a night time fear

"As he rose in the school he began to make a religion of some other boy. When this boy, whether older or younger than himself, was present, he would laugh loudly, talk absurdly and be unable to work. He dared not be kind - it was not the thing - still less to express his admiration in words.

*

The adoration was mutual on one occasion, both yearning they knew for not what, but the result was the same..

All that came out of the chaos were the the two feelings of beauty and tenderness that he had first felt in a dream. They grew yearly, flourishing like plants that are all leaves and show no sign of flower. Towards the close of his education at Sunnington the growth stopped.

A check, a silence, fell upon the complex processes, and very timidly the youth began to look around him."

- Maurice, E.M. Forster

15/01/2012

sifr at Tan Boon Liat Building, Art Stage, Vanessa Ban, Eng Chong, Kizuki, Chin, Mel, Ma Maison restaurant. a Sunday well-spent.

*

Engineered Garments pants, so beautifully embroidered i'm almost reluctant to wear them.. Topman burgundy sweater, thrifted wrinkly thing and one of my favourite socks, a gift from Rei and Alvin during their HK trip last year.

it has been worn so many times the brown bits are starting to look a bit mottled, resembling H? Katsukawa from Tokyo's autumn/winter 2012 shoes:

image taken from Style Salvage


Eiichi Katsukawa is the man behind H? Katsukawa from Tokyo. i love the addition of the "?" - a singular, unexpected placement of a question mark imbues the entire image of the label with whimsy. simple yet efficient.

an adorably meek rounded cap is the way a shoe ought to peek at the world, its rumpled, ruffled fur all the more inviting, like a boy in a gnawed old tee shirt, invariably emblazoned with a cartoon that doesn't show anymore. waking up with bleary eyes and unruly hair. unassuming tactility. i could ask of nothing more from a shoe, except an identical one in forest green.

i'm firmly focused on colour and texture these days. i can't go back to black anymore. i want to run my fingers around in swirling circles and heave a sigh of relief at the soft bumps and ridges, they tell me i have something to hold onto. that they are the result of years of interaction, they know my body and i, likewise, appreciate theirs.

colours are almost like favourite people - sometimes you're so pleased that individually separate friends mesh together so well when you accidentally introduce them to one another, other times marveling at how a motley mix of cacophonous, chaotic characters could produce a fresco that somehow makes sense! multitudinous strands interweaving into a coherent web.

a sliver of neon orange awkwardly jangling against the forest makes me love it that much more. i dont know the label behind these socks, but whoever it is makes good, durable socks. i wish i knew..

stitched into time

STREETFSN

imbued with roses and tapestry.. all the trembling bells of you were indeed mine.

anamnesis

Today the circus poster
is scabbing off the concrete wall
and the children have forgotten
if they knew at all.
Father, do you remember?
Only the sound remains,
the distant thump of the good elephants,
the voice of the ancient lions
and how the bells
trembled for the flying man.
I, laughing,
lifted to your high shoulder
or small at the rough legs of strangers,
was not afraid.
You held my hand
and were instant to explain
the three rings of danger.

Oh see the naughty clown
and the wild parade
while love love
love grew rings around me.
this was the sound where it began;
our breath pounding up to see
the flying man breast out
across the boarded sky
and climb the air.
I remember the color of music
and how forever
all the trembling bells of you
were mine.

The Bells, Anne Sexton