Bruises

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 English...as 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.

Choose Blogging

'Choose life Choose Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and hope that someone, somewhere cares Choose looking up old flames, wishing you'd done it all differently And choose watching history repeat itself Choose your future Choose reality TV, slut shaming, revenge porn Choose a zero hour contract, a two hour journey to work And choose the same for your kids, only worse, and smother the pain with an unknown dose of an unknown drug made in somebody's kitchen And then... take a deep breath You're an addict, so be addicted Just be addicted to something else Choose the ones you love Choose your future Choose life.'

Choose heroin-related tech issue subdue complete blackout in a cinema listening to 15 minutes of Sick Boy ranting in utter darkness last night. Choose burying the memories of your dead daughter that never got celebrate her 1st birthday because it was too painful to remember.

'Nostalgia, that's why you're here. You're a tourist in your own youth.'

Choose Begbie, choose stubbornness, choose rage and revenge, choose watching history repeat itself because it feels safe because otherwise there is nowhere else to go. Choose saying farewell to your own son because you knew deep down you love him to bits but you can only live a Kinski-esque manic life so you estranged him even more. Chose exhaust your life failing, failing again, hoping fail better.

(Easter egg: Choose Irvine Welsh as the Mikey (!!!) )

Choose Rent Boy, choose to be addicted to something else, choose the loneliness of a long distance runner, choose addicted to endorphins. Choose being on a run by Begbie, ending up naturally high, laughing in front of a car bonnet. Choose reliving youth, but didn't choose Diane. (in other words, choose not choose Diane?)

Choose Spud, choose capturing both his fragility and resilience coming out of 20-year-worth of hardship and turmoil. His handwriting reminded me of Korine's, his performance reminded me of how it would look like if Julien Donkey-Boy ended up being an old man. (I think this time I have chosen Spud, our endearing Daniel. <3 )

Choose identity. Choose sentimentality. Choose ideology. Choose Mise-en-scène. Choose iconic cliché. Choose eternal recurrence. Choose being a loser, but a beautiful loser.

Mid Air

He steps into the study quietly, knowing you are working and not in a good mood. He left a glass of Ribena cordial with two arrow-shaped ice cubes on your desk. It was your favourite drink that your mum used to make you in the summer. It makes your smile, it makes you believe in love again.

Prospect Hummer

I guess this is it. He was in my dream twice that night. We were sitting at a dinning table, a burning metal rod burnt me across my stomach - it was supposedly a nightmare but I was not frightened. Instead I was really calm, this tune slowly filled in the room. When I woke up, it took me a while to find out what the song was.

Lucid dreaming? I have no idea, yet it seems that I am fortunate enough to obtain all the references that I need from my dreams, as if an open library, archive that I can get access from. Or rather, it's like walking into an art bookshop that you are forbid to write anything down, instead you memorise all the references as soon as you come across. At the end, it was a memory game.

How strange is it when things are good people just don't want it? I doubt that he is going to call, I am even feeling silly to make some sort of contact. When people are facing love, they are both courageous and cowardly. Maybe I shouldn't be bothered. He just won't, won't.

'I want to sneeze', whenever I say this to myself I just can't sneeze. Just like you keep telling yourself that you are going to kill yourself you just don't even have the guts to do it. What a coward. Oh, actually maybe not, it's just the pre-text that stops you from actually doing it.

When I am on my motorbike I think about death a lot, ten millions ways to die, and another ten millions ways to live. I shouldn't daydream too much when I am motorcycling, it's too dangerous. But maybe I am missing the time that I used to walk to work, that 45 minutes of thinking, meditating, internal conversation with oneself.

I used to be a good writer and somehow manages to grasp all the fragmented pieces of dreams and turn into literature. Now, alone, I am just a good dreamer.

Losing You

I used to think I couldn’t go a day without your smile. Without telling you things and hearing your voice back.

Then, that day arrived and it was so damn hard but the next was harder. And I knew with a sinking feeling it was going to get worse and I wasn’t going to be okay for a very long time.

Because losing someone isn’t an occasion or an event. It doesn’t just happen once. It happens over and over again. I lose you every time I pick up your favorite coffee mug; whenever that one song plays on the radio, or when I discover your old t-shirt at the bottom of my laundry pile.

I lose you every time I think of kissing you, holding you or wanting you. I go to bed at night and lose you, when I wish I could tell you about my day. And in the morning, when I wake and reach for the empty space across the sheets, I begin to lose you all over again.

-- Lang Leav

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, What We Talk About When We Talk About Dream

It was almost magical when we talked about dreams. A long time ago, I woke up next to J. We spoke about dreams next to each other. The room filled with sweetness whilst ray gently leaked in. 9am on the dot, a very rare email came from an old lover, it then became some sort of consolation. The little sweetness of the brutal world, remember? Yet, all the vivid memories walked in, as betrayal into oblivion.

Last night I dreamt of I went to an art house, walked through multiple doors, entering each room consisted of different scenes, some lost conversations, some fragmented disney cartoon alike, finally I stepped out of the tiny rooms and it opened up to a basketball court. There were two groups of teenagers playing against each other, the first half of the game someone only scored 1, then one of the players encouraged the rest of the team in order to progress into a good game eventually.

No matter if it was metaphorically or in reality, I will always wait for you, gently, quietly and patiently in the room, the Paris room. As I once was, and I shall.

Currently reading Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. We covered different format of love. Even though one loves a person, if something were to happen to them, the survivor would grieve but love again.

Also watched Slow West (2015) last night, it's a nice mid-length film starred with Michael Fassbender, lovely music.