Sunday, 19 March 2017

"The best part about airports lies in what they symbolise. Airports are places of bookends: new beginnings and long-awaited endings, arrivals and departures, hellos and goodbyes. We start in one city to end in another hundreds or thousand miles away. You enter from a desert and exit into a blizzard. In from winter, out into summer. In from familiarity, out into something completely foreign. Or vice versa. An airport is a place of transit, and not just geographically. I wish there was some sort of time-lapse to show how people change between departures and arrivals. When I arrive back home from being away, I'm never the same person as when I left."

— Alex Brueckner


Losing the star without a sky
Losing the reasons why
You're losing the calling that you've been faking
And I'm not kidding

It's damned if you don't
And it's damned if you do
Be true 'cause they'll lock you up
In a sad sad zoo
Oh hidy hidy hidy what cha tryin' to prove
By hidy hidy hiding you're not worth a thing

Sew your fortunes on a string
And hold them up to light
Blue smoke will take
A very violent flight
And you will be changed
Sand everything
And you will be in a very sad sad zoo.

I once was lost but now I'm found was blind
But now I see you
How selfish of you to believe
In the meaning of all the bad dreaming

Metal heart you're not hiding
Metal heart you're not worth a thing
Metal heart you're not hiding
Metal heart you're not worth a thing

Thursday, 9 March 2017

Monday, 27 February 2017


Being going through a Kranky morning today.

The Man Who Died In His Boat/Let the Blind Lead Those Who Can See but Cannot Feel/Songs for a Dead Pilot

The go in the go-for-it - Grandaddy

The talk, it got so loud
The songs cut out
Well that's when I'd had enough
Of all their talk and stuff
I had to bring it down
To more level ground
Where my only company
Is wind blowing through the leaves

My head they tried to wreck
And I just laughed and said
Guess who lost the go in the go-for-it

When they expected that
They instead got this
The broken but pretty mess
What they care I could care less
My farewell e-mail reads
"Farewell to thee"
I'll pass through your world with ease
Like wind blowing through the leaves

My head they tried to wreck
And I just laughed and said
Guess who lost the go in the go-for-it
Despite the faxes sent
I shook my head and went
Guess who lost the go in the go-for-it
The go in the go-for-it
Guess who lost the go in the go-for-it
The go in the go-for-it
Guess who lost the go in the go-for-it
The go in the go-for-it

Tuesday, 7 February 2017

From the Deep Waters of Sleep - Johanna Adriana Ader-Appels

"From the deep waters of sleep I wake up to consciousness.
In the distance I hear a train rumbling in the early morning.
It is going East and passes the border. Then it will stop."
"I feel my heart beating too. It will go on beating for some time.
Then it will stop.
I wonder if the little heart that has beaten with mine, has stopped.
When he passed the border of birth, I laid him at my breast,
Rocked him in my arms.
He was very small then."
"A white body of a man, rocked in the arms of the waves,
Is very small too."
"What are we in the infinity of ocean and sky?
A small baby at the breast of eternity."
"Have you heard of happiness
Springing from a deep well of sorrow?
Of love, springing from pain and despondency, agony and death?
Such is mine."

Thursday, 2 February 2017


lovelorn, unrequited love.
polka-dotted prurience.
Hopes and despairs in parallel live wildly side by side.

l'amour, mes amants, mon amour, aimer.
l'impossibilité d'aimer dans notre temps.


Wednesday, 1 February 2017


I tried to do handstands for you
I tried to do headstands for you
Every time I fell on you yeah every time I fell
I tried to do handstands for you but every time I fell for you
I'm permanently black and blue, permanently blue

So I've started to write again. Something very nostalgic about writing is that in my teens I used to write religiously everyday on 'Xanga' (it's a blog site in the 'dear diary' generation, now obsolete) I started to have a group of audiences and was fortunately invited to write for various culture and literature magazine back home in HK. It was my oblivion at that time, because I first arrived to UK when I was 17 and I wrote a lot, a lot, of course, in Chinese. But soon I gradually stopped writing after 19/20 years old. I guess it was because I first started university in London. Writing seems to be less significant to me, or I guess the sensuality has changed alongside the teenage melancholy diminished. To be truthful, most importantly, I started to lost my mother tongue and I became hesitant when it come to writing - what if my grammar is bad? What if my vocabulary is limited. (I don't have a bank of synonyms of the adjective 'Nice' or 'Beautiful')

8 years later, sitting here now, feeling blue. I guess it is time to pick up on writing again. Maybe because watching T2 has given me strength - If Spud can write why can't I? Maybe I will just write as I think (I now predominantly think in English) As far as I know, noone really read this blog anyways, so why should I worry about mistakes? (It's a good way to be better in writing well as readying? Now I am still reading a lot...) In the meanwhile, for more personal thoughts I might as well just write it down and send it to my personal gmail address.

Martin used to say to me: 'One of my life aspirations is to collect as many anecdotes as one can'. I remember we were having a cigarettes, walking around a graveyard towards where her grandmother was buried, in a village in Norwegian midlands. The reason why I specifically mentioned about this village is because this village is literally 'in the middle of nowhere'. This place doesn't even have any post code. As the first time I paid a visit, Martin instructed me - 'Beth, just take the coach from Oslo Torp airport then get off at [XXXXX] bustop, then I will meet you next to the big tree'. (Note: Norway is basically full of trees.) I was very worried when I got to the bus, but miraculous, I saw Martin, his father and his dog were walking along the path. I was banging on the window, waving at them - and they noticed! Thank god, otherwise I would be ended up in the middle of noway in Norway truly...

I will start writing again as often as I can.

Anyways, I am recently feeling blue. I guess writing is helping. Maybe it's just the words babbling between lines and paragraphs.