so I crushed my chest into rubble,
waited on the moonlight to soften the ruin.

This makes me think about my hand, which although relatively fair for a Southeast Asian, is definitely not a white hand. Then I think of all the nonwhite hands holding books, and all the nonwhite hands writing books, and I put Old Goriot away for a while.

Over the last three years I’ve become increasingly attracted to earthy palettes and the kind of details they offer. Recently, our family took a short excursion to the Elora Gorge about 2 hrs away from Toronto for a half day trail walk. It was early spring weather, slightly overcast and on the verge of rain. The forest in this type of season is mossy and broody, quiet in a contemplative way. Reds were not a big part of my forest palette until I moved to the colder climes of Canada. Now they are an inextricable part of the seasonal landscape and linger long after the fall and winter. These days, I find myself seeking these tones whenever I’m in a wooded area. I’m not sure what these textures are saying to me. Only that I feel drawn to their banal complexity and richness of detail. Maybe I am attracted to their quiet existence and natural / accidental births. It’s not a curiosity. I’m not drawn to asking questions about how they came to be. I …

Looking for a place to go on a short family vacation in Asia is about predicting the rain. That’s how we ended up foregoing a trip near my mother’s hometown in Eastern Malaysia (on the Bornean peninsula) in favour of the little island of Langkawi on the western side of the country, just a short (and I mean 15 minutes of cruising time) flight from Penang. Before this trip, my only memory of Langkawi is a matching pair of shirts/shorts that Joanne and I had as children. I really didn’t have many expectations; I was here for the family. Langkawi, like much of Southeast Asia is a strange mashup of all kinds of things. History inflects, erodes, builds and tears down in messy and complex ways. I always know what I’m getting-ish: the stray cats, the lizard calls, sudden rain, giant worms, glorious sunlight, simmering heat, lush foliage, entitled tourists, the noise of the street market, the smell of coconut and durian, green chilli. But then things surprise me, like how loud and insomnia-inducing the …

Turns out Cali glow is a real thing, but California mythology is exactly that – mythology. I went to visit some of my extended fam in-laws over the December break who live in San Fran, and had a chance to peek a preview at San Fran, LA and Murietta for almost two weeks. Needless to say, urban textures and vegetation were my main interest after eating. Whenever I arrive in a city whose mythology precedes it, my instinctual reaction is caution. What are truths, what are experiences, what are expectations, and what are rose-coloured lenses? Because story and language are so fundamental to my experience of the world, I can’t help this self-awareness. “California” is a word that has become the stuff of legend. Golden as in desert. Golden as in Gold rush. Golden as in sunlight. Golden as in celebrity and fame. As with everywhere else, mythology sustains dream, identity and belief. As with everywhere else, California is constructed from language. So imagine me stopping to stare at a tree on the sidewalk, fascinated …