Month: February 2017


I confess to speaking to a Londoner on the phone one random afternoon and I find it immensely satisfying to hear their enunciation of the word “coordinator” and the cheeky inflections when they bid their adieu. How did this happen?

Well, I’ve been on the lookout for some prospective métier since my return from Paradise Island. The journey has been mostly quiet on the employers’ end whilst I toil upon the hardships of writing cover letters. I mean, I love letters. I love receiving them from my soul sister in Denmark, and I adore the trips to the post office to purchase overpriced stamps. There is a strange feeling of triumph when you do something far from idleness.

And I do await their response the coming weeks since most of their job posts do not end till halfway through next month. Fingers a-crossed!

Curiously, the past couple of weeks have been more of self-reflection and introspection of my journey so far. If you must know, University life is fast approaching. But alas, I am a member of the faculty of students no more. Does it bother me? Perhaps when O-week comes around even though I only ever attended two of the four invitations. There’s free “booze” but isn’t that always?

My best friend is juggling a great internship at a renowned company. She follows food and adores supervising those who make the food. And 2 of the 7 days, she becomes this magnificent, blooming leader of both the young, the middle-aged, and the younger. She has a penchant for greatness and I truly do miss her. It’s been an ice age or two since I cherished my bosom friend.

Returning to my self-reflection, however, I came upon a conglomerate who will teach you and guide you the ways to creatively tell a story. From the conception of an idea, to the creation of both the worlds and characters, I feel deeply, wholeheartedly inspired to write my own.

And I’m not talking about toys with feelings or monsters who scare children for electricity. I’m talking about this girl I know, this twenty year-old who rode a viking ship across the border of two countries. This one who travelled to Montréal and stayed at a shared cabin with three women from all parts of the globe, one from her own home. When she rummaged through spicy New Mexico and scaled the Capitol Hill with her fingertips.

Someone who wants to tell her own story. Just her own. Because she’s failed a number of times trying to write someone else’s story, trying to concoct up a world of her own imaginings. She hadn’t realised then, the power of her own evocation.

There is a limitless potential for the one so curious. And not if or a perhaps but when. And she will begin.

She begins right now.


Issue II: H- ponders signification.

H- and Nicolo (a trombone-playing curator of soul ships and wanderers) will visit The Chapple Press Symposium, a conference for the like-minded and a voice for the obscured, this very Saturday. The travel won’t be their problem. The difficulty lies in whether, in their mind’s eye, a towering breakfast of hashbrowns and bacon, buckwheat pancakes with raspberry syrup, and two pots of brewed gold-leaf tea, will suffice for the entire duration, to and from.

Nicolo simply puffed and H- involuntarily jerked a shrug.

The Chapple Press Symposium will be hosted by a nonentity speaker. He is a local of Amsterdam and has an “excellent” photographic collection of his displacement. H- believes he is rural and a mid-weight influence amongst his peers. Nicolo believes what he will see at the Symposium. No more no less.

When H- was nomadic and found herself camped in front of the Capitol Building 500 days or so before, it had been a starry, cold night. She was sitting on a marble hedge across the illuminated stairs, unaware (or ignoring) the stationed guards at almost every step, loggia, and stony gables. Whilst Nicolo had been travelling in California with a dog,  H- was snuggled between her two companions for warmth and solidarity amidst the crisis that lingered in her mind: will they ever be as significant, as important as she believed she would be?

She wrote it down in her notebook upon returning. The underground train lines of Washington D.C. were built like bunkers, the significant man said. But to H-, they were space stations. Roofed and bedecked with inimitable power of salvation of both the wicked and the good. She scratched the first word out (I). With thousands upon thousands in each space station, awaiting their doom or demise, salvation or safety, it never once occurred to H- that no one will remember anyone’s name. And it won’t be because of lack of trying.

There is something curtained and bleak about the great capital in the West. At night, at freezing temperatures, you value your existence more than you value the statuaries and edifices that holds centuries of history, language, and life. For one, struggling moment, the buildings became discrete, disconnected entities to me. They held no value, no life, no genus loci. But there was no shame. Only a sudden, inexplicable change in perspective.

FM: You favoured Washington D.C. over many cities in your travels. You mentioned its vibrancy, its colour amidst its structural power. What changed?
H: It is a lot quieter, the city. And I never thought the city was colourful in any way separate to its red-bricked, sun-kissed palisades. Its vibrancy, like Georgetown, remains in the forgotten entities that lingered. It seems contradictory to my previous statement but hear me out:
It’s not the buildings that haunt you, or the old houses or street posts. It’s the people who have entered said doors, who repainted and refurbished the windows and the old courtyard by the train lines. It’s the why a museum has been erected to pay tribute and to never forgot those who have fallen. It’s the dynasty, the legacy of each generation in every decade that is haunting. That is real.

FM: And why is that important to you?
H: Because we want to be significant. At all ways there is a need to be known, even if it’s to be forgotten. There is a purposeful stride to be remembered.

FM: And Nicolo?
H: He believes in seeing. He has a great rapport with artists and painters, jazz pianists, and saxophone players. He hears the music, he sees the strain on the forehead, the sweat, the adoration for their craft. And the product is there. It is limitless, but it’s tangible.

FM: You see the world more abstract. You favour fables and mythology over the corporeal.
H: I find they complement each other and are significant to each other. And that is why you can hold a perspective for one or the other. You can believe that the other is more significant to you and the other as less important. And vice versa. It is a study on perspective more than factual.

FM: Tell us about the symposium. Your attendance must be of consequence to your pursuit of this philosophy.
H: I am weaving a narrative fabric about displacement and emplacement of characters, personalities, and personas against the framework of that which surrounds us. Por ejemplo, an evil cat living in the Old Supreme Court of Capitol Hill. What is the significance of this animal against the assassinations that have happened in the buildings themselves? Would no one have befriended it? But someone must be feeding it.

FM: Is it for a film?
H: You never know.



I acquired a travel bag.

It’s well, first of all, free, and demeaning to the emphasised acquisition. HOWEVER, it strikes me that no one (my parents included) has any idea as to why I have acquired such resource in the first place.

You know wedding anniversaries? Yeah, they’re sort of this celebratory fiesta that marks oneness, union, salt and peppah in one shaker, of two wholly separate individuals. My birth giver and father have no idea that through that union came about the greatest gift they have and will receive in their entire united lives: me.

And my brother also who, because of pure love and generosity, will attempt to forego our fear of telephones and talking to strangers as we plan their week-long getaway in tropical paradise. I’m thinking sangria and palm trees, coconuts by the seashore, and sunset views of people’s swimwear behinds. They’re thinking more balcony room and iced cola because alcohol = vertigo, seafood fare at the buffet, and walks across the hulking interior, admiring and constantly admitting how incredible it is to finally be on a cruise ship 100% paid for by their begotten children.

Hashtag blessed.


I’d like to thank F slash M for that horrendous interview. Some of you could probably tell that I had a toothache. My answers were just so bizarre! *sighs*

So, I wanted to be frank and appeal to all of you science nerds –  there is so much respect there for someone who cannot differentiate from an electron and a neutron – in regards to people (me) who cannot fully articulate what they would like to say when they are in front of those who are terrifyingly staring at you and listening to your every appellation. I mean, I don’t have stage fright or else I wouldn’t even stand at the front in the first place. But, my tongue feels like green jello and my brain would rather play Fetty Wap’s 679 whilst I’m in the middle of my very important spiel.

Has that ever happened to you? Is this a psychological, social science thing? ‘coz if it is, let’s just talk about Boston.

I love Boston. I miss Boston. I am everything to Boston. Jokes. Boston is everything to me. It’s known as the 2nd city in the East Coast but who cares. It has brick roads, less traffic, colourful subway lines, and trees, trees, trees, I could marry a lumberjack. I met someone in Boston who fetched food for me when I decided not to get up, and they have these duck tours that made me wish I was a Viking of technology. I’m only ever good at ranting and monologuing about whatever.

I took a photo of a father and a child at the Boston Public Library by Copley Square, Boylston Street and I felt its summation to my entire trip there. Four months, alone but not alone…you harness more than the power of individuality.

A poem:

For once,

I dream.

About fernweh.

Now fernweh,


of me.

Issue I: H-

In this novel issue, we wanted to record a small little compendium of quips and arbitrary moments of reflections from H- from her trip to Paradise Island for her cousin’s wedding. As you may all know, she has been trying her hardest to log her own esoteric reflections through teasers the lasts posts but since H- has just returned from a recent, pulverising trip, we wanted to be casual but at the same time amazed.

Be prepared, because both H- and us have a reputation for being fickle.

I don’t like chickens in the mornings if they sound suspiciously like automobiles. I tried to convince my 3 brothers to arise but those howling things beat me to it.

FM: You have a bit of a reputation with your old friend back in your home town, birth home (whatever that means for us). Apparently there were teases of dates?
H: Ah yes, it’s a cousins banter. Everyone enjoys the harmless fun.

FM: What outfit did you end up sporting on every hot humid day?
H: Let me just stop you right there. Like Titus Andromedon would say, you don’t choose the outfit. The outfit chooses you. Unfortunately, I was missing a strapless brassiere so there goes the planned. Fortunately, I packed like I’ve been an independent traveller all my life. Resourcefulness is, in some ways, a virtue.

FM: Arcade while waiting for a friend? It was one of the reunions you were most looking forward to.
H: We lost to a guy named Jason who randomly joined our race through the San Franciscan streets. Did we complain? Almost. He was in earshot.

FM: There was that eventful Sunday morning prior to your flight to the Island. You mentioned an emotional and physical roller coaster?
H: My birth town is an extremely humid place. Though I’m grateful for the double-sided fans (!!!), the reunited company, the nails done, and the hair as bright as the sun, I had to tap on my back-up energy. I felt like young Anakin Skywalker on the Boonta race. Sandy.

FM: Tell us something mischievous.
H: I ate an entire coconut by myself.
FM: How-
H: I just finished snorkelling and I was famished and parched and both those things were quenched thanks to the sea-side vendor. He was tanned beyond anything.

FM: Did you read the book you packed?
H: A couple of pages, at least. Flights are crushing. Have you ever felt that? It’s like hammering your skull. I really would rather be in a state of dormientes.
Gravity’s a bit of a scary concept, if not, titular in some respects. For instance, I take it for granted when I was on our dingy boat on our way to the reefs. I mean, how does a life-jacket defy it and I can’t jump more than my knee height? Perhaps I should just be a theorist.

FM: That could be fun! You visited NASA before so you’re a lot closer to that pathway than anything.
H: Ha! I’d rather be a linguist. I am far too in love with Latin and its derivatives more than anything. Which reminds me, my friend lost my ring that one hazy, dark night and he still owes me a new one.

FM: Pub-crawls are dangerous.
H: *snorts* If you’re with the wrong kind of people. Him, he was slightly dangerous (read: ring lost). At least it wasn’t my aquamarine gem stone. And my cousin was with me the whole time. In fact, she directed me and convinced me to come because it was our hoo-ha before the wedding rehearsal the next day. Thank goodness I didn’t sport a headache.

FM: The wedding…

H- takes out her laptop and places it between us. Her eyes were gleaming as she opened up the video and turned the volume up. It was a same-day edit, she said, and she was speechless upon remembering, sitting next to her partnered groomsman (her brother). We couldn’t help but tear-up along with her.

H: I’ve known the couple for the totality of their relationship. I remember the first mentions, the introductions, the shyness and awkwardness. And it blossomed to something so tangibly beautiful that its final beginning at that ceremony truly ripped me apart.

They were made to love each other.