vurtopia

I am in the story that Tengo set in motion. In a sense, I am inside him—inside his body, she realised. I am inside that shrine, so to speak. […] This is the kingdom, she thought. I am ready to die, anytime at all. —Haruhi Murakami, 1Q84

Have to try to put this down even though I half gave up on expressing it the first time.

I’m at the age when I do think about my own mortality or growing old. The physical signs are becoming quite undeniable.

Then I look at my father.

He’s 80 or 81. Dialysis. His eyes are grey and sometimes I wonder if he sees. I also wonder if he hears or chooses to ignore us most of the time.

Recently he’s having pains in his right leg. We were worried it’s slipdisc which he had before already, but time passed and he improved after some accupuncture. We still have a specialist appointment next Friday.

I look at my father and I think, that might be me one day. Hopefully not, with all the exercises I do and supplements I’m taking. Actually looking at hime is good motivation. I actually feel like I’m at my prime now … but I look at him.

I remember when I was young, telling myself I’ll not be like him when I grow up. And yet, the physical erosion of time is out of my hands. I could well end up like him whether I want it.

He seems to increasingly live in his own world. I think he feels trapped, knowing his body is breaking down around him. Tonight he complained his tooth is loose or hurting, and apparently groaned to my mum ‘it’s all spoilt, all spoilt.’

I think I see it, I see him trapped and

I see myself trapped.

the thunder of rain

her voice from another time 

a bowl, tea,

words from another world

two moons

ramen

coma

I guess we start from a beginning, like this.

So.

Hello world. Hello Posterous.

(Actually how do people introduce their blogs? Or do the blogs simply carry on like they’ve always existed?)

Because the very idea of an introduction implies an audience. Well anything on the internet implies an audience. That’s the dichotomy I face with blogging these days.

I’d like to write under the illusion that I’m baring my soul and this would be my tiny shout (or scream or rant or whimper, let’s not preclude all that) in this little corner of the internet. But I’d also like to think there’s someone out there listening, ‘cos that’s kinda the point of this—thre’s nobody on the other end of the proverbial (or literal) phone.

But there’s a delicate line that gets crossed when people in my real life read my blogs and talk about it in real life. That’s when I feel encroached and pull back.

So yeah, you could call it a weird flirtation between an anonymous exhibitionist and a terribly reserved persona. But just because everything’s out there, doesn’t mean I’ve given up the rights to having them my terms, does it?

Clearly this isn’t my first blog. I have a Blogger account, a Livejournal, my own Wordpress installations; I’ve had this Posterous for a while and only used it for a failed photo blog.

So why here, or even why now? Because Posterous is ‘new’ and the infrastructure behind it seems solid and easy to use, point-and-blog really. Because this is a new platform for me and I change platforms like I shed skins through different periods of my life.

>Pet Shop Boys - Being Boring

Livejournal was the last and longest platform I blogged on. Work, life, everything got in the way and sapped the energy to write so it languished and … I haven’t been able to jumpstart the blog everytime I tried. It’s like seeing the ghost of furnitures in an empty room.

Because I’m a writer and if I don’t write, I’m … a book I read said, writers write. That’s the hard truth about it. I don’t think a lot of people think about the act of writing beyond high school. We do it everyday, we live with it, it’s invisible.

It’s as hard as not knowing what to say and as easy as slashing your wrist across a blank page (I bastardised that from another writer).

And I’m actually, really a writer. Though I’m a copywriter in advertising (I won’t ask for forgiveness, you won’t judge and we can all move along now) and I find myself drifting further and further away from writing. Spending a year and a half in Shanghai didn’t help of course.

So that’s why I’m doing this here, now. I’ve gotten certain frustrations out of the system after a 3 4 5 month detox, I felt the urge to put things to words or make words, and I really need to get my head back into the writing space.

This little awkward start will have to do. Anything more will feel way too contrived as if this isn’t already.

So. Let’s just start.

Hello you.