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.

arrival: destination 1

‘ello Harperers, sorry for missing a few beats. 

The last couple of days involved much car-parking and walks around new neighbourhood shopping centres for necessities because hey to the yo, finally showered and baby powdered clean at a hotel at my home town, birth home. Whatever that means for you.

As I lie awake 1.56am of a new day I am yet to greet, I just wanted to contemplate on the realness of the song-phrase, “Reunited and it feels so gooood” because people usually associate this with well, people, but I sing this anthem for the roads I used to freely wonder at eight years old; the horrendous yet incredibly skilled driving and drivers; the sounds of pure air-condition, not those weird ones we now call “coolers” or what knows when that happened. 

Upon our descent from a maddeningly dull flight, when the interior plane lights dimmed and the city brightened from above, the thump thump thump, palpitating drum beat of giddy, leché, home struck hard.

For now though, it’s really off to shut these eye gates and lock the imaginations with exhaustion bars. Tomorrow is fully associated with another slice of reunited (old, good friends), and deep, faithful courage in myself and my accented-fluency in the native language of my home soil.

Wish me fried chickens.

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*

origin: greek

My favourite album of 2 0 1 6 was Bon Iver’s 22, a Million –

Oh, the old modus: out to be leading live

Said, comes the old ponens, demit to strive

A word about Gnosis: it ain't gonna buy the groceries

Or middle-out locusts, or weigh to find

It haunts me, it haunts me, it haunted me, I let it in.

The Dante’s of the music spire, atop the tier, legends of the echelon, Bon Iver. They are modern balladeers with extraordinary, time-bending powers that allows us plebeians to appreciate the baroque in an art form gushing from streaming vocalisations and untold mythics of a poet gone mad.

The courts of old bustling, silent near stillness, as the echoes of the lyricists bounces at a trajectory of a worn path walked personally.

You are surrounded.

You are overrun.

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.