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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 wish

I wish the ocean chose me.

Or the sea, the river, the pantheon in its destruction.

I wish they stretched long, structured, crumbling limbs and I saw the stars reflected by the waters, the ripples pooling beneath my teeth.

I wish the constellations chose me, the stars chose me, the wind, the Sun, Spring, chose me.

If I were to be chosen,

I want to be chosen by the earth, by the universe, by the melted snow, and the dying flowers, and the cascading brush of ice and deep, coldest waters.

I wish the tallest mountain chose me. Or the regime of stalks and wheat, of rice-steps, and hawks in mid-flight.

I wish the winds chose me. And the bright, luminous cascades of the ethereal, burgeoning of life, and sound, and music, chasing me, hounding me. The invisible, and the real.

I wish,

I wish,

I wish…

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:
Its not the buildings that haunt you, or the old houses or street posts. Its the people who have entered said doors, who repainted and refurbished the windows and the old courtyard by the train lines. Its 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 its 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’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.

Please indicate your destination

They say East is as far as the West.

Sometimes, certain persons are troubled by quiet roads when you hear nothing but a clutch, a turn, a hiss and whisper, and rubber on asphalt tracks. I wanted to enjoy music, but music, like the uncontrolled, swiftly evaded me.

I travelled quietly and I travelled it well. It was lethargic but I was certain the road will eventually lead me to my destination. I had to turn off the GPS and rely on instinct. Gut. I was rewarded by non-indicating bravado that could have turned a lethargy into an accident. It makes me think: why do most drivers drive as if they are always in a hurry? As if they have an innate desperation to be ahead of someone? Is there power behind the wheels? When you smoke ’em, hun, ‘s the only way out?

Honesty time. There is a sense of accomplishment there, but only when there are two lanes merging into one, you’re both paused at the lights and the green blurs as you rush in, taking their previous spot at a time-trial. You veer off different directions when a few minutes pass but did you ever think about it? That you never really notice their eventual disappearance unless they somehow “follow” you to your destination some lights later?

Cool cucumber, why do I talk about such lame things on the net? Someone should hit me with a Hardcover copy of the Divine Comedy that sits, currently, so still on my shelf. Then perhaps I can talk about how this all relates to Beatrice and whether I have a love that stirs me ever so that I could just perish.

*sighs in Spanish*

act valiantly

Things I joined for this new year, new me sluice:

  • A reading challenge of 50 books for the entirety of the year and since I am currently on my 3rd book now, I say I’m doing dang pretty well.
  • A job agency.
  • Leadership and mentorship wherein I *cue gasp* am said leader/mentor. Ooh to the responsibilities.

Things I want to join for this new year, new me sluice:

  • A daily ping-pong challenge against my dad and beat my cousin-in-law with a flourish and wrist flick.
  • A French language class as an imitation of life and art.

I feel incensed to accomplish more things when I don’t think about it too much. How does that juxtaposition work? This week, my friends and I took a drive down to the furthermost corner of our great state to admire, to walk, to ice-cream, and to carpool karaoke. Arriving home at close to 10pm with a pulled muscle, I valiantly awoke the next day to take my sister (mostly myself) out to the museum. I bought $7 chicken karaage and regretted nothing. Physically, it seemed careless to soldier on. When I look at my parents, however, all content to just be, their sense of adventure dwindling to smoky wisps of invisibility, I feel accomplished to have treaded the ocean-waves on my micro raft than luxury cruise and feel nothing at all.

Dreamer, prisons, wedding

On the 25th of this first month, my long-lost cousin (jokes) is getting married to the love of thine life. Romantic? Getting-married-overseas romantic!

In an effort to appease my vanity for my first gig as a bridesmaid, I have taken advantage of online shopping and the promotional discounts that flood and junk our inboxes for my said gig dress. However, I am still in need of a pair of tropical fresh bathers that will not attract any unwanted sea creatures; scratch-less sunglasses, and an additional two pairs of shorts that will or will not see the dark and tumble of a laundry machine for ten days.

Thinking ahead, it’s a full two weeks of prepping. Emotionally, I’ve been ready since the day the groomsman announced his intentions; physically, I’m seven years behind. Materially, there is room (and parents) to fill out the zero’s. To divide and conquer, I will wear a silicon mask of Emma Watson’s face so I wouldn’t have to worry about things like my face, and I’ve got a full bottle of bug spray for any unwanted blood-suckers. Bye Edward.

I look forward to this headlining celebration since it straddles the line of my ancestral past and my emblazoned present: where I will be in my family line after the wedding, and where I will be afterwards also. It got me thinking:

In a year, I could have travelled to New Zealand, attended a movie premiere in space with a Danish, an American, and a Dutch-Romanian, and bought myself a genuine silver-gold ring just cause. In five, I could be living la dolce vita writing scripts and immersing myself in creative waters that range from ice-cold to Mad Max: Fury Road. In ten, I probably have a book or something and my parents are living on an island somewhere because I think, that’s what they want?

Foregrounded by Antonin Dvorak’s Symphony no. 8 in G-major, it all sounds fanciful, bordering idealistic, to a fevered impossibility. But why doubt such visions? Why implicate yourself in a prison made entirely by your own squandering, defeatist prison?

Have you ever felt like you’re confined in a space of dreams and envisioning a future so far from what your closest peers, and in some cases, family, are currently living in? A good year ago, I was sleeping on an inflatable bed in the living room of my Texan aunt. My family were all here living simply and unvaried whilst I was thinking about what new adventures await me in the winter-not-winter South West. Will I be surprised by their heavy accents? Will I finally visit their version of Costco and compare and contrast like a science graphic?

Are you like me, hoping to return to a limitless life? Or are you settled and content where you are now? Perhaps grow a family, have what you want where you are and leave it at best?