Tired and anxious and feeling like everything’s closing upon me. This is definitely not a good mood to be in the day before a thirteen-hour flight and a big move across the world. Not sure why such trepidation always sets in right before I’m meant to leave home. Perhaps it’s the feeling of having to leave my mom; her overbearing concern eating into every sliver of excitement I might’ve had before, her dread devouring me. Or perhaps it’s just the logistical messes I’m in: the borderline overweight suitcases, delayed parcels, and — dear lord — the seemingly unresolvable timetable clashes. Everything seems to point to the sheer pain of being independent, and of having to sort my own shit out as an adult. But I know I won’t be alone in London, and I know everything will resolve itself eventually. Maybe, above all the adventure and all the thrills, being at home is what I really want.
I’ve just turned in my final copy at my job, and, whilst having yet to say my last goodbyes, have concluded two months at my internship — at last. Of course, I couldn’t be more thankful for the opportunities and the little luxuries that my job has afforded me, from the copious amounts of food and drink, to the travel — a lifestyle that almost borders on profligate. Yet, I think I’m ready to head back to class.
Two months divorced from my studies, I can almost feel my critical senses disintegrating at the back of my head. For despite the amount of writing I’ve done, there is only so much you can say about a plate of short ribs or a bowl of fries. Certainly, there are people who’d probably understand the palate in greater depth and detail, who appreciate food as I do literature. Alas, it seems I’m not such a person despite my love of good food. So it’s back to the classroom, and back to the books, as I attempt to finish up the last of my long-overdue summer reading in the next two weeks.
Tomorrow, I’ll be flying off to Hong Kong for a holiday with my family. And then there’ll be a week of emotional farewells. And then, London.
Dear lord, I simply can’t wait.
These days, I cannot seem to keep track of time. There are encounters that I’ve willed to happen but cannot bring myself to see to; other engagements that I’ve never intended for, that inadvertently occur for one contingent reason or another. Then there are the appointments that one must keep, regardless of how early or how late in the day they may be, or how lethargic you are. Those are most tedious. Continue reading
An entry from my journal on May 20, 2017:
“It is not difficult to feel self-conscious when you’re scribbling away in a notebook — quite manically, it would seem — in a middle of a subway carriage amidst the chattering weekend crowd. Sure, I could’ve typed this out on my phone, but alas, I’ve pulled the journal out so there’s no turning back.
Who, in this god forsaken place, still journals, anyway? Continue reading
— Lidia Yuknavich in “The Other Side of Burning”, in the May/June issue of Poets & Writers Magazine (2017)
“Longed for him. Got him. Shit.”
— Margaret Atwood
“In my first depressive episode, I believed the fact I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning because I was just a bit hopeless – I made a cavalier joke out of it, people laughed. I stopped eating regularly – I made another joke, friends laughed again. I laughed with them. Depression doesn’t knock on the door and introduce itself; it isn’t monotonal – people still make jokes, they still function, they still believe they’re happy. In my case, I would have insisted I was having a great university experience. I was also drinking a bottle of wine alone most afternoons and crafting misspelt essays to my tutors full of excuses.” – Shon Faye, “The Real Reasons We Are Silent About Depression”
“The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality, I like their completeness, I like their anonymity.” – Virginia Woolf
HAPPY INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY! What an excuse for me to make yet another doodle and collage of my favourite authoress instead of studying for my linguistics midterms.
Here I am, once again, writing about art, or at least trying to make sense of it.
To think that four years ago, I was sat around paint-stained tables, with my friends, scribbling away about Mondrian and Kahlo. We would exchange our answers when our teacher left the classroom to attend to administrative issues — the test was hardly important, anyway, and we’d rather be painting. So whispers filled the classroom, “What do cupboards signify in Dali’s paintings?”, “What does blue mean?”, “What is the painting about?”
“What is the painting actually about?”
Four years later, I’m here, once again; attempting to write about art, again. Or at least trying to discover how one writes about art, then realising the impossibility of the task — again. God knows how I found myself in this rut despite having sworn off the study of art history years ago. If only I could better transmute my sentiments into mere language, or failing which, I could simply turn in a painting instead of a paper.