"To live without remembering may be the secret of the gods."

"To learn above all, to distrust memory. What we believe we remember is completely alien to, completely different from what really happened. So many moments of irritating, wearisome disgusts are returned to us years later by memory as splendidly happy episodes. Nostalgia is the lie that speeds our approach to death. To live without remembering may be the secret of the gods." - Maqroll the Gaviero in The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll

The passage brings to mind a treasured childhood memory of being fed Yong Tau Foo drenched in sweet sauce while sitting contentedly on the lap of my grandmother on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Years later, the search for Yong Tau Foo which bears the exact same taste etched in my nostalgia proves in vain. As with most food, the Yong Tau Foo sold these days don't taste like they used to. The ingredients and methods go into preparing it must have undergone changes in the hands of the younger generation. I still love a good bowl of Yong Tau Foo soaked in plenty of chilli sauce but sadly each bite of it is not accompanied by any faint reliving of that same taste. I am not transported back to those simple days of playing in grandma's attap house, watching my uncles burning red ants, my mum showering us out in the open with cold water or does it stir fond emotion of warmth and joy on our faces. But it is because I remember, therefore I try to recall and to retrieve the emotional essence of what happened a lifetime ago. While I understand the disappointments these nostalgic memories sometimes tend to bring, to live without remembering would mean a life that is empty and meaningless. I do not want to be stuck in time and just be living in the present and not have a narrative of my past. Our recollection of a particular moment, a memorable event, a strange cousin, or even a painful experience serves as a form of our autobiography. Not only are our memories essential, they also define us and give us a sense of personal identity. Without which, we all would have no sense of self to speak of.

 

 

Autumn in fashion

Autumn rustle underneath their feet must be music to their ears. Broken leaves sticking onto their little boots and shoes is often the evidence of piling fallen leaves and a performance of stomping on them. The sound of crisp leaves crunching lights up their eyes and sends pleasure to their innocent hearts. It's a delight to see the children basking in the golden glory of fall and to know they look forward to a white winter, snow angels, Christkind (Christmas gift-bringer) and of course presents. Oh, the joy of living in a four-season country!

As the temperature dips, it also means the search for warm toasty gears begins. Wasn't it just last year I bought a new parka? A year later, it no longer holds any novelty. The colour is old, the shape unstylish. To make myself feel better, I window shop online for the latest trend in outerwear. Oversized coats and parkas in new colours and shapes are the rage everywhere. The most notable enticement is the relatively low price tag which makes hitting the 'Buy' button all the more easy and guilt-free. The instant gratification one gets is undeniable. Sadly, such inexpensive fast fashion has its side effect: disposable clothing. We wouldn't think twice about tossing these lower quality consumable into the bin or feel much remorse shoving it to the back of the closet. It is however another story when it is a pair of €300 leather boots.

While I do not have the means to splurge on a €400 luxury coat, I am making a conscious effort to do my part in reducing textile waste. Despite my narcissistic inclination to keep up with the latest trend, much thoughts are now given to selecting pieces which are timeless and can be worn season after season. These classics may appear to cost more in the beginning but as these high-quality clothes are made to last for many years to come, it's definitely an investment that's worthwhile.

So no purchase has been made just yet. I am looking out for that four letter word before I make the kill. SALE.

Analysis:

Fashion-conscious - using clothes to hide insecurities

Environmentally-conscious - trying too hard to be righteous

SALE - Cheapo

My flaws are everybody else's too. :)

"It pains me physically to see a woman victimized, rendered pathetic by fashion." — Yves Saint Laurent

 

Do one thing everyday that frightens you

Here

From the creek of spidery veins and bowel of an old soul,
Words spill, staining the pixels a bright red wine.
Like a clean-eating diet,
Freeing me, detoxing me.
Onto digital stones I inscribe my ink.
The bleeding is honest, true and raw red.
But my skepticism lurks like a shadowy presence,
Coercing me into fits of diffidence,
As doubts of self-worth and ability take roots.

4 years of nurturing the precious growing flower.
Those are not wasted years.
But I stand on the world stage
Eager to perform
Again, today is not the day to shine.
My personhood seems to be welled within the four walls we live in.

Enduring sliver fumes of longing,
I do not regret
For the moves I have made,
For what I have lost.
I linger lesser
In the landscape of a past long gone.

The riches I have now,
The evolved self, dropping words and baring soul,
Clinging to the perfume of hopeful dreams,
All would not be,
If I didn't leave behind the castle of my home
and cross the oceans to build a new world
Of spices, chicken rice and Sun Wukong,
Of Schäwbisch, Schnitzel and Kindergarten.

Let the powdery sand slip through my fingers
It proves futile to hold on to.
Let me count my wealth
They grow in my heart.
Let me drink and taste and embrace the here.
Because here I am.

I thought long and hard about posting the above poem on this space. The fact that a notable literary site has rejected it makes the idea even more terrifying. As much as I believe writing is to bare one's soul, the mere thought of allowing friends and strangers have access to my fears and vulnerabilities frightens me. Strangely I am unfazed if it gets published on a well-known platform but on this puny stage, it suddenly feels like I am strutting my own feathers. Already the poem is not endorsed by the experts. Where would I hide my vain pride if others respond to my naked honesty with ridicule and scorn? Like everybody else, I seek approval.

Will Self's reflection on failure however changed my mind: 'But a creative life cannot be sustained by approval, any more than it can be destroyed by criticism – you learn this as you go on.'

I need to get past my insecurities and find the strength and courage to face my fears. In other words, to be more thick-skinned. :)

 

 

Blah

Watching the ducks, white and black swans darting here and there whenever bread was thrown at them left the little one in squeals and stitches. She never fails to bring smiles to our face and joy in our heart. We are constantly amazed at her ability to derive joy and pleasure from the simplest thing. We grown-ups indeed have much to learn from these innocent kids.

It was a lazy Sunday with a weak autumn sun and chilly breeze. Our slow walk in the refreshing cold air left me longing for the flavourful and richness of leftover goose from last night's dinner. Funny it was only last night I swore to myself and everyone at the table that I wasn't going to eat another duck/goose until Christmas Day. Today is evidently a case of body over mind. How does one resist tasty hearty food that makes us feel all warm and cozy against the frosty temperature outside? I dread the short days and long nights and I long for rich hearty meals. I suspect a big part of me won't find comfort and warmth in carrot sticks, smoothies and green juices for quite a while.

My mind however begs for a different type of food. Other than trying my hands at poetry, with not much luck, just yet, I haven't been doing much serious writing. Instead I occupy myself with books which are a departure from my usual novels and books. And I am loving the books by Singaporean authors. These people are truly an inspiration. If I can't be like any one of them, I am equally happy to be able to catch a glimpse of their wisdom and creativeness.

My complacency got to me but guilt insists on walking alongside me. No sign of it letting up when I tried to outrun it. While mine is positively not a tortured or conflicted soul and to say that I write in order to save my soul sounds a little cliche and an overstatement, I certainly do feel better after writing. Whether there's truth in the stereotype of 'tortured soul/writer' or 'starving artist', I am not so sure. Because into each life some rain must fall so all human beings suffer and suffering is not only exclusive to the creatives. Charles Bukowski couldn't have said it better about the starving artist:

"I remembered my New Orleans days, living on two five-cent candy bars a day for weeks at a time in order to have leisure to write. But starvation, unfortunately, didn't improve art. It only hindered it. A man's soul was rooted in his stomach. A man could write much better after eating a porterhouse steak and drinking a pint of whiskey than he could ever write after eating a nickel candy bar. The myth of the starving artist was a hoax."

 

Trivial

The trivialitites of my life, without which would mean a hollow emptiness:

Buy new sandals/winter jacket/underwear for the daughter because we are going back to Singapore this weekend and winter will almost be at our doorstep when we return.

Buy necessities for the trip because I am now used to certain German toiletries. One example is the Proschmelz toothpaste (which removes plaque effectively!) as opposed to the Darlie one I grew up with.

Mental note to self not to acquire new summer clothes to strut around the Lion City as hot summer days here in this country have become almost non-existent.

Get a prepaid data plan for Singapore while I resist the temptation to have one in Germany. I am a living contradiction.

Prepare my body with smoothies and salads (in vain because I have been ditching that diet in favour of a bout of carbo indulgence: pasta soaked in homemade pesto or shrimp noodles drenched in hae bee hiam) before stuffing my face with greasy deliciousness.

Anticipating grudgingly the clinging humidity that awaits me, us.

Can't wait to see my family and friends. I really do miss them.

I certainly did not expect this spur-of-the-moment frivolity would bring tears to the eyes. Writing is indeed an evidence of love, as beautifully explained by Anne Lee Tzu Pheng in this interview excerpt:

Q: What inspires you? In life and in writing.

A: Love. Because it makes you want to give, and learn, through giving, how to receive. Love is at the root of creative writing: writing is a giving of yourself to the Other, to the world through expressing the human. Human beings need to know what they are, what their world is, and the writer uses language to open up, to activate, both the desire to know and the things worth knowing.

 

 

Lamenting

I was lamenting to friends it takes far too long for editors to reply these days and a brief discussion ensued if sharing my writings on social media wouldn't be more effective and faster. I am all for sharing good stuffs. Other people's good stuffs, that is. As the friend puts it, 'You are a young writer with an old soul.' I can't agree more. I am a young writer who is still in search of her own voice and style. I have a lot to learn and like a grandstander, I crave for applause, not from friends who are often too kind to criticise, but from experienced writers who possess the expertise to cast my lesser writings to the bin and said no to the face of my email. Mostly, I starve for criticism to improve and be better. I do not want to swim in my little well and fantasize that I am good enough because I know I am not. I discover however a rejection is also a form of criticism. A wordless silent kind of criticism. A recent rejection is living proof of that theory. It doesn't feel good to be rejected of course but at least it spurned me on to work harder in order to gain the acknowledgment I yearn. This is the path I have chosen and no matter how rough and long the path may be, I cannot turn back or it would be a sort of betrayal and lie to myself and my family.

But why do I need someone else's stamp of approval on my works? If the simple act of writing sometimes brings tears to my eyes and a shudder down my spine, isn't that good enough for me? Yes and no. Yes because I am grateful beyond words that I find joy while writing. It really does feel like an inner calling, nevermind the cliche (ok, it makes me flinch a little writing that) And no because maybe I feel people-pleasing is the way to go in this attention-seeking world and I am part of this superficial age and it simply feels good to be acknowledged. Apologies, I just can't help being contradicting.

Still I refuse to believe Bukowski's

'if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don’t do it.'

even though I love his raw honest writings to bits.

 

Rhyme of Intolerance

She puts the eggs, carrots, apples into her bag.

She tries to count her cents to round up her change but got snapped

Because she isn't good with numbers and the ways of this western trap.

Face to face, she senses the all-too-familiar indifference and like a tight cord around her neck it wraps.

What has she done to receive such ungraciousness yet again, is something she can't get.

Out of habit, she pulls at her headscarf and with a silent sigh, returns to the solace that is her child and pet.

 

 

A touch of the old

I am shoe-crazy. My heart beats for anything called boots, ballerinas, sneakers, oxfords, brogues, heels. They give me a joy which I refuse to sacrifice for the well-being of my bank account balance.

Only recently, I gleefully took the lid off a shoe box and in it was a shining new pair of penny loafers. Sleek leather with a smart look. When was the last time I wore penny loafers? Possibly at least 20 years ago! This old trend is now new again. I love their androgynous aesthetics and wish I could wear the shoes right away (thinking, wrongly again, they would make me look more preppy than Alexa Chung). And did I tell you the shoes were on sale?!

I was eager to show them off to the world. But to my gut-wrenching dismay, I learned that as my feet slipped into the shoes, the particularly stiff leather would give me blisters. Very bad blisters. I wasn't going to return them however. No way. I scoured the net for clever advices on breaking in classic loafers the painless way and found one: wear the shoes with socks at home until the leather softens. Your feet gets the royal treatment without any blistering notes. Perfect!

That's what I have been secretly up to in the mornings while I prepare my breakfast, cook and go about my daily chores. The leather is indeed softer now but it's not yet an everyday flat and certainly not ready to meet my bare feet just yet.

Even so, I am patient.

That same day I received the shoes, I stared at them for a long time and then lovingly put the timeless classic back into the box and hid it (from the man. Hehe...) in my cupboard, like a hoarding squirrel.

Solitude and creativity

Karl Lagerfeld said this in Lagerfeld Confidential:

'People who do a job that claims to be creative have to be alone to recharge their batteries. You can’t live 24 hours a day in the spotlight and remain creative. For people like me, solitude is a victory.'

And recently in Brain Pickings, Bukowski was quoted:

'When failures gather together in an attempt at self-congratulation, it only leads to a deeper and more, abiding failure. The crowd is the gathering place of the weakest; true creation is a solitary act.'

Which inspires me to dump more quotes on solitude and creativity:

Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. - Ernest Hemmingway

Artists work best alone. - Steve Wozniak

One can be instructed in society, one is inspired only in solitude. - Goethe

Without great solitude no serious work is possible. - Picasso

I love my me-time but that doesn't always translate into productive work. Tsk tsk tsk.

A rejected work

I bought an old issue of Der Greif only because I know a particular local editor's work is in it. And I am not disappointed. Just her poem alone is worth every penny I paid. It blew me away by capturing love with its soulfulness and grace, another evidence of this writer's wisdom and creativity. I read and reread the poem again and again and was of course extremely inspired to be just like her. Well, we all have our heroes, don't we?

Greatly motivated, I, too, wrote a poem (what else) and submitted it to the same magazine. Naturally it wasn't accepted after a long wait of many months. That would be too good to be true. Yet, I wasn't all that disappointed. I have somehow learned that, yes, to see my writing in print is absolutely thrilling, but even if it doesn't get accepted, that does not and cannot take away the joy of bleeding my heart and soul and expressing them in the right words and ways which the mood then feels fit. Writing makes me feel alive. Getting published does not.

So here I am, very pleased to share with you this poem:

Two sides of a coin

White is the silent snow soaking up sounds, and the oriental concrete jungle bustling.

Black is the numbing hole smothering, and the crowning glory selling out not.

Green is the red hot passion dwindling, and the tree of family living on.

Blue is the mighty and poison pen inditing, and the gay cotton clouds floating

Red is the green-eyed monster clawing, and the fiery chilli padi battling.

Yellow is the invisible wall of discriminating, and the undertone of my skin glowing.

Orange is the fake tan and bleach blonde exploiting, and the warmth of Chinese New Year treats reminiscing.

Violet is the decadence and decay resurrecting, and the warpaint on my face tingling.

Grey is the grunge gone dead, and the blank canvas of my glad rags screaming.

Silver is the currency warring, and the armour of my tender soul defending.

Gold is the rags to riches hankering, and the innocence and laughter of my child inspiring.