Singaporean Curiosities #0.5

toilet door at Bollywood Veggies- presumably painted by Ivy Singh-Lim's husband

meditative popsicle toilet at Cairnhill Arts Centre

Indian-Muslim kopitiam at Upper Thomson

View from OnePeople.Sg building at Braddell

behind a whiteboard used by unknown people

10-year-old's artwork

grandfather playing jackpot on his iPad as grandmother watches taiwan drama on a Sunday night 

Hari Raya style

underpass at Peninsula Shopping Centre

August

How is it that the people who invented the word August or the latin word that became August made it a word of sadness? It sounds like a bursting bloom of bright yellow leaves, crackling and dying after, but in a way that does not invite tears. Same for September; it sounds like a single newly sharpened pencil in Autumn, lying plainly on a school desk. October's a bit better; it feels like a sturdy fire and a fat bowl of soup. I still like July, the time of daisies.

Multi-tasking: when I have to remember and coordinate at least 10 things at once (which I often have to do these days), my brain feels like it is being sliced into many neat and equally sizable pieces, all working hard like hands on a wooden washing board. The feeling still disturbs me, and I think it should. It pushes me towards the mountains and the seas.

Today at a voice workshop my partner (a shy lady probably in her 40s who does yoga and had a glimmering healthy bronze body) had to cup her hands around my ribcage as I breathed. Her hands were like firm bird wings, restraining when I inhaled so I had to breathe and expand slowly against her force, and squeezing when I exhaled, so I had to let as much air out as possible, reducing to a tiny bag. It felt primal, comforting, like I was in a cave. I told the teacher I enjoyed it, because breathing can get quite lonely.

Last night I had a strange and gross dream. I was journeying by myself to a convention, going through overgrown fields with big sad-grand old-modern buildings in them, all alone, somewhat blue, yet strong, till I got to a construction site of sorts, and took the clanging lift, which had metal netting as the floor, and I felt like I had to poop and could not control it and let it out, and it kept coming and coming and then I looked down and there was a sticky big mountain of poop between my feet (this is the first time I have had such a dream). This morning I realized the dream was a premonition when my brother scolded me for leaving chocolate stains in the car.

This evening my little cousin said, 'You know why I ask you so many questions about your future? And what you want to do? Because there are so many possibilities. There's....everything! And it's very exciting.'

Earlier she also said, 'Hmmmmm, I seriously recommend you to become a youtube star.'

the raw spookiness of a flame in the mountains

what is worth having? in a time where we have so much- rose-print lace stockings; frayed good morning towel; spanish marmalade harvested from a family farm; writing pads, old stock; lemongrass-mint soap with exfoliating salts; glow-in-the-dark stars and planets; warm woven mirrored indian rug; teh halia.

Can the comfort of a big old floral printed armchair enveloping you on a musky Sunday afternoon form a ballooning happiness strung together by objects of gravity? Maybe if the armchair was part of the memory of a person.

In the past you could pack a suitcase of your life and go away to a new land.

Now even a room cannot contain me and my belongings. A home cannot contain me and my heart. The world wouldn't be big enough either. You would need to open a thirteenth dimension.

What about being a cloud?
History-less, free-form
No past or future
Simply presently
blooming
and
shifting

So what.


You don't need to talk about inner peace. You fight but you don't need to win. You can drink rainwater when you are thirsty; eat flowers when you are hungry. Every morning you wake up and measure your life with a wooden ruler. Tea bags are soaked in water before being used to soothe the bruises from your parents as they sit in the next room reading the perennial newspapers. Tissue is no longer for crying, but for making soft flowers to be hung from ceiling lamps in colorful rooms. A book told me that kisses help you develop immunity against more germs.

If I carve out my intangible dream on a piece of soap and burn it over a flame in the mountains, will the cats come out to smell the wisps?

I don't know lah. I just trust in Singlish, in the simple gravity of Clair de Lune, in a banana for breakfast. Look at the sky in the mornings. Then walk down the road and don't look back.