Friday, September 08, 2017

on the descent

(july 21st)

first it was the news of chester bennington's death, and then a video of a broken-sounding/looking aaron carter apologising for how he looks now. for the latter, we were so youthful once, and loved. to have tasted the pinnacle and then feeling like it's now gone forever... isn't it painful?

within the span of that hour, i am reminded of how so many things degrade. the golden age of islam. idealistic communes. the printing press' birthing as the voice for the working class. or more recently, the internet - that seem the bypass the eventual role of the printing press - is being encroached upon again. that juxtaposition of the hopeful utopia that happens at first and then its inevitable descent; with all that is left to see is a gangrene rapidly growing. maybe the memory of glory days is enough of an anchor of What Things Could Be, even if its existence is a brief flash in the night. darkened and diseased, we still fumble our way in pain, its pure form driving us on and on, even if reality shows otherwise.

and youth. oh, how i used to think we were meant for something bigger. that one is special. what a crockshit that is. is this how we comfort ourselves? 

maybe this is why the japanese worship youth. there is magic in it. you're on the ascent.

oh much of these isn't truth set in stone, but a hippo could have her pessimistic moments, couldn't she?














Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Storytelling

Marcus lent me a Hassan Muthalib's "From Mouse Deer to Mouse", and it turned out to be quite an engrossing read. It was supposed to be a quick 30 minute read before bedtime, that extended to only crashing at 4am (with work tomorrow!). Then a post-swimming pizza fueled chat with a couple of my colleagues about art and artists not 24 hours after, has only brought me back to the time I had wanted to tell stories.   

How easy it is to be swept away with keeping one's head over water, that the mind forgets that stories used to keep me alive and going. It's good to have some fire reignited.

Revisited my final piece in college. I figured it will be pretty boring to most people, but it still affects me after all these years.
And here it is.

Dear To You from gianne yap on Vimeo.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Running

In the need of endorphins (and a trimmer waistline), I went for a jog. It felt real good. The podcast I was listening to was called "Modern Love" ironically or not.

The rain has ceased not too long ago, and the air was heavy with moisture yet not too unbearable. Lacking sport shoes, Converse sneakers it was. I may steal a pair off my mom.

Running gives you clarity, and untrembles a trembling heart.

I thought about the topics of articles I've been reading, what 'water' am I in, about what I've learnt in past 7 years, and about where I'd like to be. General things to anchor me as a person, for I have a tendency to gelabah and forget. I thought about the little giraffe fixture that holds his toothbrush. A shirt, not mine, uncollected. The double pillows on a single sized bed. The blanket in which I trapped him and tickled him to tears. There's a scene from Eternal Sunshine, when pain wants you to forget, but we rarely want to forget that little moments of sweetness, of tenderness, the times when your walls are all down and it's just you and him.

My muscles will ache tomorrow, but it would only mean growth, and growth is good.

Bankrupt & Heartbreaks

Bankrupt.

Janet said this during one of the extra practices, where we had to create impromptu gestures and rituals, drawn from our experiences. And we fumbled and was blank. Some did better than the others, and some didn't. 

Bankrupt.

That word, eight letters, two syllables, and it fascinated me. Think of it as a kindness, to remind ourselves to not let it reach to that point.

Exchange Theatre is as its name; it's an interactive theatre with the intention to show people conflicted situations that is familiar to them, and to open up discussions about it. And in the end, the actors themselves are being helped by the training process, both in seeing from another's eyes and in expanding our own feelings in order to deal with the improv in schools later. Much gratefulness to Lyn for asking me to audition.

We are currently moving towards not taking our reactions for granted, but to also think and be aware about it, and to work through with it in words and one's body. My teammates are really interesting people, and I love our post-training mamak session. Listening to them, whose world is very different from mine, is a huge delight.

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You can't tell your heart that there is a time and place to collapse completely. Well, you probably did... but it disobeyed, disobeyed, disobeyed. You are the puppet to its strings.

And old feelings, that I had marked "Done" and wounds are all thoroughly sealed, suddenly brandished itself. It had been platonic until then. I had loved and cared for someone fiercely, but I was young and tensed, and eventually gotten over it. Now, wounds that were fused tore slightly, tasting the sting of cold air. A hint of that moment where your heart is breaking slowly into little pieces. It was then that I realised that it isn't done. Never was. It was simply waiting for nourishment.

The reason that it hurts now is that I know that nothing will come out of it. What is a relationship without each other's capacity to understand each other? I will lack.

I must fare the waves. I know from experience that it will ebb. For a drop to dilute into a vastness, I must make my ocean so so big, though I know when that wave comes, I would just want to be in his. 

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

I was promised no illusions

(November 2016)

It was as if someone snapped her fingers. Quick intake of breath, and the turning of the head. The room is dim, quiet and cool, and there was an doorway behind you. You knew it because the light threw itself onto the floor next to you. The only sounds were your breath, and the little thuds of the heart. Air expanded your lungs, but strange, it is... a different sort. Little tingles run through your veins, as blood carries the new air to your ears, your arms, the tips of your toes, in the small of your back... everywhere. You breathe deeply again.

Did the spell break? I was in a daze. It's almost as though there was a blankness between all those years and now. What happened to all those years, I wondered.

So there I was, on the chair. I have nothing more to gain in this space; I was promised no illusions, but there are shadows dancing on the wall in front of me. When I stood up and walked towards the doorway, there were no regrets but a pang and a longing.

The initial excitement of finding a final piece that fits snugly in the jigsaw puzzle of my doubts did not prepare me, when I stepped across the precipice.  

Suddenly, I'm 23 again.

The time traveller who walked in to the future and then was lurched into the past without a segue. I compel my 30 year old self to answer me. Once if we had met, we would be strangers. And suddenly we're not. But in a strange difference of having more experience, maturity and a more quiet sombre disposition. 

If for years, you defined yourself with something, align yourself with a movement (of sorts) and basically, your identity is so intertwined by it.... How is it like to, unexpectedly, lose it?

That cord that anchored you is removed, and you're free spinning in space. Part of you sighs in relief for you are no longer. But like Lot's wife, we keep looking back because we're only human. Part of you wonders what's next. What if the next place is another shadowplay on the wall?