I know it's crooked, but it's the only game in town
Even the author couldn't capture Now. When Now came to him, his mastery of spellbinding storytelling came close to replicating Now, but Now can never be crystallized, boiled down, preserved, immortalized, remembered, because Now had infinite origins, and she never ends. Nonetheless, Mr Gaiman learned how to invite her, made the boy recognize her. Sometimes the boy saw her, and she took him.
The boy never notices her when she is with him. When she's gone, like she always is when the boy thinks of her, he relives moments to bring her back. He never succeeds truly, although sometimes he manages to put words down, or photos or drawings, that remind him of her.
Over time, the boy thinks he'll never catch her. Not the same Now that visited in the past, and when she comes back she isn't the same Now. She never is. He worries that her fleeting company might be forgotten, his clumsy failed attempts poor representations of her.
Only in his mind does the boy see her perfectly, and even that fades in time. She's always there but she is never there. He'll have what he remembers, he'll never hold her, but she'll always be in him.
on the afternoon of 18th December
Everytime I take a flight, I feel afraid. Sometimes there are reasons, but usually there are not.
The small banal things rise to the surface first. Did I forget to bring something? Did I leave the place I was at in order? Then it moves a little deeper into other things. Will the place I'm departing be different because I am gone? How long will my welcome last, over where I'm arriving at? Before my presence loses novelty and I'd have to seek new reasons to be meaningful.
It's relationships that motivates me to travel. And experiances. I'm heading to Singapore now, and I'm excited to see my family, friends, and familiar sights, smells, tastes. How long will it be before I find myself slipping into activities to do, simply to pass time until I leave again?
So such thoughts occupy my mind in the hours, days prior to boarding. I wonder if that flighty fearful feeling in my belly is the result of such thoughts. I can't credit any one uncertainty to be the culprit. Even if I bunch some uncertainties together, I cannot finger the criminal. I sweep everything off the table and say there isn't really a reason I am afraid. There is no reason to be afraid.
Yet those pesky nerve signals continue checking in on my mind.
It's one hour before I need to board. I checked in early, I'm wandering around the transit area. I look at various people, guessing their nationalities, looking for clues that reveal why that traveller was there.
Ah the word Traveller.
There is an annual open invitation exhibition in COFA named Dislocation. The premise is targeted at international students, to give us a space to express our sentiments about being displaced.
But I don't feel displaced. Yes, Sydney is different, but it doesn't feel like a place I don't belong to. Singapore doesn't feel like a place I don't belong to. Sydney doesn't feel like a place I belong to. Singapore doesn't feel like a place I belong to.
I don't belong anywhere, but I don't feel like I disbelong anywhere either. Wherever I am, there is always something to discover, places I like, company I enjoy. My eyes are open to what is before me, particularly receptive to observation, looking for little insights into the new or familiar, that give a small burst of 'high' a person who loves learning hungers for.
that's what a traveller is, it seems. I never want to be stuck in any place forever. 6 weeks in Vancouver is something I never want to term as once in a lifetime. I'm going there again anytime soon, I haven't even been there yet, but hey... someday.
old text found
he darted behind the corner
maybe it was coincidental that he had seen the girl smile like buddha, for the third time that week.
"boogga!" he exclAimed. He realized it was already 4 o'clock and he had to meet his insurance agent at 3. Crowley slipped on the condensation formed on the grills of the drain in the mornings from the dew. He slammed heavily into the floor.
He could hear muffled music, the kind he would hear when his father brought him for his monthly haircut in the barbershop.
he realized it had been a few hours and he found himself in a dark room with unfamiliar smells.
old ghosts new spirits
Everyone's got this fantasy. You meet someone new, they don't know who you are. It strikes you that you could create a new you to this person. Who you hope to be, who you'd rather prefer, you hold the brush to paint your portrait to this new person. You could pretend to be someone you're not.
Or you could become who you've wanted to be, the person who didn't make the mistakes you did, behaved the way you have in the past, a person far closer to the happiness you've pursued all your life. It's not a lie, this person you create, it's still you, but unburdened by history, moulded by a desired future. It's not false but it hasn't been proven real... and subsequent actions can prove you are who you've wanted to be... or not.
To a select few, i'll always be that hair flipping, textbook soft porn drawing 12 year old boy. To a few more, i'll be that art club president, math and science failing, prim proper class monitor. To one group of people, i'll be the opinionated design media student, occasionally brash and hopelessly in-conscientious. To another group, I'm a bass playing anti-mainstream snob, depending if they were one as well. To some, I've been respected and loved as brother in military-arms, to others the opposite. To yet some others, an older brother figure when I'm the youngest of my siblings.
I've changed so much. I can't deny who I've been, but so much of me isn't when people have known, not anymore. Some things stay the same, but the differences make all the... difference.
Everyone has many manifestations, I have a copy of everyone in me, and it might not be what they see themselves. I met some old friends today, and to me they've changed. To them, I've changed too, I seem strange and removed from the me they've known...
I've found myself fighting the other Sidneys... will I get a chance to update to the new version?
The boy never notices her when she is with him. When she's gone, like she always is when the boy thinks of her, he relives moments to bring her back. He never succeeds truly, although sometimes he manages to put words down, or photos or drawings, that remind him of her.
Over time, the boy thinks he'll never catch her. Not the same Now that visited in the past, and when she comes back she isn't the same Now. She never is. He worries that her fleeting company might be forgotten, his clumsy failed attempts poor representations of her.
Only in his mind does the boy see her perfectly, and even that fades in time. She's always there but she is never there. He'll have what he remembers, he'll never hold her, but she'll always be in him.
on the afternoon of 18th December
Everytime I take a flight, I feel afraid. Sometimes there are reasons, but usually there are not.
The small banal things rise to the surface first. Did I forget to bring something? Did I leave the place I was at in order? Then it moves a little deeper into other things. Will the place I'm departing be different because I am gone? How long will my welcome last, over where I'm arriving at? Before my presence loses novelty and I'd have to seek new reasons to be meaningful.
It's relationships that motivates me to travel. And experiances. I'm heading to Singapore now, and I'm excited to see my family, friends, and familiar sights, smells, tastes. How long will it be before I find myself slipping into activities to do, simply to pass time until I leave again?
So such thoughts occupy my mind in the hours, days prior to boarding. I wonder if that flighty fearful feeling in my belly is the result of such thoughts. I can't credit any one uncertainty to be the culprit. Even if I bunch some uncertainties together, I cannot finger the criminal. I sweep everything off the table and say there isn't really a reason I am afraid. There is no reason to be afraid.
Yet those pesky nerve signals continue checking in on my mind.
It's one hour before I need to board. I checked in early, I'm wandering around the transit area. I look at various people, guessing their nationalities, looking for clues that reveal why that traveller was there.
Ah the word Traveller.
There is an annual open invitation exhibition in COFA named Dislocation. The premise is targeted at international students, to give us a space to express our sentiments about being displaced.
But I don't feel displaced. Yes, Sydney is different, but it doesn't feel like a place I don't belong to. Singapore doesn't feel like a place I don't belong to. Sydney doesn't feel like a place I belong to. Singapore doesn't feel like a place I belong to.
I don't belong anywhere, but I don't feel like I disbelong anywhere either. Wherever I am, there is always something to discover, places I like, company I enjoy. My eyes are open to what is before me, particularly receptive to observation, looking for little insights into the new or familiar, that give a small burst of 'high' a person who loves learning hungers for.
that's what a traveller is, it seems. I never want to be stuck in any place forever. 6 weeks in Vancouver is something I never want to term as once in a lifetime. I'm going there again anytime soon, I haven't even been there yet, but hey... someday.
old text found
he darted behind the corner
maybe it was coincidental that he had seen the girl smile like buddha, for the third time that week.
"boogga!" he exclAimed. He realized it was already 4 o'clock and he had to meet his insurance agent at 3. Crowley slipped on the condensation formed on the grills of the drain in the mornings from the dew. He slammed heavily into the floor.
He could hear muffled music, the kind he would hear when his father brought him for his monthly haircut in the barbershop.
he realized it had been a few hours and he found himself in a dark room with unfamiliar smells.
old ghosts new spirits
Everyone's got this fantasy. You meet someone new, they don't know who you are. It strikes you that you could create a new you to this person. Who you hope to be, who you'd rather prefer, you hold the brush to paint your portrait to this new person. You could pretend to be someone you're not.
Or you could become who you've wanted to be, the person who didn't make the mistakes you did, behaved the way you have in the past, a person far closer to the happiness you've pursued all your life. It's not a lie, this person you create, it's still you, but unburdened by history, moulded by a desired future. It's not false but it hasn't been proven real... and subsequent actions can prove you are who you've wanted to be... or not.
To a select few, i'll always be that hair flipping, textbook soft porn drawing 12 year old boy. To a few more, i'll be that art club president, math and science failing, prim proper class monitor. To one group of people, i'll be the opinionated design media student, occasionally brash and hopelessly in-conscientious. To another group, I'm a bass playing anti-mainstream snob, depending if they were one as well. To some, I've been respected and loved as brother in military-arms, to others the opposite. To yet some others, an older brother figure when I'm the youngest of my siblings.
I've changed so much. I can't deny who I've been, but so much of me isn't when people have known, not anymore. Some things stay the same, but the differences make all the... difference.
Everyone has many manifestations, I have a copy of everyone in me, and it might not be what they see themselves. I met some old friends today, and to me they've changed. To them, I've changed too, I seem strange and removed from the me they've known...
I've found myself fighting the other Sidneys... will I get a chance to update to the new version?
Sid found concrete manifestation for abstract/complicated/foolish/affected/inebrieted musings at 5:05 AM
0 chord to the harmony
