I moved in August, started work in September, and now hear the waves of the shore crash rather regularly on my weekly walks to East Coast Park, my recently minted locale of choice to let go and feel the world wash away, off of me. There's so much to say regarding the start of work and all the new things it brings- but this is not the conversation for that. (I've been trying to cobble together a vlog for you sunshines but goodness that is difficult yes I am making excuses.) I am however, wanting to talk about what I've been reading/watching/doing in the pockets of time that aren't at work, because they give me life, and remind me of, well, myself. They also help to honour who I am outside of my occupation: that ideology I feel we're so prone to tacking onto ourselves and feeling like our salaried positions are what defines us. So here are the ways that I've been keeping true to my soul, and a glimpse of October's refreshing and sober offerings; 1) Went boxing for the first time in a year This month marked a brief return to boxing since I stopped pretty much ever since coming back from exchange, which is more than one year ago. And it dredged up a wave of emotions because BOY DO I MISS IT so much. I never really talked about the sport in depth anywhere, maybe because it's hard to encapsulate the various joys of it. It's vastly different from any other workout I do by nature of its movement style, technique, strength, and unavoidable aspect of having to spar (train) with someone else. But I love it. I love putting on my wraps and feeling like I'm ready to take on the bag, learning how to twist my body to land a perfectly aimed punch, the footwork that keeps you nimble and always on guard, the sharpness of mind that comes with knowing when to strike, when to duck. I feel like everything is worked out when I box, and it's exhilarating. I missed that. I don't think I will do it regularly right now, but it was such a treat. I also chatted briefly to a fellow classmate at The Six Boxing at this morning class who owns this gorgeous pair of Hayabusas, that also reminded me how much I salivate over Hayabusas, has anyone ever seen a more sexy glove?? Don't think so. What the heck! If I still do boxing in the future, I promise to buy myself a pair. Possibly in pink. 2) Reading, my favourite form of escapism (pictured) Mentats of Dune I have taken to the Dune series as an on-and-off lover. After watching Dune part 1 in cinemas, which was jaw-dropping and riveting, it was only natural to blaze through the entire written works which Dune is based off of, the brainchild of creative genius Frank Herbert. Except his original series is actually quite dense and hard to read, so I got started on Brian Herbert's spin-offs instead. This one gives the history of the Mentats, Butlerians, and Spacing companies (you can understand it as pro technology v.s. against technology), and while the plot was ok, I thought the pacing was too slow and the characters superbly under developed. I didn't like any of them in the end, they just seemed really flat, like one-dimensional. Why were they speaking and thinking like robots? The House of _____ series was so much better. Ditto to this. (unpictured) The Man Who Wore His Wife's Sarong This is a Singlit collection of short stories imagining the lives of various ~largely~ queer folk and the weaving paths they take. It is evocative. It's painful. It's fresh. It's full of heart. I am a huge fan of how it manages to be Singaporean without overdoing it, without being pretentious or stereotypical or unrelatable (cough Crazy Rich Asians cough). The stories flit in between time periods, some being set in our modern day recognisable glasshouse environment, and some in 1960s-esque kampong Singapore. All of them make you take a deep breath in and just contemplate, mired in feelings. Ditto to anyone who says Singaporeans can't write. 3) Watched Sex Education S4 This may be a controversial opinion but I actually...liked Season 4? Let me start with the good parts. Eric Effiong's plot line this season had me crying alone in my room at 2a.m. He performs it flawlessly, and his interrogation of his sexuality alongside his faith was so raw and real, something that I was relieved this final season managed to really give screentime to instead of as an aside. Eric's character is someone whom I felt has stayed true and so, so likeable since the beginning. Aimee, Adam, and Ruby were also top class in this, adding their own unique innocence, humour and personality respectively. Aimee's character arc in healing herself through photographic art was a genius move and I adore that for her. That jeans-burning scene had me in a chokehold. What's not so good: Cavendish as a college was admittedly a big pill to swallow. I can kind of get it, in the sense that the producers wanted to portray that an almost perfect 'woke' Gen-Z school can still have its issues with inclusivity, but I think it's this wild departure from the rundown ruggedness of Moordale that feels like whiplash, and a too forceful hand in pushing for diversity representation. It feels heavy-handed, not sensitive, forced rather than organic. The new Cavendish characters were interesting and colourful- but almost too much so, because who's REALLY like that in real life and in such concentration? Otis and O were both really irritating in this season. Couldn't stand either of them. Overall, S4 made me laugh and cry, which is my threshold for a passable show. 4) Danced *NOT CONTEMP I took the scary leap of finally experimenting with a new genre of dance. If you know me, you're aware that for over a decade I did contemporary, one of the greatest teachers of my life. But I have in tandem always lacked the simple, irresistible swaaaag of those who do other snappy styles, and I decided in was high time to overcome my fear. So I attended my first open choreo class the other week, and I had so. Much. FUN!!! The coach taught as a few eights of a dance which was part hip hop, a bit of house?, a bit of reggae??- who knows- and it was so foreign to my body I wanted to laugh at myself, but I did my best to just groove and it was damn cathartic. He was so nice too, the class wasn't as intimidating as I anticipated, and there was a mix of everyone from young to older, amateurs and experienced dancers. One of the things I love about creation: the constant rediscovery, the endless transformation of self/Other. 5) Thoughts about the war
I couldn't finish this update without acknowledging the backdrop in which life proceeds on, blissfully ignorant of troubles that plague the world. It's contentious though, because with the cacophony that's going on online at the moment about Israel and Hamas, I've felt that I have nothing to value-add that hadn't already been said, no opinion that hadn't already been shared. I didn't want to just add to the noise at least for the sole purpose of virtue-signalling, which is quite meaningless. So in consideration of this, I leave these threads that nod to the unimaginable sorrow that war brings: for Gaza, its years of oppression and displacement, the cruelty that's been exacted to them; and for the innocent in Israel, everyone who was a mother, a father, a brother, a sister. Especially to this statement: Being able to look away is a privilege not afforded to people experiencing violence. This should always be acknowledged, and their pain can be at the heart of your desire to retain your own humanity while insisting on theirs too. DONATE: https://www.pcrf.net READ: www.aljazeera.com/news/2023/10/9/whats-the-israel-palestine-conflict-about-a-simple-guide Take care, L x
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My sunshines, grad season is upon us. I've been through commencements twice. Once for Em, when she graduated from Law and entered the work force a fresh-faced lawyer; then for Dorcas, walking down the stage confidently as a double-major bearer. It was nice and well to see my sisters graduate, and I recognise it as a rite-of-passage for enduring years of formal institutional education. It's the last event that seals the deal, you know? Before you don the heavy blue robes, get your named called up in front of the cohort, and collect your scroll, somehow you don't wholly feel like you're done with this entire academic affair- like there was no closure, no bookmark to end the chapter and finally move on with your story. Strangely enough I wasn't that excited about commencement, despite acknowledging its symbolic meaning. You've heard of the argument before of course: it's just another pompous ceremony, no one wants to sit through two hours of stifling speeches, no offense, for the hundreds of students you probably don't know or care about, all for a few seconds of fame on stage with smattering of polite applause (if your name is luckily not scheduled towards the end). I kind of agree with that, though I think everyone does to some extent anyway. It's just whether it means enough for you to grit your teeth and bear it. For me, I struggled more with the feeling that I don't really deserve a ceremony. It was weird, and a little difficult to process, almost an emotion of guilt as I thought about walking the stage in my robes, because the point of it all is that it's congratulatory to the students. But I couldn't get rid of that niggling feeling that I hadn't even done anything- or enough- to warrant this shebang. I reflected about my uni journey, its regrets and failures, the warm joys and laughter, and I couldn't find anything in its totality that merited a ceremony to celebrate me. Sure, I've done the works: attended classes, wrote my essays, did readings...well, some of them... completed a thesis. Dabbled in CCAs along the way. Worked. I did what I could, which is to say what everyone else did. Did that mean I deserved it? To have attention, put on a pedestal *physically*, and awarded with the certificate that defines my efforts for four years? It's not that I'm self-flagellating by the way. There's definitely been points that I can identify and be proud of myself for, as I spoke about some here. I am really proud of myself for the times I stepped out of my comfort zone, from large life-altering decisions like trying to be a leader (something I doubted myself on my entire existence), or small moments like getting to know someone new when I know that I'm shy with strangers. Entering the lounge even though it felt so big, and so scary. Performing in concerts I poured my soul into. Easy, tangible things I can hold up and say: here! I did this! Are you happy for me? As a collective though, going through a whole ceremony for both the sum and parts of uni felt too much to grasp, and still inadequate. It made me want to avoid it, because it seemed unnecessary and troublesome. Simply put, it felt uncomfortable. Well, you know what happened. This is a photodiary for reason. But coming through on the other side of this, I've made peace with the fact that in many ways, commencement was good:
Congratulations Class of 2023, we really did it. 🤍 familyfriends- faculty & collegefriends- from outsideKookabar00s (churchies)CSC or Ryan's 6th Favourite Committee- to be photographedRecently I've been plagued by the onset of my possessions breaking down all at once. I'm not exaggerating, although I wish I was. Combined with the condition that I'm suffering now called joblessness, it's rather unwelcome news. It's also honestly kind of funny, and a morbid signal to the planned obsolescence of modern day products, which is a lot less funny. I truly think that one of the downsides of living in today's world is that things are made to be broken, whether that's because of cheaper materials, prioritisation of efficiency over thoroughness, exploitative labour, or in the very design of its bones, so that we keep coming back to the shops for more and more and more. And we feel good too, because that means things are cheaper. The cost of it is invisible to those of us privileged with air-con and a plastic debit card. That's a struggle in ethics that might be a constant refrain in my life. Well, I'm making and sharing this inventory of stuff that I need to replace one way or another, because try as I might I'm still a victim of consumerism, although I deal with it with via large amounts of copium by telling myself I'm a better person for not buying Shein. (Read: sarcasm) 1. Prism+ monitor I encountered a very troubling discovery in June. For very mysterious reasons, my monitor simply wouldn't turn on, producing a highly weird brown-black screen when I agitatedly jammed the 'on' button, or flashing up a screen that's totally riddled by squiggly green lines all across its width. I don't know why or how this happened because I'm quite sure I'm a normal user of monitors, maybe heavier than average but honestly nothing crazy. And I've never spilled water on it. Trust. This condition made it virtually unusable as the entire point of having a monitor is to have a great big lovely extra screen for all our browsing, loafing, and occasionally productive purposes. So it lasted for less than 3 years after purchase, which I don't really think is a fair age for a product like this, unless someone is knowledgeable enough to point me to some answers about using habits which could've helped with its lifespan. Solution: Thank goodness for warranty. I contacted Prism+ and they had it swapped out for another model, free of charge. This new one, which incidentally I'm typing on now, seems to be working fine, which is exactly what I thought when I bought the original. Anyone taking bets? Will it go on 3 years, more, or less? 2. Electric whisk People often gift me tools for matcha whether that's the powder itself, or milk, and it's always extremely appreciated. If I haven't mentioned yet, I adore getting practical presents that I can tear apart and use immediately and think of you when I use it. For my birthday last year, Ivan gifted me a rechargeable electric whisk specifically to use for making matcha lattes in the morning, and it has worked like a charm for over a year. I've only had to charge it a couple of times and it runs like clockwork for months until it sputters out. Except this time it didn't even sputter, it just wouldn't turn on, and when I charge it it shows a constant red light of doom. This somehow felt worse than the monitor, because it was personal- a direct hit to my daily dose of matcha that I literally look forward to waking up. Solution: I've switched to a traditional bamboo whisk and chawan (bowl). Though it takes 3 times as long to make the same drink, at least it will never falter on me, and really the only factor I have to manipulate is the strength of my own arms. Motivation to life more weights and become really beefy up top I guess. 3. Logitech keyboard and mouse I came to acquire a keyboard and mouse at a steal while I was on exchange in the Netherlands. But as we're seeing in this dumpster fire of a post, you can't really rely on technological devices anymore, because its connectivity issues were getting worse by the day no matter how many times I switched out the battery: which leads me to believe I actually wasted batteries on this because the problem couldn't be the battery if I gave it new ones wayyyy more than you usually replace them on keyboards or mouses. It got to the point where it was a game of chance whether it would connect to my laptop each time, and that annoyed me so much I... Solution:...gave it the toss. Well, I listed it on Olio and passed it along to someone for free who didn't mind that it had connection issues. I guess I felt better about it because my table right now is too tiny to fit a bigass keyboard set anyway, and perhaps next time I will invest in a proper good quality one to save myself mentally and ergonomically. I AM taking recommendations. Let me know soonest. 4. Gorilla tripod This tripod has been through many a vlog with me, from baby Ly cautiously filming in her room to busting it out in full public for a perfect shot. Gorilla tripods are great because they're smaller and more compact, but give a nice raised height, plus able to bend it around railings etc. for even better framing. After about 2 years this one has started to give out; its legs are coming loose and will occasionally pop right out which is scary if my camera is also already screwed onto it. Solution: I ordered a new one. A better, more expensive one. It doesn't have joints so it should be stronger. I can't do without a gorilla tripod!!! 5. Canon full-mount tripod My dad used to be into photography. When we were a lot younger and also living in relatively more scenic places, he'd take photos of us as a family. Now he's into taking photos with his smartphone and sending it into the group chat like his own personal Instagram. What's left of that hobby is a Canon full height tripod that I used extensively filming for thesis, making it a pretty good investment for an old item. What's not pretty is the absolute HORROR I felt when I opened that tripod bag a few days ago and discovered the camera holder bit had completely broken off from the rest of the tripod. I don't even remember banging it against ANYTHING?? How? WHY? There are no answers. Solution: I marinated in my shock and despair for a few days. I'm undecided about purchasing a new one because I rarely do need a full height tripod...though it would be nice for formal indoor/outdoor shoots. Just bless the Lord he doesn't remember this tripod's existence, nor need it, anymore. 6. Canon G7X camera
The start to my vlogging journey really, this secondhand G7X Mark II that I bought with my own adult money from Carousell, and something I still would have done even though it was very expensive and I earn nada from "content creating". It needed internal servicing about a year ago, which cost a further $100, and then recently one of the screws on the screen came off, leaving it kind of dangling loosely especially when I flipped it up to do selfie-type recording. Solution: After Whatsapping several camera repair shops, The Camera Hospital- which is a one-man business run by a man called Steven- said they could do it FREE. My jaw dropped. I was flabbergasted. Another camera shop had quoted me $80 to fix it. Canon itself most definitely would have charged me at least a few tens. What was going on? The very next day I popped down to his store at Bencoolen, he twiddled around for 3 mins, and passed it back to me good as new. Humans can be generous, and kind, and beautiful. At least that's what I'll takeaway from these (mis)adventures. Talk to you soon, L x I have a weird relationship with anger. My first memory of that feeling is at four years old, in our old Tokyo home, and I was wearing this lilac-and-dark-purple semi fuzzy jacket. For the life of me I have no idea why mini-me was pissed. But I was, without a doubt, in that nostalgic Japanese living room. I remember the clenched pit I had at the bottom of my stomach; gripping my jacket in a fist like a vise that would make the Arthur meme proud, unable to verbalise what was making me stomp my little feet, the injustice at some mysterious cause. Anger episodes came and went as I got older obviously. By and large I managed to quell those feelings. I had my foibles, things that ticked me off just like anyone else, but I was triggered more through irritation and annoyance than actual rage, or deep seated anger. Either way, any event on the anger scale from minor to major was pretty much regulated via the same coping mechanism. I'd just sit with it until the feeling passed. In silence. I chose to isolate and channel it inwards. If I'm being honest, my childhood diaries are full of angst and sometimes pages worth of scribbled hatred towards an unsuspecting peer(s), friend or foe. Lots of vitriol actually, thank goodness they're shut away in my cabinets for strictly private consumption. Trying to speak about my anger escalated it somehow, made it real, or worse: made me cry. So retreating into quietness worked the best. Anger would pass! It always did. I just had to be patient and disengage with people, then I could return to society as a normal functioning human. As it is, I think I'm melancholic naturally; pensive, what the emo people would say emo (just short of multiple piercings and black lipstick). I feel like precisely because I'm prone to being a little moony, that being happy and cheerful is a choice I make over and over again. It's a conscious effort for me to look at my situation objectively and find joy in small things, while conversely not allowing other things to overwhelm my emotional state. I do think I don't have a organically upbeat personality LOL even though I would love for it to come like second nature, but because it doesn't I really try to channel my energy to exude positivity and overcome the clouds that exist inside. Alongside this awareness has unlocked another side of me: that of raw anger. I don't want to psychoanalyse as a completely unqualified layperson, but if I were....hee hee...my suspicion is that I spent my teenage years suppressing any modicum of ire outwardly that it's leaking out now: rage demanding to be felt, to be heard. Small instances that literally aren't worth flaring up over I feel a disproportionate amount of fury; it flashes hot and uncontrollable inside of me, and I work up into a temper that once again has nowhere to go. I get angry when the bus is delayed and that extends my travelling time by 10 minutes. My blood boils when the public bike isn't working and has a faulty QR code. I develop a shocking amount of resentment when the service staff at a restaurant are late in serving up my order. My patience and goodwill wears dangerously thin compared to before, and I'm much quicker to be critical of people. So this is a recent observation that has been slightly troubling. Being angry makes me even angrier and upset that I'm upset with others. It's a nasty cycle that compounds, which I've never paid close thought to until now. I brought this up to my therapist, and she let me in on some real gems that I thought are so wise. Going to therapy AKA counselling at the University Health Centre has been truly one of the best decisions of my life, because my counsellor is wonderful and brilliant, and I've been able to clear my head simply by speaking about what's in my heart and allowing someone else to gently peel those layers apart. Here is what she pointed out about holding anger within:
Isn't that wonderful? L x It's how I think of it in my mind now. Home 2, with that all-important little appendage. Because after living in a fixed place for well over a decade it's kind of impossible to not fixate it in your mind as Home. Maplewoods was home in so many ways, from the formative years of my life walking to MGS every single weekday, that path where I made up my imaginary friends to walk with me when Subs for some reason wasn't free or perhaps after she left for good. When Shauna used to walk back with me after dance to take the bus from the other bus stop, which was longer, so we could talk for just a few minutes more. I've lived in a bubble for the first 22 years of my life. Seeing King Albert Park be built, revelling in the marvellous invention of this MRT, and later on, taking 151 to and fro university, a mere 20-minute ride from school where everything lay, to my safe confines of home. My sanctuary. It's strange to be uprooted out of a place and area you're so familiar with to one where...well, you're just not. I'm being dramatic, as I do, it's not like I've emigrated from the country, but to regard my new place now as Home when I'm still Google Maps-ing nearly every trip I venture out to (and back), not being able to tell people what's good in the vicinity, and of course building a revised daily routine in the apartment is not an easy task. I'm trying. What's different
A brief news bulletin that I have yet to process myself
L x My sunshines,
You have no idea what an insane journey reading your own words can take you on. Last night, I was searching furiously for a specific photoset I'd posted here (it turned out to be lurking in the archives of 2017), and as Dorcas was calling from London we chanced upon an unrelated separate blog post that left us both HOWLING with laughter, like I was crying from laughing at it it was so embarrassing. I OF COURSE am not going to tell you guys what it is, but the equally sad and funny thing is that there are so many here- especially in its beginnings as we would expect- that if I had any thinner skin I would have removed them the minute I made this blog public that clandestine day so many years ago. For some reason, I can't bear to. I know it's sensible, especially since god knows who reads these silly musings, and every now and then when I do a comb-through I do get the overwhelming urge to hire an Internet manager and help me delete every humiliating, hormone-addled piece I have written over the past half a decade. But I just can't. For one, Weebly doesn't let you simply archive posts, you have to actually delete the whole thing (really a sign that I ought to have moved to Wix or Squarespace or Wordpress, alas this site beat all others in simplicity and style). For two: unwittingly, they're a part of me. They're not current-me, but they were past-me, and it seems like admitting defeat in being ashamed of those versions of myself, and in turn, anyone who related to it at that point or maybe even still relating to it now. It might be a dumb thing to leave these up in light of "digital footprint", it's just increasingly in recent times I started to miss what it feels like to be a dumb teenager and more importantly, to be able to be a dumb teenager and express myself like how I would. It's a pity young people these days don't feel this way anymore. That was the point of having our own platforms, right, guys? Didn't we used to not care as much, and have fun? Wasn't that kind of...real? For a long time, whenever I looked back on this space I felt a bit sad, because it'd been built on so many cherished memories particularly of the everyday, and as I got older I simply didn't have the energy to keep it up. Today it's not about that. As you would know probably if you're reading this I don't write as much anymore, both privately and publicly, finding creative voice more in video or podcast instead. And for once, that feels okay. I think it's high time I acknowledge that (as this blog demonstrates fervently) life constantly evolves. We're no longer the same people we were when we were 16 and stupid, and changes like that are a good thing. There's no need to beat ourselves up over finding new parts of ourselves, or rediscovering old parts, or letting them wither and fall away. Anyway, I wanted to make an effort to record a little of life as of late. Just between us, like the old times. :) Coming into office twice a week is actually quite enjoyable, which is something I wasn't expecting because I've never been used to physically being in an office working environment like, for reals. But I genuinely like the culture, environment and colleagues at Syfe, and I like my work. I love that I can love what I'm doing. It's marketing, more on optimisation and research projects at the moment. It's stimulating without burning out my creative energy, which I unfortunately encountered in my previous role. I'm happy here, which is very lucky. I've also been finding a lot of joy in drawing more often, just casually, no strings attached. It's become one of my favourite weekend chill activities zoning out listening to music because it is so peaceful and true: an unspoiled moment I take for myself. It's quite important to have these activities for yourself I think. Other events that refresh my soul periodically is I've been trying to be intentional with quiet time/devotions (never really decided what to call it?), which thankfully in 2023 so far is following a somewhat regular routine. If I'm going to office, I'll do a Galatians plan in the morning. If it's a non-work day, I tend to read a book on Acts at night. With these, I feel like I am taking slow steps to trust God more with my life and walk with him each day. Tomorrow, Tze Yin and I are going to watch ARCTIC MONKEYS. I don't care that there is a terrible ulcer in my mouth right now, you can trust that I will be screaming crying throwing up when Alex Turner starts his signature sultry singing to Arabella or Cornerstone or yes, Do I Wanna Know, because it's only the literal anthem to 13 year-old Ly, and of course she would have written all about it, plonked these thoughts right here, with all the right and wrong words, right where they belong. L x Mettre les mots justes sans peur Peur qu'il s'en offusque alors Si contre moi il est plus fort J'y risque d'y perdre mon cœur Whenever I flew to Hong Kong, I knew I’d have a steaming bowl of corn and century egg porridge waiting for me.
My mother is originally from Hong Kong, that city that is such a close cousin to my own home country Singapore. Gleaming city blocks line the streets, stretching like people’s ambitions into the sky. In other parts, half-built apartment buildings are held up gingerly by scaffolding, sitting on top of busy restaurants crowded with people buzzing; chattering, exuding an unmistakable current of young and exciting energy. But I didn’t really know Hong Kong for that. As a child, I wasn’t yet familiar with how the rest of the world viewed it. Instead, the Hong Kong that I remember was reduced to the warm woody interiors of my grandparents’ home in Mongkok, Kowloon. It was outfitted with furniture that seemed to date back to the 50s- maybe older - pretty much everything was antique, or at least that’s what it seemed to an eleven year-old. The dining table, set near a wall, was made of rich brown oak. We would spread newspapers on it before nightly family dinners, where we sat reunited once again- me, my sisters, my mother, Popo (grandmother) and Gonggong (grandfather), and all my uncles and aunties and cousins that I did not see the other 350-or-so days of the year. The very first thing that would be set on that table however, on the day that we’d arrive fresh from the plane, was corn and century egg porridge. It was usually served in small but perfectly portioned porcelain bowls, requiring you to take second helpings - testament to its deliciousness. And always, it was porridge cooked by Popo, who in anticipation of our arrival, stood in the hot kitchen no matter the hour of day, stirring here and adding a pinch of that so as to concoct a nourishing meal to fill us up - both guest and family, coming into her home. The sofa set was a traditional Chinese redwood type made palatable only by attaching cushions for much-needed padding. The one massage chair was often colonised by either grandparent, sighing as they settled creaky bodies into the plushy leather. There was a top-to-bottom teak shelf display too. On it held a variety of vintage objects: figurines of ancient Asian men with long beards and flowy robes, a radio, a landline phone I would not dare pick up. Across all this stretched a curious type of silence. While the rest of the city carried on: store owners yelling, customers haggling, school children giggling- I didn’t have the language to fill the house. My mom, sisters, and relatives did; but I hadn’t learnt Cantonese well enough to talk to Gonggong or Popo who exclusively spoke the dialect, stretching only far enough to ask Have you eaten yet? How are you? Good morning! In a way, our actions communicated what words could not. It started with a bowl of porridge set on the dining table, hot and decadent. It carried across in how I’d curl up next to Popo on the hard sofa seats, laying my head on her as she read her daily newspaper, ruffling the pages once in a while. It manifested in Gonggong offering a huge bowl of cut-up fruit, placed like an invitation of love on our (also wooden) coffee table. It was expressed when Popo covered me with a blanket when I fell asleep in a midafternoon slump. I didn’t have the vocabulary to tell them I loved them, but I knew they loved me. It’s been at least four years since I last set foot in the Hong Kong house. My mother still calls them every morning, her words echoing around my familiar Singapore apartment as they bridge the distance between thecities. How are you, mom? Have you eaten yet? When I hear her, I’m brought back to the timber-toned house of my grandparents, remembering the olden decor, its gentleness and safety. One day I will pick up that phone too. Say the words I never could all this time: “I love you.” I’ll start the conversation we could have had, connecting the silence, the years, the longing. |
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