m still unsure.

Could you? Would I ever let you? Some say
that the feminist in women like myself
hinders me from finding joy
when lying next to someone else.
Yet the promise that I made
was not that of a rebel.
Mine is not a cynic’s stance, but in order to unravel

how to pick apart this we,
to feel it in your bones
how strong your own mind can become,
even, or especially, when growing on its own;
to see beyond the mist of myths
that too often shroud your view
on what relationships can do
for us, and me for you;

something must be given up. Something
must be left behind,
if this truth is to arrive.

This is why I stick with me.
Independently, we stand
a little steadier. You’ll see.

the dare

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 17:54:00 +0800

summer spread a quilt of light
over the entire town, and instead of snow,
we had feather-light answers swaying down
filling up our frozen flats
ridding them of question marks

outside, you recognized the streets
shuffled along the cobble stones
back to your flat, where you let her in
and heard yourself say:
“sure,
sure you can leave
your things with me”

and it suddenly hit you how tired you’d been
how heavy loneliness can feel
when we close our windows
in fear of the draft
the snow
the traffic noise
or whatever we fear might come in
whatever make those doors swing shut
and humans lock their silences up

is it really that hard to do, to make
a little noise, a little movement
in the rooms which we think ourselves
too weary to share?

‘cause in the end,
what scares you the most?
the silence – or the dare?

This is impro theatre

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 14:31:00 +0800

I’m told we do these things unscripted.
That both of us should improvise.
No costumes, props. Just us,
the light and the naked stage.

When he talks at me, I try to let go
but his lines sound old. Just quote upon quote,
goldfish food for those who can’t remember
the rush from doing real impro theatre.

In between clichés, he even assures me:
“I usually act, you know. But with you…”
With me you thought what, that I could be fooled?
You’ve rehearsed! You’re quoting other people’s verse.

This is supposed to be improvisation!
Not a flaunting of memorization.
Don’t you know that I’ve done plays,
rehearsed but erased the lines for the sake
of hearing what you had to say?

I thought we took each other’s stages
in hope of seeing something new.
Or am I the one confused,
mistaking this place for somewhere else?
You for someone who plays by the rules?

Can you believe this is how our hearts actually look like. Only...

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 23:35:23 +0800

Can you believe this is how our hearts actually look like. Only in reality, they’re not even outlined and pencil-drawn?