Victoria Ice – British Sea Power

everyone’s found their stories, but where’s mine?

High Speeds – Coldplay

the reason one writes is to not forget, to not unremember the concatenation of stories which forms the tale of his being and this is why dandelionwine exists, a beatific attempt to recapture the passing of days and not let it fade into oblivion. it is not so much the former as the latter but it is an accurate reflection of what the author fears most which is really to lose anything.

barcelona has been gorgeous and lovely in its stultifying way; jamón ibérico de bellota, Sagrada Família and the Hospital de Sant Pau on the first day; the renovation of the Palau Güell, the Liceu which didnt have tours scheduled for the day, La Boqueria, La Rambla, Illa de la Discòrdia with Casa Batlló, Casa Lleó-Morera
Casa Amatller being renovated but this would be remedied with a trip to the Casa Milà. the next day marked a trip to the Nou Camp (and the mechanistic monstrosities which heralded U2; yet another reason to not love Bono) and the Park Güell. today was the la roca de valles, the hunt for sps 52gs, purchase of half a kilogram of black gold, conversation with a french sommelier from La Cuina D’en Garriga along Consell de Cent about the virtues of Priorat reds, the copious expenditure of €s, dinner at tapas 24, a fracas with a bus driver, walking along catalunya and enjoying the gentle sunbeams and watching friends devour seafood, which reminded me of paternal episodes, but in a bittersweet manner.

many things come and go, but if there is anything which i really want to do, it will be to return to europe again.

Sleeps with Butterflies – Tori Amos

it may be weird for me to say this, dying as i am to go home all the time but i am pretty sure that at the end of it all i will miss switzerland.

this won’t be a lyrical post because there is nothing lyrical about flights and departures, only the closure of chapters, but sometimes while constancy may be boring, it also depicts a sense of loss, that things will never be the same again. today i had a barbecue with craig, lee ann, bobby, sarah, alice, klein, estee, isis, emmanuel, daniella and jun ho and it was a brillant afternoon and there was a certain sense of regret that i had not done this earlier, and that it would be my last. but what can i say.

life’s all about chapters, like a book, like the irreversible turning of pages and there is a certain part of me that dreads what will happen in the future if only because i’m petrified of forgetting my past. what are we then, if we forget the stories that make us, how much of a spectre will we be, how will we continue to coruscate in the dimness of memories.

Fake Empire – The National

what are the stories which you will tell, what are the stories that you will remember, or will they all just simply fade away with time? you’re graduating soon, (or once they grade your dissertation) but you dont have a job, and it feels like damocles’ blade is hanging around you perpetually. will you work in england, will you work in ireland, will you try the americas, or will you settle and somewhere along the way, i swore to myself that i will not settle, that i cannot simply accept things for what they are and if there’s anything that i really ever wanted, this is it. i don’t want to go down as a footnote, as a statement, i want to go out the way i want it, through steely determination, through incessant challenges, through a life of lyrical poetry, a supernova, a quasar, an astronomical light.

because it is my life, i want to stop regretting what transpired 5 years ago, and there are only that much ghosts and spectres which i can bear.

Counting Off the Days – … And You Will Know Us By The Trail of the Dead

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/02/world/europe/02plane.html?ref=global-home

sometimes you just run out of words to say.

Everybody’s Got Something To Hide But Me and my Monkey – The Beatles

i always thought i was one of the most random people around but i suppose the beatles really own my face.

Two Weeks – Grizzly Bear

rachael sent this to me two hours ago, and in two weeks time i will be done with school, and in another two weeks i will be back in singapore; and at the end of it all, there really is no place like home.

—————————————–

there are many things to say, but it is slightly overwhelming in its enormity, suffice to say that i have changed, and grown, and i think it is a good thing.  make decisions, pak shu hwa, learn from mistakes, be a better person.

Sultans of Swing – Dire Straits

there’s words, there’s love but there’s always time.

somewhere along the way, i think i have forgotten to love and i am not sure when this began but there’s a certain sense of apathy towards most things which i cannot exactly trace back to. it’s disturbing, this abject lack of intensity, and i think it is almost sad that a previously ferocious pursuit for love has been replaced by such a recess, but how many times can an ember be rekindled? yesterday lucka asked me to go to america with her, i said no, and she just flippantly tossed in ross’ name in order to elicit a reaction from me but i just smiled in disdain; is that what things boil down to, a wordplay of sorts, a game of brinkmanship? it has to stop here, it has to stop here, and i am tired of waiting for you, for you, for everyone. i have to start living for myself, i should start living for myself and stop giving my heart out like an empty bottle, for you to write messages in before hurling it to sea, to sea.

What Were the Chances – Damien Jurado

there is something salient about rain and i suppose it is probably because it reminds me of home most; more than food, which is fleeting, transient, consumable, there is an unspoken contract with the soft patter of water droplets; it is the same, whereever i am, and that is a constancy which soothes and reassures. it is the same, me, words, rain, and a solace in solitude.

it’s a whole life i have had, and i don’t remember what it was, was the sad encapsulation of benjamin button, and to a certain extent, i feel a little of that everyday; you forget a little of your past on a daily basis, you dont get as excited as you once were when you see the world, so what incandescence is there left?

we’re all telling stories from different perspectives, but what happens when we retread on similar pathways; is it our story any longer; can we claim ownership of it? everything fades, yellows, disappears.

Little Favours – KT Tunstall

[13:56:26] Tan Wen Hui: cos v cold leh [13:56:34] Nicholas Pak Shu Hwa: oO [13:56:41] Nicholas Pak Shu Hwa: no hot water in china? [13:56:50] Tan Wen Hui: i dont know how to turn on the heater [13:56:51] Tan Wen Hui: HAHAHAHAAHA [13:56:58] Tan Wen Hui: ok pretend i din say tt

it is spring, the colours are verdant and magnolia, and two days ago it snowed on leysin. yesterday i met jean-pierre before he left for his new job and it was thoroughly enjoyable as we talked about knives, tripes, the swiss and their silly dietary habits, and today, this morning, i had a surreal dream of college posting day all over again. it was good, it was pleasant, but still one cannot turn back time in that respect.

it has been a month since i last put a figurative pen to cyber paper and in that time i had travelled to budapest and prague, and risked whistles of derisions when i said i preferred the former to the latter; but why not, there was no praguian equivalent of tokaji (there was pilsner) nor anything remotely touching gooseliver (there was pork knuckles) and if it is one thing i realised, i travel around more for food than for sights (unless it’s the sagrada familiar, but there are always tapas) which probably demonstrates the essentia of being a singaporean as we traipse around pieces of land.

dandelion or pissenlit in french, jean-pierre told me, was a flower which would grow first in spring whereupon the swiss would blanch it and serve it with leaves and olive oil and vinegar, and i told him, a dandelion wine is where you take the dandelions and ferment it, just like a wine. i never felt a need to explain this title, but it’s just pretty.