seven things

London

2011-12-08T18:34:00.001+01:00

and its riches...

from the Charles Dickens Museum

to a walk in the countryside.

(well... nature reserve, if you want to be very correct)

feeling very London today...

2011-11-17T21:33:00.002+01:00

whatever that means...

Things I have done in London

been to the Da Vinci exhibition,

Somerset hall for the gallery and to see the ice rink being set up,

markets around town,

finished reading the very London (and very depressing) novel by Iris Murdoch,

went to Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (also set in London)... now I want to read the book.

Things I still want to do:

bowl of chalk

have a full English breakfast,

and a scone (with Devonshire cream),

see the Degas exhibit,

go to the Charles Dickens museum,

catch a lunchtime concert at St. Martins

No pictures yet because people here walk so fast

and I'm embarrassed about being in the way:\

two more weeks left!

did you ever participate in a writing competition?

2011-10-14T14:30:00.001+02:00

Yup! for short stories and poetry. got long-listed a couple of times but never won:[

Ask me anything

what camera do you use? do you write more on paper or pc?

2011-10-14T14:28:00.001+02:00

For digital photos, I use the canon powershot s90. For film, my latest favourite is Superheadz Wide and Slim.

I used to write on paper but it gave me painful bumps on the side of my finger. I now write on my mac and make notes on paper.

Ask me anything

motherland

2011-10-13T09:39:00.000+02:00

It's not quite difficult to imagine that Keong Saik Road in Chinatown

used to be the red light district in the 60s,

is it?

Of course, it's been cleaned up a lot

and there are boutique hotels, bars,

chic stores and galleries...

They're very nice -I'm sure-

but I kind of prefer the bright tiles,

the old townhouses and their restored doors

and that building which remains me of old (also new) Hong Kong...

when did you start writing poetry? does it come easy to you?

2011-10-10T13:19:00.001+02:00

I think I wrote my first poem when I was 13 (in class, bored out of my wits). It was about a student being bored in class and imagining that he's a knight on a horse. I gave it to my best friend and he lost it... yea, he feels bad about that...

Sometimes it comes easy and sometimes it's like banging my head against the wall. I'm also not the type who can write "on-the-spot" – they used to make us do that in class once in a while. I need head space to write.

Ask me anything

what does your family say about your writing carere?

2011-10-10T13:13:00.001+02:00

Some of my cousins are quite supportive but my parents hate it. That used to bother me a lot but my need to impress/please them is slowly fading away. Keyword: slowly -haha-

Ask me anything

i work very hard during the week and on sunday i can finally rest and find comfort in your words. i hope more words will snake out of my mouth :)

2011-10-10T10:04:00.001+02:00

:))

Ask me anything

Jane Eyre

2011-10-10T09:27:00.000+02:00

I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame

[images from focusfeatures photo credit: Laurie Sparham]

"stay hungry, stay foolish"

2011-10-06T11:25:00.000+02:00

1955 - 2011

After Word

2011-10-06T11:12:00.009+02:00

The words snake out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Braiding the ends of sentences,

keeping them tied up with a velvet ribbon,
or left loose

to unfurl slowly in the hours after.
Hear the difference between

Shut up, and
Shut up, la.

The last word hiding in it the curve of a smile,
making a blow land light as a kiss.

After Word is a poem about Singlish (our version of pidgin English, a mix of sounds from the English language, Chinese and its various dialects, Malay, and Tamil). I'm not there to see it, but it's being displayed in the trains and stations all across our island as part of the Moving Words competition.

If you like it, you can vote here or simply "like" it on facebook:)

xo
J

I'm so glad you are posting again. I really like your blog (and writing). Can't wait for the published work one :-)

2011-10-03T14:56:00.001+02:00

Aw, thanks! That really made my day:)

Ask me anything

when in Saigon,

2011-10-03T10:42:00.006+02:00

watch out for traffic.

No, really.

Every day was an adventure.

Especially on the culinary front... The food, gosh,

the FOOD.

No pictures of what we had during our two days there but

believe me when I say we ate like kings.

Trust me, I'm Singaporean, I know what I'm talking about.

Seriously though, if you're ever in Saigon, go to Pho2000.

You can see a bit of their pink signboard left of the photo below.

taken with my SuperHeadz camera

in Saigon, July 2011

about that button

2011-09-29T10:39:00.005+02:00

There many things wonderful about being a writer (or trying to be one):

I get to be my own boss.
I work (and wake) on my own time – I have this dreadful habit of working from 10AM until 1PM and then taking a break until 4 or 5PM. Sometimes I take a nap, sometimes I just waste time dandying about on the internet. Then I get a micro-attack of panic and work till late into the night (11PM at the latest).
it’s cheap; if you own pen and paper, you’re all set. Better still if you have a laptop, saves you from getting finger bunions.
I can spend a whole day reading and honestly tell people that I’ve been working.
I don’t have to deal with too many people every day.

The bad:

I get to be my own boss – it can be really difficult, especially for someone as lazy as I am. Getting disciplined is no easy task for me.
I don’t have to deal with too many people every day. I am an introvert and always have been, so too much social interaction can leave me feeling drained no matter how much fun I’ve had and how wonderful the company was. And because I write at home, I sometimes start feeling a bit (read: a lot) like Emily Dickinson. Alone in her room. But with poetry not half as beautiful.
the money sucks. I once got a poem published and received a token payment of US$1. And I was lucky to get that US$1. There are only so many JK Rowlings and Philip Roths around.

[image from lushlee]

The thing is, I could never be someone else and do something different. (Okay, I could, but I would be terrible at it. For example, I had a stint working as a bank teller one summer. Guy comes to withdraw two thousand. I let him walk away with one thousand. ONE. He came back and was even quite nice about it.) If it turns out that I never get my book/s out, at least I can say that I’ve tried. That I’ve done my best.

I’m giving myself five to ten years. And if it doesn’t work out, I'll start work on something else. Maybe setting up a bookshop of my own, that sort of thing.

Until then, I'll have to greatly rely on my partner (the wonderful M) and stick to a budget. Then comes the question of books. I already buy second-hand but the money still adds up. Which is why I've put up the "support me" button in the sidebar, right below the blog description. I've played with the idea of putting up ads but I feel they're not quite right for this space.

So, support me, if you will. Your contribution will go towards research material (I'm starting a book that is partially set in Japanese-occupied Singapore) and other books for inspiration. And coffee too, for those slow mornings when I need to get out for some fresh air and my fix. In any case, I'll be putting up some more of my photographic observations and my writing here. It's nice to have you read my blog, even if you stay unseen and unheard;)

xo
J

Seamus Heaney

2011-09-27T09:30:00.000+02:00

Personal Helicon
for Michael Longley

As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.

One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.

A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.

Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

[for a real treat, listen here]

from ibiblio.org

images: ffffound / unknown / unknown / unknown / jjjjound / viceland /

so I can look forward to reading some new stuff from you?

2011-09-26T10:39:00.001+02:00

yes! I have several things lined up - just that wifi is a bit iffy where I am right now so it's a bit difficult getting things done. I'm also working on a "published work" page:)

Ask me anything

binnenkijken

2011-09-20T12:08:00.000+02:00

a look inside the homes of Dutch artists & designers.

all examples of

colour

colour!

done really well.

images from 101woonideeen blog

so now that you are done, what do you do?

2011-09-19T11:12:00.001+02:00

I write. (Or spend time trying to).

Ask me anything

desktop wallpaper

2011-09-19T10:17:00.007+02:00

from 101woonideen.nl

happy Monday!

mishmash

2011-09-16T12:20:00.001+02:00

[images: the sartorialist / elle / paristolondon / honeyonmyskin / thedesignfiles / wanderingeyes / deerofglitter]

dutchies

2011-09-15T12:30:00.000+02:00

Since I'm in Holland right now,

I thought it appropriate that I put up a poem by a Dutch poet.

Translated, of course.

This one sums up a big part of what I love about Dutch people in general.

I know it's weird to call people who are -on average- a foot taller than I am,

but they are Adorable. There you go....

STREET THEATRE
In the balmy afternoon wind
I was sitting on a bench
on the Boulevard du Général Leclerc
next to an old gent
who’d fought in Indochina
rosette in his buttonhole
white cravat round his wizened neck
at his feet a little mutt
watching everything
when suddenly Sophie Marceau
an actress I recognized from the papers
stepped out of a limousine
followed by her photographer
and holding her sun-hat in place
gave us an eyeful
of her cream-white armpit

the mutt yapped
and the old gent and I
stood up in unison
sang a ditty
did a couple of dance steps
and waggled our bottoms

she didn’t see us

Translation: 2007, Donald Gardner
From: I Dreamed in the Cities a Night
Publisher: Arc Publications, Todmorden, 2007

(from poetry international)

images: weheartit.com / unknown / photobird / qualitypeoples / abitare / unknown / weheartit

whats your thesis?

2011-09-15T09:48:00.001+02:00

It's on contemporary poetry – about the decreasing relevancy of postco. theory and the use of transnationalism as a "substitute".
BOY I'M HAPPY TO BE DONE.

Ask me anything

Vietnam

2011-09-13T14:08:00.003+02:00

a few pictures from our trip to Vietnam...

We started in Saigon, took the train (16 hours!) to Hoi An, Danang

and then the plane to Hanoi.

No photos of Saigon because we were getting used to the traffic

(warning: many, many, many mopeds)

and trying not to get mowed down while walking by the road.

/ / /

Hoi An

The beach in front of the resort

Ha Noi

disclosure: I modified some of these using Chrome's lomo+ extension.

yes, it's wicked:)

xo

the ball

2011-09-12T18:52:00.001+02:00

untitled

2011-09-08T13:57:00.000+02:00

imagine so much beauty that your fingers ache, your mouth turns to dust. all that light, that empty wonder you thought you couldn't take. breathe it in. it is in the fold of your sheets, the scratch of lovewornwood beneath your feet, the sound of heat on glass. taste the rain on the leaves. taste it. the not quite red or orange hair of that girl across the street. the feel of his shoes on the pavement. imagine your nails blue with cold, your skin ripening. the almost whiteness of your eyes. your breath on the mirror. all of it a second away. eat it.

eat it.