Beautiful Amnesia

It was the most honest gig I’ve been to in a long time.

For all her fame and super-stardom, Emiliana Torrini was down to earth and almost shy. She talked more than any musician I’ve seen and much to the audience’s delight shared stories that were potentially so embarrassing we mightn’t have told our best friends. Let’s just say that oversized Sloggi underwear and pubic hair were part of the mix as were her band members’ incredulous “I can’t believe she’s saying this!” expressions. Priceless. She is just delightful and so incredibly alive. There is no doubt about that. I read somewhere that cute and eccentric would sum up Emiliana perfectly and I can’t think of a better way to describe her.

For someone who admitted to being uncomfortable on a big stage, it was actually her slight awkwardness that accentuated her charm as she fumbled for words and forgot lyrics to a song or didn’t seem to quite know what to do with her hands. It was amazing to be right up the front where I could see every squint of her eyes and every exaggerated face she made to either make us laugh or to get a point across. Somehow she managed to achieved both very easily without being smooth and rehearsed. Whether Emiliana was telling her stories or singing her songs, she did so with the natural grace of someone brutally candid. Often, stories and songs flowed in and out of each other as naturally as they stayed together.

She said this before launching into her song “Big Jump” …

I met this person that completely inspires me because I realised that when I met him, that it takes a lot of bravery to be happy … and it’s kind of safe to just be … you know, comfortable or whatever but I’m not going to go into that …

This touched me infinitely.

Her voice was mesmerising and faultless - whenever she sang any hint of awkwardness faded as she disappeared behind a world that only she can see behind closed eyelids. Her left hand was always clenched into a peculiar fist and once in a while pulled at the hem of her dress in a way that was very natural for her. This is how she sings her songs. This is Emiliana Torrini. It is rare for me to feel like I had a glimpse of the real person but that night I did. And that made all the difference.

The light was calling to me one day last week. It was an irresistible call even though the usual after-work idleness was tugging at the seat of my pants.

I took my cameras with me and went for another drive to St Kilda. All the way I could not help but notice the way the sun felt on my skin and a strange but recognisable sacredness in the bubble of my car. Although thoughts came, some uncomfortable as is now usual for me, I quite easily let them go with the light of a fading day.

I never feel quite as complete as I do when I’m out in the world alone with my camera. In the perfect moments, I am not self-conscious nor am I afraid. Everything was glorious - the light, the shadow and all the colours in between glistened with almost visible energy.

Three times I tried to walk away from the sunset and three times I failed. Once, I walked so far away from it that my tired feet protested almost as hard as my soul was tugging me back towards the beach. The third time I stood on the seashore, I stored my camera back into its little red bag even though my mind was calling out “keep taking pictures … it’s so beautiful“.

But I already had my pictures. And my heart was strangely rapturous but still - it seemed to be cradled between the softness of clouds, just like how the sun was blazing pink and orange but seemingly suspended in timelessness. My heart felt safe and it beat with the rhythm of the waves. I added my silhouette to the picture and sat in perfect bliss as my world fell non-dramatically into place.

I had another difficult morning today, so I’m allowing myself to recall this magic and to try and bring it to my presence again.

Over the weekend, we went and checked out the new sustainable Greenhouse Cafe at Federation square.

I liked the concept - everything in there was made out of recycled materials, including the wooden seats and tables with big holes in them. The layout was wide and spacious and allowed a genius use of natural light for ambience in the day. Insulation was made out of large packets of hay stuffed into the walls and made for interesting decor in itself. I also took to the organic pot plants that filled up spaces in the outside wall. The place smelled fresh and the overall vibe was light and bright. The upstairs open-air area was way too hot on the Sunday for us to linger but they had cool stools fashioned out of recycled metal and what seemed like magazine covers. There is more organic plant life surrounding the area. If you are tall and can look over and past the shrubbery, there’s a good view looking down Flinders Street and the Flinders Station.

What was a little testing was that we had to wait 25 minutes for two tiny recyclable bottles of orange juice. Admittedly they were freshly squeezed by hand but I still felt that the time waiting to time taken to drink juice ratio was extremely high - i.e. 25 minutes : 1 minute.

Overall the experience was pleasant, with newspapers provided for your wait time as they must have anticipated slow service due to things all being done the good old fashioned way. My fidgety response to the extended waiting time was due to my conditioning for having everything at the snap of my fingers. This place, I believe will be a good place for meditating on my sense of urgency. Try and wear long pants if you are settling in the indoor section as you might get big holy (holey) imprints on your thighs from sitting around on the - not too comfortable but definitely sustainable chairs with holes to mould bits of your flesh to be like cupcakes.

I discovered an amazing florist over the weekend - they are called the “Flower Temple“. Now, I’m not generally known for my affiliations to nature and all that is green but of late, there has been a sort of an awakening. I have been noticing flowers a lot more. I’ve also been photographing flowers a lot more. I’m not sure whether this new affliction has more to do with the recently purchased macro lens for my camera, or whether is coincides with my current almost scientific quest for spirituality. In an almost weird way, I’m starting to notice how science and the spirit have been converging and might even be one and the same. On that note, I am probably starting to sound quite off the radar here so I’ll move back to the topic of flowers.

The Flower Temple was not your typical floral boutique with roses and tulips (though they did have some of those). There were exotic species of strange plants and flowers of colourful and mysterious brilliance in there that one does not usually come across at a florist. The place itself was pleasantly serene - tranquil music and the sound of running water soothed in the background. And importantly unlike most shops, there was space to be.

I was having a most relaxing experience browsing in the store surrounded by the sweet scent of flowers and was perfectly happy marveling at the different varieties of floral matter. Then, I came across the phalaenopsis orchid and fell in love. You know how it is when you simply can’t take your eyes off someone, even if it’s in a crowded room full of other someones? That’s how it was for me and the phalaenopsis orchid. The flower itself was a sight of such delicate perfection. It’s petals were bright white and covered with the tiniest sheen of glitter, as if to say “look at me, look at how alive I am”. Right in the centre of the flower I made out a being so complete in itself that it was beyond beautiful. So much so it took my breath away. I couldn’t keep my eyes off that flower and was amazed at how it exuded an overwhelming presence that is quiet and unassuming - when I looked closer, I could see a meditative form awakening in a glory of subtle colours surrounded by the pure white of nothingness.

As insane as it may sound, it was the first time I’d ever felt so connected to a plant. I will now be watching carefully as the other buds begin to blossom in my home.

I went to Bikram Yoga for the first time a couple of days ago. I haven’t done any form of exercise in a long time except for walking long distances carrying a backpack full of camera gear. That was back in September.

I have heard positive stories about Bikram Yoga such as - “I feel more balanced, in all senses of the word” … “It rids the toxins from your body and your mind” and then I’ve heard the horror stories - “You sweat from places you never thought possible” … “people stink” … “it’s so @#$*ing hot!”

First lesson for me was unfortunately more about the horror stories coming true. The person beside me did smell funky and he also had a rip in his pants right where the asshole is. Not that I was looking or anything, I was trying mostly not to pass out in the 40 degree humid heat. It was made more unpleasant because there were too many people packed in too tightly in limited space with everyone sweating and breathing OUT their toxins with gusto! I can’t help but wonder, at the points where everyone is instructed to inhale and exhale at machine gun rate, what exactly we’re breathing back IN. I mean … really. The exhaling is ok, it’s the inhaling I have problems with.

As a first timer, I felt that 90 minutes was way too long and I did feel very dizzy and nauseous towards the end of the class. In that kind of humid heat, I didn’t feel like I was getting any oxygen into my system. I also didn’t manage to get into all the postures and a lot of the time I was trying not to hit the two people on either side of me. I did have a favourite posture though, the one where you just lay on your yoga mat. I’m very good at that one.

On the plus side, I did feel wonderful AFTER the ordeal. I felt tired but refreshed at the same time and the air outside never smelt sweeter. I also had a chance to marvel at the beads of sweat on my belly (I don’t think I’ve ever pespired this much before) because we spent a lot of time in postures that gave me opportunities to contemplate my navel. By the way, this deserves a mention - although I did sweat a lot, I was surprised that my eye make up stayed more or less intact throughout. I recommend Revlon. The fact is, I didn’t intend to go into class with eye make up on, I didn’t have time to take it off before having to rush into the six o’clock class. Besides, there’s really no extra energy available in there for any sort of vanity.

I’m going back again this evening for a second attempt. Despite all my complaints, I’m at the end of the day a Singaporean and I get free classes for the next week after having paid for my initial trial.

Seriously though, I see it as a challenge to focus my mind and body. There have been moments where my brain just went crazy and wanted any form of escape from its perceived nightmare. I could see my thoughts darting this way and that, looking for an out - “need to get out of here, can’t breathe, am going to die etc etc”. Any excuse to convince myself that I was in terrible misery. Which, no doubt, terrible misery was what I was in at certain acute points of the class. However, I found that if I could just concentrate and centre myself to the present moment - it passed.

And THAT is why I’m going back. So that the session can be a tool for me to be more conscious of my presence and to serve as a reminder that my mind will always seek to deny it.

A friend of mine is in a very dark place and I can only sit quietly with her. Not physically since we are oceans apart but with my heart. I’ll sit with her in my heart. It took a few harsh words from her for me to realise that that’s all I can do. I sat on the initial hurt and in that silence, realised that she wasn’t actually angry at me. She is in a lot of pain and that is her pain manifesting itself. I saw her as she is right now. In my folly, I had unthinkingly prodded a scared animal with a well-meaning stick. Tried to clean an open wound and it must have stung. Normally I would have shrunk away, my ego all defiant and inflated tenfolds to defend myself - “well if you don’t know what’s good for you …”.

The difference now is that I know that I don’t know what’s good for anybody, when not so long ago I would have insisted and fought tooth and nail for “my way is the best way”. To a very large extent, the knee jerk reaction is still there - the hurt is still felt but I didn’t let it linger - I sat with it in silence and then I let it go. I don’t have to be right, I can only be there ready to sit with and listen when the moment is right. You, him, her, them … no one’s ever really right - only the moment can be and I trust I will know it when it comes.

Sleep was filled with images last night - people who don’t live anymore, people who are alive and hopefully well that I don’t see anymore, people around me. People. People. People. Slowness, fluid and seamless I slid from scene to scene. Strange emotions sniffed around the senses in those dreams and in the morning, like a hazy whiff dissipated through my body. Now they are leaving again.

Grandpa, I met you again in the other place because this is the only realm through which I can see you these 12 years past. Grandma, you too. I’m glad to see that you were both still strolling together last night. I cannot remember your faces and what we were doing, or where we were in the dream. The details have fallen away just like how hours have passed since I woke. But I remember your white singlet grandpa. You seemed to have lost some weight though I cannot quite grasp you enough to confirm that. I suppose what’s important is that you both are still alive within me and once in a while, like last night - you say hello.

Once again, I’m not quite sure what to write about anymore. I seem to have lost my capacity for words but it’s not really such a bad thing. My mind, instead of being convoluted with black alphabets that need to be spit out is a little clearer at this point in my life. I am being inspired instead by how blue the sky can be, by the clarity of a new season’s entry and the inevitability of life.

I have also been photographing more and reading more. I’ve read more books this year than in the past two or three years put together I think. Through others, I have obtained some great insights that have kept me busy trying to put them into practice - also, when you are privy to so many wise words and teachings it becomes more and more difficult to envision how my own petty thoughts are of any significance or could possibly be of any use to anybody. It used to be important to document what I’d done over the weekend, make humourous observations about something or someone, or just vent about the systems on this earth to find my place. For me, that importance has faded, if not a lot, then at least a little.

Of course i am still fighting my own internal battles, and of course I still have my hopes and dreams - but more and more they become less and less of an issue in the grander scheme of things. I can still find a lot of myself in my images and in the sprinkling of words that sometimes come to me that I will continue to write in here. However, I am no longer what I think, want or write, even though I still think, want and write - but what I am and what I create.

If nothing else, then this is an aspiration to be what I know is true.

It has been a month since I last wrote in here. All that time went by quickly, almost too quickly. When I look back upon the past month, I would have to chart it with each punctuation I had to make at various pit stops. By that I mean the moments where I literally had to stop myself from doing whatever I was doing, grab myself by the hand and say “hey Wen, just hang on for a minute”.

The moment I stepped foot in Singapore, I should have been fined for speeding. Speeding through all the things I had to do (and there were so many), the people I had to see (and there were so many) and the lessons I had to learn (and there were so many). In between all that, I took off for China and spent 7 intense days with my father. There I continued to learn. Mostly I learnt about the man who although always present to me, had in more ways than one been a stranger. With difficulty, I engaged just enough courage for him to see through my imperfections. Those seven days away from the world as both of us knew it, allowed me a strange re-birthing. For so many days I cried like I had just been born. I cried just like how I must have cried when my soul was forced out of the womb against my will. I cried till my eyes were sore and my heart was empty. I am not quite the same anymore. But neither is my father. The change is not obvious, just the slightest tilt. It is like shifting ever so subtly in an armchair from a position that has numbed your body because you’ve sat that way for so long. As such, some things have eased but others have only just begun to tense up. Just that little bit. Enough to make some very important but invisible differences. At the end of the day, you’re still in that same damn chair but maybe more at ease. For now. Maybe.

There were many sorrows encountered in this journey back home, and a few more truths to acquire. I have learnt that the people around me all suffer but in different ways. I have learnt for the first time, truly, that my problems are huge only when compared to myself. I have learnt for myself, how I cannot reject the fact that my culture is actually important to me despite a lifetime of denial. Australia, though a land now my home, is not my birthplace, has never been and never will be. At best, this land is a decision I have made. Mostly though, I have learnt that through all our joys and laughter, the jewels of vulnerability and fragility come from the same roots. My soul has been just that little bit lighter, and strangely with that, I feel a lot older.

To the many people I love that I’ve left behind, our times apart have only served to let our times together be check-points. A “Hey, let’s just all hang on for a minute - where have you been? Where are you now?” sort of a point. Through these times, I have also learnt to grab myself by the hand and say “wait, what’s happening around me - right now?”. For all too often we are either rushing forwards or falling backwards.

I am back in Australia now and it is like the calm after a storm, a cycle I have grown accustomed to. The slight melancholic low after the high until it all evens out again. In contrast to Singapore, here I have endless amount of time to stand still. It is a point for me to rest again now, and to try to gather all that I have learnt. There is a time for everything.

I can’t bring myself to pack. I can’t bring myself to clean. I can’t bring myself to do anything really. I’m looking forward to going away from here, at the same time I suddenly can’t stand the thought of it.

I don’t think I’ve been eating properly - Big M and half a bar of Twix wasn’t really dinner - but I haven’t really had the motivation to get myself proper meals. Maybe I’m hoping I’ll just wilt away and no one will notice.

Anyway, I have two piles of clothes in my luggage now. One for the trip to China and the other one for my two weeks in Singapore. For some reason I am resenting having to bring warm clothing for China - not that anything I do or feel at the moment really makes much sense. Work has been sort of an anchor. Sitting at my desk with my fingers on a keyboard and my eyes on brightly lit screen - just so I have something to focus on.

Anything so I don’t have to think. Sometimes the invisible band around my brain tightens and I can feel my head hurt. Literally. These words that someone once said to me have been ringing in my ears lately, “your purpose here is to learn suffering”

Tonight. Must finish packing. Must do laundry. Must clean kitchen. Must. If not, then what?