Trek photos

The landscape

Misty mornings in a village:




Paths through bamboo forests:




Bridges to cross:




local sunflowers which blanketed the mountainside in sunny yellow:




Rice fields:



Bamboo worms. Tasty.


Mostly, I remember the faces.













What is enough is simple to see these days.

intricate

these dreams have ceased - a small blessing of sleepless nights.
deconstructing the mind
carved holes in trees hold whispered secrets plugged with mud
doubts fears indiscretions, dead ambitions
scribbled lines write a temporary cage
worn safeguards against
the inside of my head, an avalanche of pages
from libraries since rebuilt.

paving the hands on old familiar structures
tasting comfort in orphaned stories. incompletion -
potential wasted or an end
no longer desired.

reconstructing essentialities
leaving behind
these pieces I can no longer hold on to.
daisies and smooth river stones
I can never go home again.

skipping a pebble towards shores once loved
listening for an echo of childhood
ink-stained fingers grasp for missing fragments
even as a new world spins into being

words blossom, fall away.
the light shifts, grows young.

but there are these times
when putting distance only brings me closer.

jungles and books

I've just commenced fundraising for a charity trek coming up 2 - 5 Dec with FootSteps for Good. Will be covering 80km through the jungle in between Chiang Mai to Pai, with overnight stays in hilltribe villages and one night in the open jungle. There's a portion of rafting too.

I'm touched by the generosity of my bankers. A cynical side says they've a lot to give, but still, they don't have to. It'll all go to build a library in Sri Lanka under Room to Read.

As a child, I loved books - the reason for my deep myopia, which was subsequently lasiked away. Even now, I've stacks on the floor next to my bed, and I read in the lamplight till I am sleepy enough. I'll probably need to wear glasses again in a year the way I'm going.

I remember hauling loads back from the library with elfin and my mom every week, and spending hours there. I read up the entire faerie tale section. We weren't well-to-do, so free things like the beach and the library kept us occupied. That and running around in the airport. So I guess I hope this brings some other kids happiness, dreams and solace, the way books have done for me growing up. I'd like to go visit Sri Lanka when the thing is being built too. *yay for adventure*

On a side note, I'm thinking if I could hack it as a pole instructor part time, if I up my skillz. Thinking of creating sidelines and income streams more in line with me.

Edit: I've to remember to train up for the bloody trek too.

david

"I wish you’d realize there’s no salvation or damnation in the opinions of others. You will never be completed by their reactions or words. All you can do is take what’s best in you and the truth in your bones and move forward without apology. You may not have a flawless appearance. You may not be the smartest or the wisest, but you have so much spirit and don’t even know it. Hate is too easy. Resentment and viciousness are weapons that only dismantle the others lies while protecting your own. But I never see you stoop to that – and yet you doubt yourself because other people do. Why don’t you just look in the mirror for one second and see how goddamn fucking awesome you are and how the only thing wrong with you is not realizing how right you are? Somehow, I think you’re on the cusp of understanding this and when you do, you’re going to own the world."

there are moments i slip up, and these scribbled lines are but poor thanks for the faith of a friend that is at once a salve and an arrow.

looking forward to a holiday in a week's time. =)

Shots from Western Australia

It is rare that places on film look like they do in my memories. Not so this time.

My favourite ones from the trip. Rest are on facebook.

Voyager Estate, Margaret River. White-washed buildings, wrought iron chairs, roses, vines and a rainbow.



Climbing roses from the Voyager garden:



Cape Leeuwin Lighthouse - there were two ravens on the branch, but they flew off as I tried to sneak up on them, so just imagine them there for the full stark, windswept effect.




Vasse Felix, Margaret River.




A pair of brothers along Surfer's Point, Margaret River:




Daisies at New Norcia.




Augusta boat jetty.



Lancelin - stormy seatown of white sand dunes.

untitled

there are these roots that bring me
back to home

a seed does not ask
to leaf
blossom
grieve nor shed

nor to grow alone

the frost wakes memories sleeping in white bones:
a winged seed glimmers on the wind,
paper notes whisper
of quiet growth brushed by rains
aching summer days
when all things were
possible

but a leaf falls
all the same

by being I've ceased to be

yet there are these roots
that bring me back to home

porcelain nights

these nights i breathe
porcelain dolls and subtle cages
sifting the mind's fraying threads
cold fingers pick apart
wounds still warm.
unspoken expectations render
honesty a brutal flaw -
an old familiar pain
of failing perfection, yet again.

Roadtrippin' WA

A much welcomed 2 week break recently.

Margaret River

Slightly under 300km from the central city of Perth, a drive which passes small shires and a landscape of much wild beauty - tuart forests, gum, eucalyptus, bottlebrushes and acacias dot the road once you leave the main city, with stretches of coast breaking through.

Days were spent visiting the different vineyards ranging from well-known, international houses like Leeuwin, Howard's Park, to smaller ones like Hayshed and Voyager. Between these two, the design for my dream home starts to shape up - vines on trellises and roses, white-washed stone walls, bricks, earthern tiles. I want to grow things. I've lived in large cities all my life. I crave the open spaces and unfiltered sunlight, without people looking in my windows, without me seeing them every time I look out mine as well, the packed subways, and the nonstop noise. I want somewhere I can stretch my roots and listen to me.

Also dropped by the chocolate factory, cheeses and olive oils companies, little stores selling natural soaps and lotions (Moonhaven!), a lavender farm and the candy store (aptly named, Candy Cow). It is fascinating to me how conscious the Australians there are of their environment, from recycling to care of the land, to the emphasis on non-chemicals for soaps and lotions... I carted back some, hopefully it'll ease the skin itches..

Visited the beach, and Cape Leeuwin as well, where the Indian and Southern oceans meet. There is an old watermill there, since calcified. Picked up some stones there that seem like a mix of quartz and sedimentary/igneous rocks of some kind.

Evenings were spent cooking dinner in our cottage, then writing in front of the pot-bellied stove, or just quiet. The cottage had this bulldog who'd sit outside our place every night once we started cooking. He'd not make a sound, just sit outside and stare. =_=

Swan Valley
From there, were drove back up to Perth for a night, heading out the next day to Swan Valley, a smaller wine region. There, it doesn't feel like winter. Days are warm, in the mid-teens Celsius, with blue skies and a clear sun.

One vineyard stood out: Little River Winery. Owned by a French count named Bruce and his Australian wife Jan, it is a tiny place of 15ha, where they run everything old school - no irrigation of the vines. They've a little mophead of a dog called Petrus who welcomes you into their restaurant by barking you in until the owner comes out. I swear tiny dogs have no idea of their sizes. Jan herself is a tiny lady as bouncy as her dog, with such twinkly eyes and a barbed sense of humour. The food was excellent - traditional French rustic fare - pasta provencale, lamb pies, beef bourguignon, duck confit, paired with their wines. They've an interesting Viognier-Marsanne mix which I think could cellar well.

On the way, we passed through other smaller towns of a couple of hundred to a few thousand people, Busselton, Bunbury, Augusta. Stopped by to see the wild dolphins along Busselton. =)

New Norcia
"In thirty years of almost constantly traveling around the world, I have seldom met a place so clarifying and calm as New Norcia. It makes you think again about what matters; it returns you to a sense of stillness and community that's hard to find in the modern world; it refreshes the soul better than any holiday. The only hardship of coming here is leaving." - Pico Iyer

A little monastery town further North from Perth, where 5 Benedictine monks still live by the Rules. This is a quiet town where faith and commerce reside in peace together; an old guesthouse/hotel which looks haunted, meals where everyone gathers in the hotel restaurant. Old churches and cathedrals. A beautiful art collection of early religious works, 26 of which were stolen in a heist and slashed, now since restored. Sheep rearing, olive oil production, a bit of wines, honey. The monks brew their own abbey ale which is only available there, and a famous bread, which we didn't get to sample as the temperamental baker decided to take the days off when we were there.

A lot of wild parrots and moneyjungles there, spent the evenings at the balcony watching them come home to roost against the sunset.

Lancelin
From New Norcia we drove further to Lancelin, a little fishing village where white sand dunes afford some thrill-seeking. Stopped by for a good lunch at a tiny restaurant - fresh oysters, seafood plate.

Fremantle
Drove back to Perth from Lancelin, spent a day exploring the small port town of Fremantle, about half an hour from Perth - the sunday markets are a fun visit, vegetable stores, fresh honey, glass works, more soaps and lotions and potions. They also have a fairy shop where the shop-keepers are dressed as fairies with sparkles all dusting the threshold. It seems to be a magnet for little girls, and the wishing basket there had some wishes along the lines of, "I wish I was a mermaid" to "I wish to be a fairy".

Perth
In Perth itself, we visited King's Park, their huge botanic gardens. Saw wild irises there for the first time (that's for you Tpol!). A particular walkway made me sad - it is lined with 1300 trees planted by the friends and relatives of men who died in the 1st and 2nd world wars. Some of the memorials were to 19 year olds. I fear losing a dear friend who's a soldier now, but sometimes I think he's safer at war vs. at home in the US, where drink and women eat into his mind.

The Mint itself was fun to see, all the gold *squee*.

Through the trip, we spent a fair bit of time in different breweries and pubs too - Among these, Colonial Brewing Company in Margaret River and the Moon and Six Pence (A piece of ol' England down to the construction workers visiting it =D ) in Perth itself stood out for being places with good beer, and good grub.

Along the way, I also ran low on cash so couldn't afford to post out all the postcards I'd written except for two. *heh* I'll post them from Singapore.

Photos to come... ummm. When I get off my Pness. =)

In pace, requiscat.

Some days, I feel you at my back. The bunch of us five used to cross the bridge together on the way home from school. Midway at the top of the arch, you'd stop to catch your breath. At first we put it down to the heat, or the physical education classes earlier in the day. Laugh about growing old.

We were sixteen then, and the distance you could walk soon grew shorter.

You started to skip school, always complaining of being tired. Then you dropped out. At that time there was still hope – as doctors scrambled for a diagnosis, you said you hoped to be back in school in six months or so. Then, the answers came, a diagnosis I cannot recall now, but I remember the doctors giving you six months to live. You asked, “What can I do?”, they said, “Just pray.”

They were wrong though. You outlived their diagnosis for more than two years, years spent following traditional therapies, alternative treatments – noni fruit, acai berries, your family and church praying. Your dad’s hair turned white in that time. I remember bargaining with god to take half my life for yours. Perhaps I felt cheated when my promise wasn’t exacted.

Visiting you was difficult; the line to draw on what to share was hard to find: new friends, schoolwork, exams, crushes, first loves. At the back of my mind, I knew the pain it must’ve cost you, that sense of abandonment, yet the conflict from still wanting to be a part of normalcy. We were crossing bridges, but no longer together.

You feared dying. There was a lot you wanted to do, and feel. You weren’t able to sleep towards the end, said there were things waiting for you in the night. We made a lamp for you which you kept lighted till morning. Even now, I find it hard to sleep in complete darkness.

When you died that night, my phone was off and I missed the call. I am sorry.

I could not cry at your funeral, I only remember the white roses and your favourite hymn, “As the deer”. I rarely cried after that. Through it all, the surface was maintained, perfect grades, internships, glowing testimonials which praised intelligence, focus, helpfulness et al. But there are gaps in my memory, years where little mattered and the few photographs show shadowed eyes and hollow smiles.

It has been nine years or more. In retrospect, I think I was angry, a splintered, white-hot burning. But I broke down only after two years. I’d been reading for medicine, but abruptly swapped to accountancy, burned through a relationship as well. Little razor cuts to efface a larger pain. I felt guilty for being alive.

Our group of four is closely knit, bonded by invisible bridges not named now. It took years to process these emotions and I think I did not let anyone close to me after. People have found it hard to understand why I never lasted in relationships. What is real is changeable, and sometimes it leaves these gashes that don’t heal evenly. It was always easier to see what others needed and to be that – and perhaps I feared if this ugliness got out, I’d be abandoned again.

We met your mom again at a wedding of a schoolmate, and more recently this year. We wrote to her every year. We talked of upcoming holidays. Your dad is retired now, and has taken up fishing, besides bugging your mom since he’s home a lot more now. Your sister is with a cult make-up house.

I rarely think of what you’d have been. I remember you on the bridge always. I look at what I’ve become and I see how far I’ve fallen from the girl who had faith to the doubts and brittleness now. It was only recently that I learnt to trust and with it, to cry again. These washes of emotions are unfamiliar, yet not new. Perhaps the main difference is this: the anger that was buried was released and I no longer damn myself for what I failed to do, nor damn myself for living.

I think I only knew how to love deeply then, and letting go, being happy, felt like a white-washing of your existence. But seeing your family at peace, was perhaps the start. Hearts iced over, melt, and with it, a recognition: I’ll love again. Perhaps I’d lose again. But that is not important.

The sunlight feels warm on the skin. And there are new seeds to plant. I’ve only a limited number of springs, as you did. Still, it is enough to live today. It is all we’ll have.

In pace, requiscat.

red dust.

I don't doubt the impossibilities of things these days, only, that the fight for some could be harder than others, and the cost to one may not be the price another wants to pay.

The engulfing, blue-blackness and sense of submersion so prevalent in the last months have lessened. Some days are already shimmering pale, and some moments, there is gold in the air.

"The most I ever did for you was to outlive you. But that is much." - Edna St Vincent Millay

Attended the wake of my grandfather last October, and the granduncle earlier this month, trying to find the words to paint these images: They were not exceptional men, neither did they pretend to be. Many flowers were sent for them, which lined the hallways. And many visitors came. Perhaps testimony to them having finished their own fight, in their own way, as best as they could. They did not please everyone, certainly, there are some who feel cheated. Inheritances and all. Yet, heart against feather, the final weighing is not mine to make.

I know the view of love and relationships I hold is archaic to many; it has nipped many relationships in the bud. I look at my grandaunt, facing the end of life with an empty hollow by her side where there used to be her husband for the last 60 years. I wonder if I even have the courage to love as deeply and face that end alone, or worse, to leave someone to face that alone.

Red dust. A reference to the fog of material illusion which a person must find his way through.

"Always be a little kinder than necessary." - J.M. Barrie

I can take nothing with me except what I leave behind.

Awareness, of my own nature, to work with it vs. against it. Of past choices, future choices. Consequences to live with. And how I wish to be remembered.

It is fragile, but I think I'm more at peace with me than a year ago.

Planting

Digging in dirt is therapeutic. Spent my Saturday with plants, supper with friends, and re-reading old books.

The above is an epiphytic orchid with deep green leaves and a purple underside. The old man who sold it to me some years back said he had gotten it from some wild place, never gotten it to flower, and didn't know the type. I got a propagation of his original. It was on a bark tablet then, but not doing well. I repotted it into a clay pot with a mix of charcoal and tree bark. I'll know in a month or so if the roots take, and perhaps, I'll see flowers sometime.

Repotted another one I'd gotten from our Botanic Gardens (bought legally!) into a mix of tree bark and charcoal, in a hanging basket of coconut fibre. It flowered only once in the last years, a spray of tiny 2-3 inch flowers with deep red-purple, thrice-twisted petals and a white heart. A sweet fragrance too, which is rare of orchids. Typically, only the white dendrobiums have a noticeable fragrance, as if to make up for the lack of colour.

Both have a little clod of moss to keep them company too. Besides that, also planted a tiny aloe vera sapling, some clitoria and chilli seeds.

Tiny seeds, greening shoots. Hope.

The orchids were not struggling, but they were not growing either. Breaking the clay pots meant giving new ground. We take a risk with transplanting, and with rarer species, it is a hard choice. I do not know if I could find those specimens of orchids again.

We are often told to flourish where you are planted, or seek new grounds. Like my epiphyte of purple leaves, I've done both, perhaps with the same result as it has. Yet neither wishing nor waiting changes whether something grows or dies.

Air, sunlight, darkness, water, fertilizer.

All I can do is provide the conditions.

Each in their own time.

becoming

black

white

colours.

There are these times. Words trip, fall in the slipstreams of the mind. Halfling sentences, stillborn thoughts and I paint my skin with these fractal expressions which are rainbows to you but borrowed sleeves of colour to me and ultimately, gray.

I am one shade less black and one more white than you. It does not mean I have colour.

Suspension. Moving always, one creates the illusion of being stationary, running in circles. Trying to understand me, you seek references yet each frame captures a different phase, face. Confounding, frustrating, multi-dimensional, complex, I've heard them all. Movement, complexity are relative measures.

Deconstructing the mind. For how long could I whittle myself down to fit another's perceptions. Reflections are mirrors with silvered backs. Don't look for your completion in me. I could, yes, take whatever form you require. I would, and I have. But that is a testament to me, not to you. I have my own dance and is it me that betrays then when I say my real name and move in ways foreign to you. Or was it a lie because you never saw me.

I move differently. But I am ordinary. And mostly, I'm afraid you'd see that.