Category: Introspection


Last night, I went hunting for a Supermoon with my dad. I was wrapped in a flushed Afghan, proud bare feet, and a condition of spontaneity incurable.

It was loud when I exited my room, minutes, seconds, even! to falling in deep slumber when I remembered 11.51pm and jolted upright. My dad was in the living room watching a silent movie or something, the audio was turned down very low, and I tip-toed to the door.

The pavement scratched my feet of course, and I cranked my neck to a disappointing sky.

It was too chilly for summer.

I flag hauled the roller blinds and exited through the backdoors. My dad’s doing some renovating out there. Sequestering the roses by the fences, long-planks bedecked ready for varnishing. It doesn’t smell like paint anymore but everything’s just so white.

I climbed a cement block by one of the supporting beams, adjusting my glasses in the fog (cold chilly and all) and squinted and craned and wished. Puffing, pulling my weight, yet again disappointed by nothing. And everything.

There were hints of red, but the newspaper was false. The sky didn’t clear enough for us dreamers to behold a majestic trifecta promised.

I blame the anchor. Jane, I think. Weather-lady my b*m.


How glorious is authored destiny!

On my bed, I read The City of Ember. It’s a hard-bound copy, taped and sealed with a promise of a light darkness. To mark my passage across its pages is a deep, velvet red leather bookmark embossed with the words, The Hobbit. It often reminds me that I should return to my literary sojourn of Middle Earth very soon.

As I read through, I came upon plenty of pages that were left dog-eared by its previous borrower. I ask, why on earth do they perform such sacrilege to books!

(I’ll never get over it.)

When I pinched the dog-eared page with my fingers, I felt, suddenly, an instant connection to whomever once read the same written words, and felt the same roiling emotions as we followed Lina and Doon on their quest to save a city forgotten under the earth.

I often wonder if our destinies, our individual strings that lay across the world in tight leashes or unspooled across the continents, have always been so active in our every day but we simply forget, or are whimsy to it, because we are tragic creatures who’d rather dream of it, or watch it unfold in other people’s lives than our own?

What if we pledged our days, bygones and so, tightly to the reality of our own authorship of our lives? If we but say when and allocated a smile for the littlest touches between all of us; the lingerers and wanderers of this magnificent terra!

Can you imagine?

The unfolding of our watery courses in this vibrant/muted suburbia, country town, village, anchorage, city.

The illustrations we produce for each other without knowing; the photographs we share, seen by eyes thousands, millions of measurements away.

The same breath, the same persons.

Every one, every soul.

So entwined, connected, affiliated!

Destiny! Like, how glorious is authored destiny!

The greater purpose.

I’ve been so caught up in the avalanche of workloads that I find my shoulder hurting and my entire self salivating for a bite, just one tiny, minuscule, microscopic bite of a cheesecake forever craved.

I’ve never had such a week where everything seems to have gone wrong. And yet, dear ghosts, I find myself impeccably calm in such situations, uncaring for the personal judgments of my superiors that I felt incredibly liberated from the fatal thoughts of the “what if they don’t like me?”. I suggest you all try it. Freeing.

In the other light, there are so many things to look forward to in the next concluding months of 2 0 1 7. I want to begin with fulfilling numero uno on my list of fernweh’s having started Harper F.M. and that is to visit the vivacious, mountainous, racketeering New Zealand of Down Down Under. Yes, in countable days, I shall be trekking with a Maz-tiff by my side, ploughing down the road with our Brego’s and our Legolas wigs styled the Targaryen way.

And upon the conclusion of that trek (edit: cannot wait), we return to the shores of a few more weeks of the day job before finding ourselves in a time wrap ready for the release of the sequel of the 7th of an instalment that equals to nine episodes. Stoked?


Importantly, on the eve of the eve Christmas, there will be a road trip in there somewhere where I will re-live the days of lying down on an astroturf underneath the Massachusetts stars unearthing my great purpose with my favourite companion of companions, amidst shaking breaths but now, in summery flower dresses and plentiful-a-bug spray.

Melbourne. No apologies.

Before that, let’s rally the real for some fun office ping pong competition, much forgiveness, vigilance, diligence, and no fear. As, there is still much. But deep breaths, H, deep breaths.

You are called for a great purpose. Live it.

How dare you, really.

I sometimes catch myself looking at a person and wondering if they’ve ever been to a musical. Not on it, in it.

Because how many do we pass by in the streets as we juggle our hot cuppas, as we ignore the world with tunes blasting from our headsets, that have been in a musical? Last night, I had the privilege of watching my puppies-before-anything friend’s first time to watch a musical in her twenty-three years of living. And whatever musical it had been, it had to be something that will amaze her, wow her, and shut her splendid in spectacular fashions.

“Colourful,” she says, without ambiguity. It seemed most appropriate with a set so dressed and a stage lit with the ambience of every Disney film we ever loved (still do).

Tragically, I remembered when we booked our tickets months before – May, if I recall correctly. You ask, “Why the long wait?” Because patience is a virtue among those who wait. It yields results contrary to spontaneity that can either equal wondrous or disastrous. There’s never an in-between.

We wanted to be safe and go for the wondrous. We sat in the stalls, very much near the orchestra pit and there were no barriers hingeing our desire to see the stage in all its glory. And glory we did! (I still have tears in my eyes.) But I digress.

The tragedy was our trio reduced to a duo. The 1/3 of our group decided that it best to buy herself some exorbitantly expensive shoes to trample on than sit amidst a crowd to ooh and ahh and gasp at the tumbling acrobats.

Will I forgive said friend for the ditch?

Perhaps not.

Richly flavoured yellow.

I still remember the spring of last year. When September rolled around and the canola flowers bloomed in rich yellow as we passed in our daily haste. I remember feeling the still chilly wind as I ambled around my backyard with my hose, careful, knowing that the thorns will start to breathe life and colour once more.

I took out my journal, 31st of August 2016, dog-eared (an accident) and I’m reading through my flowery script as I regaled nobody – myself – something to do with rainy days and sweepstakes, and missing verdant Massachusetts. The plane ride to Hartford, Springfield from Dallas was a nightmare, but the landing was a dream. Fresh lobsters served butter-hot in our exhaustion, quaint, rustic, American dream house with its trademark squeaky floorboards.

It’s haunting, alluring, and I feel so unapologetic that I fainted while waiting in line for a ride at Six Flags.

Spring has a quality of superstition about it. Hades and Persephone, a fave. It can be dark, but light, humorous, but itchy. I wonder how this year will go. Will it be inescapable? Will it be richly flavoured?

Hmm, hmm, hmm…


I have been ill for three consecutive weeks. I have missed two work days out of five for these three consecutive weeks and it is more than putting a glower on myself, I am feeling a basketful of guilt for leaving the manning of the fort to my two superiors. My two unequivocally professional and beyond worthy to my superiors. They are vastly more improved than I in this profession (I still use the Media and Comms excuse) but their invaluable kindness and mentorship has made it much, much easier for me to be ill. And I say this for the entire company.

The company that knows just how much an individual person is worth.

Even so, in the creative department, I have disappeared upon these pages too. How have you all been? Did any of you have a sweet apple today? Dipped it in yoghurt for a snack? Did someone climb a particularly challenging staircase this week? Or fumbled down the couch as they reach for the remote control?

I know I have done less than dismal of physical activities. If I count walking to the car, walking to the refrigerator, stretching by the bed, using my thumbs as I wreak havoc on a gaming console…

To continue is to make a fool of myself.

Alas, I feel braver. Braver in my insecurity, that is. As oftentimes I catch myself needing to apologise for my human condition of illness. And I thought, why should I?

But it helps. It thoroughly helps when empathy is your ally.

Fashion spiel

I cannot account as to how long it has been since I last shopped at a direct factory outlet. I recall driving past and pausing at our local shopping centre not ten-minutes away, and usually I’ll get driven thanks to some learner pals.

So when I went today, after having returned some notes from my piggy bank, I felt far from disinterested when the sale signs launched their marketing assault. What kind of brands do I silly in?

Pfft, everything, I think to myself as I lunge after that orange box numbered “size 8”. Appalled by my brother’s holeful socks, I did not have time to deliberate. I was taken straight to the counter.

My real purpose was to buy myself a camera bag and some mints but instead, my name was screamed at a store and I was given a 50% discount by my fashionably A+ friend. Here’s my fashion rundown, Tavi Gevinson:

Peach is the new rose gold. Even if a CEO scoffs at it.

Always white shoes over black and white. Because you already have a black and white somewhere, don’t be greedy.

Slightly expensive black socks.


It’s a must.