mixtape #1
the island is melting, and i have no sense of where my weekends begin or end. it doesn’t matter anymore, there is no chronology — perhaps my memory doesn’t work this way? i am constantly restless, moving through spaces, faces, hungry for new experiences – i can’t stop – where there is movement and madness, i feel alive. more and more, i believe i have ADHD. i spent an evening at the races, watching tiny men lead horses out of the ring. i wanted badly to pet them, but it would break their pre-race trance. they were not pets, they were beasts – blindfolded, agitated, conditioned to focus on the finishing line // here we are lying under a giant dome, a sky of brush strokes dripping into our eyes, the voice of god telling stories of van gogh; then evening, sandalwood and sweaty bodies at the bazaar, a hand pulling me through the streets, reaching the end to share a hot glass of teh halia, my sandals grimy with dirt but satisfied, descending from a wave // after the crowd had dissolved, we settled on the couch, justin on the table, tony on the floor. gina was speaking, she has the most heartfelt way with words, beautiful in her saffron top and jet black hair. tony showed me his hands, like mine, they are weathered, but they are strong, roughened by the wood he works with, magic hands that create something out of nothing. we trade stories, almost finishing the half empty bottles of reds, justin kisses me goodbye, i ask if i can touch his dreadlocks, they look like dense strips of cotton candy, and feel surprisingly light. we continue to write, aware of the space in between, but it is not the same it never is. i remember him most clearly in that muted evening light. shit hit the fan, i didn’t know what else i could say, we sat cross-legged on the floor, and i watched him paint. i enjoy the slow deliberate strokes of his brush. there is a certain rhythm to the layering, almost a sensuous pleasure. all at once, he reminds me that i miss so many people who are not here.
embossed
I spent last week feeling secretly victorious, riding musty cargo lifts, owning empty bus rides, weaving in and out of galleries, meeting people I care about, reading everything I never had time to read. The other night we met over burgers, had benjy take us on a slow drive to everywhere, shared fen’s electric kite moment with ice cream cones in our hands I am scared that one day, work will rob us, and we will lose all this – the freedom and privilege of our youth.
The weekend was surreal, cooking food over charcoal, samba dancing to burly men playing homemade instruments, singing in a language I couldn’t understand. Sunday we visited the studios at wessex, caught up with Lee, who introduced us to the other artists living there. It felt like a series of Selby moments, meeting beautiful people in beautiful spaces, smell of paint and turpentine everywhere. The Wessex Estate is one of the few enclaves in Singapore designated for the creative community, but no one I met was Singaporean. This utopia has been colonised by Others – people with wallets fat enough to surpass the two-year wait list to join the neighbourhood.
nightmare child
I have let my parents down. I am the irresponsible child, trading in everything, to help artists become artists. I love you mum and dad, but I am finally at peace with myself. My failure is not my passions, but that I could never be the child with the shiny corner office, cash every month in the bank. It will only get harder from here. But I have never felt more alive. Last weekend we went for our own art walk, past the old malayan railway, the port with lego containers, into white spaces floodlights beauty everywhere.
last leg
restless weekend spent in and out of cafes, train rides in between, trying to figure out my anger, floating on pools, signing the petition for toa payoh cat lady and her 40 cats, really really free market, settling down next door, strolling in the heat of little india, searching for a place to stay. FOUND dream home on hindoo road.
