Cinema Paradiso

There are few things as romantic to me as the Mid-Autumn Festival that takes place in Malaysia every year between the months of September and October. The festival is also celebrated in a handful of other Asian countries including Taiwan and Vietnam - not to mention mainland China, where it – and many other things – first originated. In fact, the Government of the People’s Republic of China, in all its august authority, has recently declared the Mid-Autumn Festival, also known as the Mooncake Festival, an “intangible cultural heritage” - a sentiment I could not agree with more.

If you were to ask me why I feel the way I do about this festival, I probably wouldn't be able to give you a coherent answer. You might, however, catch me babbling about the times my cousins and I would stray to the nearby neighbourhood park at night after our inaugural family dinner, traditionally held at my grandmother's old terrace house in Petaling Jaya. The house was modest to a fault; its only defining features being the massive mango tree that overlooked its gates and an old porch swing that the dog was perpetually chained to. It'd wag its tail and eye us expectantly as we'd pass by, making our way into the brightly illuminated interior of the house where we'd proceed to stuff our faces that fleetingly resembled each other’s. After that, once we got to the park, we'd light lanterns and try to incinerate leaves and twigs in the darkness, fascinated by the dancing flames as our neolithic forefathers once were. My uncle would observe us remotely, wearing down time with the eroding tip of his cigarette - a lingering artifact of his own subdued pyromania - before guiding us home once we'd had our youthful fill of fun and fire.

To be honest, I don't think this nostalgia is due to any one thing in particular, but rather a whole laundry list of seemingly insignificant factors that collide and combine in certain ways to produce a childhood that smells of light and warmth and laughter - or maybe it wasn't all that special. Perhaps you could've given me a few measly crumbs of cake or some dried up leaves and a lighter to play with and I'd easily be just as nostalgic and sentimental about the whole affair. Perhaps it's just the warped lens of memory that bends to my desire to believe that the past was beautiful - my longing for elsewhen and elsewhere that transforms pumpkins into carriages in order to transport me there - wishful for a distant star to align my sights and steer my yearning.

Part of me wants to think in those terms and reject these feelings as emotions unearned, but some other part of me truly does believe that it was real - or at least some of it was - and that the good times don’t necessarily have to be fabricated. More likely, I’ve chosen to forget about the less memorable aspects and decided to focus on what I loved best about the occasion – namely being with family and setting fire to things – birthing wildly skewed recollections. I suppose I’m still stuck between disregarding the past completely and being unable to let it go - revisiting it in my head over and over again, each time romanticizing it with revised fictions. But I suppose it can’t be helped, since humans have always been suckers for a good fantasy, particularly if it comes with a public holiday.

obnoxious new yorker

In the right hands, I think, the violin is an extraordinarily eloquent instrument, possessing a language of its own and speaking in it all the things that words cannot convey

---

I fell in love with the way her body moved - poised as if to strike, half-crouched in some feudal battle stance as she strafed about the stage - a spring wound up tight, immense energy coiled up inside her being, rattling through the walls of its prison, threatening to explode. The tension, vicious and palpable, buzzed about the air with feverish intent, every passing second building up to a vehement mountain of volcanic anticipation. With such ease, her instrument found its niche between her shoulder and her jaw, slipping into place like two pieces of a puzzle, as if specifically crafted to fit each other - an amputee receiving an old appendage, reunited at last. The way she softly cradled its body resembled the act of laying one's head down in repose, her eyelids shutting intimately, instantly engulfed in sleep; but often during her performance, her brow would be furrowed in artistic anguish, such that the illusion became that of a fitful dream. She would surrender herself completely to the whims and passions of each piece, lovely lips agape in wonder, sometimes grimacing, letting the entire story unfold upon her face, conveying the secrets and nuances of each note. The music would fill and possess her frame from head to toe, and wherever it would take her she would inexorably go. Her generous hips would float and sway to the ephemeral arcs and swells her figure would express - nomadic feet rambling about as if being blown by invisible winds. Her fingers were like fiery tongues, traversing the length of its neck like lightning, writhing and reaching and shivering as if they possessed a life of their own. Her arms were sure as tempered steel, but moved like segments of a serpent, voluptuous and wary, deftly guiding her bow with the severe precision of a surgeon and the astute subtlety of a sculptor's touch. Her elbow would always be spectacularly askew, positioned at some majestic angle, completed by the vertex of her bow. With a flick or sublime twist of the wrist, geometric configurations and planes would shift in sudden and surprising ways in accordance with the fantastic contortions of her torso. To witness a performance was like watching some kind of primal dance, fueled purely by urge and emotion, or perhaps it was more akin to some uncanny ceremony, feral and magnificent in its ferocity - an enchantress in the frantic throes of a spell, waving her wand with unearthly fervour, but whether she was summoning or exorcising, I certainly did not know.

lady of a thousand lovers

lady of a thousand lovers

whisk me away to your secret island
away from the city
where I can listen to leaves
whispering wryly, cacophonous
in their austere chatter



let us take the train that runs along the coast
and watch as buildings and roads accede
to the heavens and the sea
and dip our legs in light laid out
like golden carpets at our feet



lead me along the weathered stones
through canopied corridors of forest and moss
till I reach the steps of the temple courtyard
where flimsy hopes hang from fences
where crisp winds blow through misty eaves

and whisper with the mountain’s breath

cajole me to the busy beach
by the sea, let me be romanced
and grounded by the warmth and grit
between my toes and beneath my feet
fill my head with the soothing static
of crashing waves and children's laughter
and leave me there till the sun recedes
and the sounds have softened and the sky

turns tender

​

and when the crowds have had their day
and wandered off in twos and threes 
clutching their towels and things
then stand by me when the light grows dim
and the water’s sheen begins to falter

and trade sighs with me in the twilight

till darkness falls and our thoughts 
have left the shore. till the wind 
is at our faces

and the ocean at our door

then stay – please
a little while longer – stay
and sigh with me some more

유리같은아이

her eyes narrow as they flick over the lines of text, back and forth and back again. Her mouth is slightly agape. She takes care to appear impassive, but her expression has stiffened - the lines of her face fixed into place. The playfulness evaporates from her eyes as she combs through each sentence carefully. She blinks a few more times at the screen then looks away. Someone is saying something to her. She raises her head and looks at whoever it is, simultaneously attempting a smile, but falls short - the half-heartedness of the effort appearing way too obvious, underscoring her inner turmoil and unhappiness. But it was too late to do anything by then; the words had already taken root; burrowed deep and fastened their hooks into the corners of her heart, leaving her smile a deflated balloon - all tension and no air.

brothers and alcohol

why am i trying so hard to be so many things

the first stone

last night I dreamt I had found the girl of my dreams. She was cute, had a great sense of humour and was into batman trivia. Wherever we went, I held her close - as if she'd vanish if I were to let go - but then I found out I was dreaming (so I was right after all) so I left her to join the basketball team, and then I somehow got roped into joining an underground rebel operation run by a surly Russian gentleman of hefty build and ruddy complexion, complete with an unruly, beer-stained mess of hair that clung to his chin. Escorted by my contact, we made our rendezvous in a dilapidated old eastern-european apartment building, with debris and dust decorating the stairs, spartan wallpaper peeling back to reveal bare plaster and mortar. In growling english, he tried to explain the plan to me, which involved chips, which he pronounced shits, but his accent was just too thick for me to understand and whenever I asked him to repeat something, he'd just glare at me in an expression of aged annoyance.

---

Stop! Stop! The man yelled in Japanese, almost screaming. His words were punctuated by the ferocious blows he received, replaced by breathless wheezing as the air escaped his lungs. The teahouse patrons had slowly risen from their seats to watch the debacle unfold. Waitresses in their aprons had retreated behind the counter and peeked out through the kitchen doorway as they stood horrified with hands to their mouths, frozen in shock. A table lay on its side as spilled soup snaked its way through the irregular grooves of cold tiling and embedded textures upon the floor, staining the grave masonry into darker shades. The police officer echoed the man's pleas in Mandarin, but without any conviction or accompanying action. He had his arms stretched out wide on either side, in a half-hearted pantomime of trying to hold back the hungry crowd that had gathered outside. They gladly played along, contented to watch and spur on their compatriot in clamorous voices of violent indignation. The Japanese man was now writhing on his side, legs tucked into his chest with both arms raised, trying to protect his head while signaling his surrender. His assailant, face contorted in monstrous rage, paid no heed and continued his frenzied attacks, sometimes kicking, sometimes stepping as he aimed at the man's head and belly and anywhere else that was left exposed, raining down blow after blow until the man's cries became a guttering gargle of blood and teeth as bits of brain and hair scattered themselves across the floor. When the beatings subsided, the people had grown quiet. A deathly silence descended upon the crowd who held their breath as if waiting for the man to get up, but he did not. Green winds rustled through invisible leaves. The madness had left the air, and the people, suddenly aware of what they had just witnessed, walked away without a word, one by one and left his crumpled body there.

the God who answers by fire

swept up into cloud without a word
o to hear your merry voice once more
what lofty air your lungs did breathe
upon your final draw
what chariots of fire and great thunder
did out of the aether soar
and what heavy shade that cloud did cast
the day you entered heaven's door

civil unrest / something in the air

Perhaps the problem has something to do with the way nations today are built by the kings of slaves, who rule by crude manipulations of fear and desire

---

how do you hope to control people who cannot control themselves

halcyon days

The scenery speeds past as I gaze hazily out at the paraded exhibits on display in this moving museum, except I'm the one encased in glass. Familiar horizons gradually retreat into the distance as the long road winds on and rushes soundlessly beneath me, which will eventually bring me to an airport terminal where I'll get on my flight and forget about this life for a while. But in the meantime, my mind is filled by a distant sigh for all the alleyways I've never explored and other unopened doors; windows I've never had the privilege of peering out of; the streets my feet won't get to caress anymore. Above all else, I think I will miss the busy heat of this city - the sweat and grime that would cake my skin as I sit on flimsy plastic stools set haphazardly upon the fractured sidewalk; the bustling hubs of commerce, the faulty neon signage of seedy establishments trying to be trendy, the technicolor glaze of stolid stoplights; but also the sleepy nonchalance and cold fluorescence of night, stark white tubes that burnish people in flip-flops and shorts as they stroll about the streets in droves, carrying out daily life at their own relaxed pace, taking time to indulge in mundane pleasures - to dip their weary feet into cool waters.

shadow proves the sunshine

It's been nearly three months now that I've been back. At first, I couldn't wait to reacquaint myself - to see my old compatriot and co-conspirator. I regarded the task with the earnest anxiety of a schoolboy before the first day of term. I leapt at any and every chance I got to escape the house and experience the world that had continued while I'd been gone - that was the first week back. I made a game of trying to pick out the tiniest of changes - a billboard here, a new restaurant there. And then somewhere in the middle, I got bored; I simply lost the urge to conspire any more. A certain passiveness crept over me and convinced me to stay in my room and read, or stare into empty screens endlessly, imploring them to entertain me. And then, before I knew it, the holiday had come to an end.

memento

I wish I could bottle up the shine and sparkle of our shopping emporiums; the finely adjusted chill of overhead air-conditioning - such expensive air; the glittering decor - the fashionable walls and impeccable floors adorning the rows and rows of exquisite boutiques, those beautifully crafted temples of modern decadence - which is strange; I thought this feeling would've faded by now. It's certainly not the first time I've said goodbye to this place; and yet it never gets easier, bidding farewell to pavements I've known almost all my life and the buildings that I have grown beside. Leaving a city really does change the way you look at it.

homing bird

The road was a glowing array of red and orange orbs, burning themselves out of focus as a thousand slow-moving taillights dipped and surged with the flowing curvature of the freeway. At 7am, the sky was still a yawning expanse of blue and gray; a lonely, intimate hue, only made bearable by the legions of anonymous companions tersely huddled up against each other, the various tribes of this city amassed in the midst of some great exodus. Against this somber backdrop, the hot colours that crowded my view looked like the lanterns of some outdoor festival; they bobbed along and wandered about like distracted children at an evening fair, grilled meat skewered on sticks clutched tightly in their tiny fists, straying from stall to stall in excited amazement, trying to sample the sights and savour the lights with their enormous eyes.

have you met my buddy samuel

all the great poets are busy writing raps

---

you've got a real problem, you know that?
how so?
you only chase the girls you don't love 
(that's not-) 
and the ones who won't love you back
    ok, yeah         so what's the problem

---

it's kind of ironic, isn't it
what is
asking a celestial entity to help you stay grounded

Rejoyce

At that hour when all things have repose,
O lonely watcher of the skies,
Do you hear the night wind and the sighs
Of harps playing unto Love to unclose
The pale gates of sunrise?

When all things repose, do you alone
Awake to hear the sweet harps play
To Love before him on his way,
And the night wind answering in antiphon
Till night is overgone?

Play on, invisible harps, unto Love,
Whose way in heaven is aglow
At that hour when soft lights come and go,
Soft sweet music in the air above
And in the earth below.

- James Joyce

---

If I should die before the rest of you,
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone.
Nor, when I'm gone, speak in a Sunday voice,
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must,
Parting is hell.
But life goes on,
So........ sing as well.

- Joyce Grenfell

the sparks that the Greeks knew about

"Do you really want to know what makes a mountain great?"

He leaned across the table with such fierceness in his eyes, and in them I saw sadness also - an ember's tongue spitting the last of its sparks, defeated remnants of some long-lost fire.

"Its heart, and all the days that have shaped its decay. How age has stripped all of its desire away."

チアキ

but if nothing amazing happens in your dreams, how can you tell if you're dreaming

---

fallen in love with Japan again

---

As if in reply, she set down her pen and removed her glasses with a flourish of resignation. She turned her head deliberately to face me. I wondered if I had somehow offended her.

"Are you familiar with the name 'Hokusai Katsushika'?" She asked.

"Not really. Friend of yours?"

She gave me the stink-eye. Not in a jocular mood, I guess.

"He was a prominent Japanese ukiyo-e artist of the 19th century. He produced many works but he is arguably most known for Fugaku Sanjurokkei, Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji, a series of ukiyo-e paintings that all depict the same mountain from different perspectives, in different seasons and various weather conditions. Few people know this, but there are more than thirty-six prints in existence - unique prints, that are not officially included in his portfolio. It's estimated that over a thousand prints were produced during his lifetime. Hokusai Katsushika was known for using a number of pseudonyms throughout his career under which he published a sizable portion of his work. From dusk to dawn, he would paint pictures of Mount Fuji. For days on end, he would labour over a single print without rest, only to discard it and start over again. It would be no great exaggeration to say that he spent his life painting that mountain. Now why do you suppose he did that?"

I shrugged, even though I knew all she wanted was the pause for effect. Right on cue, she continued.

"Because he was obsessed. He was searching for something in that mountain. He spent years wandering Japan, searching for the right light, the perfect angle to capture it from, but he could never show in his paintings what he saw in that mountain. That's why he made so many paintings. The Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji were what he saw as his most accomplished failures - the ones that came the closest to describing the magic and majesty of Mount Fuji. He realised that even if no single painting could capture the mountain in all its glory, the combined efforts of thirty-six may just be able to graze it tangentially. The rest before it were simply practice - mere sketches in comparison - a mile-high pile of scrap paper on top of which those thirty-six may stand."

She paused for a bit to let her point sink in. And then her eyes lost their focus, as they do whenever she gets drawn in by a new idea.

"Do you know what makes a mountain great?" She asked, her voice lost in a daydream.

I didn't bother responding this time. At that point, nothing I said would've mattered anyway; she had it all figured out already.

"Transcendence. Perpetuity. Deathlessness. They've endured more years than any living human being, witnessed countless cycles of the moon, enough to intuit the celestial configurations and cosmic occurrences. Towering titans as old as the earth itself, they've seen war and famine and drought, having weathered all forms and degrees of calamity and disaster, scars etched forever into their stony sides. They are the fossilized heaps of history's debris, slowly changing but never fading - an unseen giant - a looming colossus in ponderous stride amid the shifting tide of human events. Wiser than any sage and more august than any sovereign, it rises, defiant, daring to point back at the heavens, unperturbed by the wrathful winds of conspiring deities voicing their contempt as it encroaches upon their lofty perch. Stretching steadily, trading winter and autumn's coats on its skyward odyssey - so many layers to be shed, so many faces upon faces to be deciphered. How many tellings would it take to uncover its immense past? The possible origins of each weary wrinkle just waiting to be fathomed, every crease and canyon bears the echo of an elaborate tale, a chapter of treasure buried just beneath the rubble, revelations written in invisible ink that remain hidden until coaxed forth by the appropriate conditions - herald held hostage at the mercy of the seasons."

She then closed her eyes, exhausted, and leaned back in her chair. She was a terrible listener, but boy, could she talk. I studied her face for a while, every inch the tired portrait of a tortured artist - a part she played to perfection. It all sounded very convincing, I'll admit; she may have even believed in some of it herself, but I just didn't buy it. If you ask me, there's nothing particularly great about a mountain; they're just meaningless mounds of rock and dirt that happen to be a lot bigger than the rest. That's all there is to it.

driving lessons

Actually, now I see that you're quite nervous.

You changed a lot since the first time. You weren't like this before, right? Suddenly got so many problems, why?

That's why, you are letting the fear control you. You think so many things until you don't know what's in front of you. That's what happens when you keep using your clever.

You keep turning too much. You need to see the road and follow using your heart and your eyes. Once you're straight already can let go. Don't keep turning anymore.

give them an inch

gotta stop thinking about other people so much

ode to beach / calypso

her voice is the wind of a tropical breeze
of lands made of sand and the soft-sighing trees
of the tall-swaying grass and of dirt-kiss'd knees
of the star-brush'd thigh and of youth-fuel'd heaves
of the sun-lick'd sky and the moon-mad seas
of the light-drench'd morn and of sweat-dripp'd eves
of the barefoot wood and of heat-press'd leaves

so weaves she together an island of fragrant pleas
'tis a world made of song - of impossible ease