muscle & bones

my physiotherapist has a kind voice and strong hands. in her office, the walls are painted a jaundice yellow, and filled with objects that look like toys. next to them are machines spewing wires and paw-like pads. i fear them the most. she tells me these ultrasound waves and electrical pulses will help my muscles and bones. but each time i am strapped up in these machines, i discover a new world of pain. apparently the pain is good for me. it is a sign that my body is rebuilding itself. next door is a clinic called oasis of hope, where people with cancer and other irrevocable diseases sit on cream sofas. how often do they think about death? do they feel their bodies dissolving with each minute, like candles burning their last?

manufactured modernity

the new train stations are giant underground caves of metal, marble and granite. they feel like airports. but instead of aeroplanes taking flight, we watch trains pull into test tube tunnels. it is always too bright and too clean in here. no one tries to own the space with graffiti. the bravest citizens only venture so far as to paste little stickers in awkward corners, stickers they have received in exchange for charity. hardly badass. B tries to tap his old ez-link card, but it doesn’t work anymore. i explain that this city is obsessed with evolution. he marvels at our manufactured modernity. a bell jar of shiny seeds planted by the men in white. he said time runs faster here. familiar spaces disappear too quickly. we are left wanting with faded photographs, consoled by a collective memory archived in digital worlds. we spent the weekend watching artists work off paper and onto walls, sitting beneath fairytale trees dripping gold. the arts festival opened with the park set ablaze, the most beautiful state it will ever be. a bonfire beneath skyscrapers.

like fish, traffic junctions or elevator doors

another night has bled into the morning. wide awake. when the music stops and light floods the cave, everyone is ugly again. you have a gift for me in your suitcase. they were born yesterday, in the chocolatier of another country. i flee from the seduction, but keep the gift. you think it is just one of my irrational fears, like fish, traffic junctions or elevator doors. perhaps i am weak this way? the other night i watched a walrus die. russian hunters woke it from its sleep, and drove their long spears from behind, straight into its heart. the animal curled like cooked shrimp. and i cried.

live for nights like these

it is here tired bodies lie, perhaps we will get up to dance again. but now we soak up bass beats percolating the sand beneath our bodies. tonight, the weather decided to be amazing, and there is no greater joy than to be here, and feel your lips on my shoulder. the water is within reach,  let’s swim.

farewell old shack. you are the best karmic second life of a shipping container. there’s something eternally magical about dancing barefoot to bbq smells by the sea, and mixtapes rising into the sky, electronic prayers of this city. advanced nations party without roofs!

night of sound and vision. soho in singapore

everyone in this room is in transit. she leaves for bangalore tomorrow and he has just arrived, still smelling like cabin air. he tells me it doesn’t feel like we’re in singapore. perhaps new york? i don’t know, i’ve never been there. but it doesn’t matter, everyone’s brought something for the food x drink pool, and we all drink out of paper cups. i am fascinated with strong beautiful girls with hard hard eyes. they are often found a long way from home.

view from the floor. tengal’s projector against the sky. bootleg clips x sound mash-ups. halfway through, i wished this house was mine.

melting in the marina

afternoon of brunch and boats. foolish timing. though our feet dangle cool, we melt in the marina amongst the smell of burning resin. brunch is half a roast duck, lamb mince and a homemade fish salsa. we stopped going to cold storage ever since tekka reopened. the meats here fresher, cheaper, and wrapped with human hands. the duck is leaner, and comes with two dumpling sized packets of sweet sauce and freshly ground chili  // tonight N brought us to her world where her love is shared with men older, but more disadvantaged than us. the men are kind and curious – are you married? why you no marry? he is your husband? – i wish i could speak their language, it is difficult to explain my position or help them make sense of singaporean society. if i was born a train-ride away, i could be a mother of five, not the wanderer that only wants to raise one cat, no children // we are at a play, built from letters between lovers, forgotten archives and stolen words from kuo pao kun. there are two rings of chairs where we are seated, strangers locked in circles and stares. a row of fluorescent tubes divide this perfect circle, overturning the ceiling, bleeding white light into our eyes. i learn about the affinity of people, place, opportunity. this gives me hope. but we are all salmon. we spend our youth scheming our exit, taking off in buses trains planes, but one day, we will return to die in this land.