Writing

I see my art pieces as toys. I take delight in them. Through them, I begin to understand and conjure stories.

Making helps me find. I’m trying to retrieve an unknown something from my past. I cannot see clearly, like a poor reflection. I see in snapshots and fragments, like looking out of a window with curtains flapping.

 I saw: Lost time and those mountains on that show Everwood. Ephrams and Elizabeths, my first love. Galaxies and stones from library books. Manhood and those 3 more inches I was supposed to grow. Mothers I lost to contracts and airplanes. That memory of flying a kite with dad that never happened. (We didn’t go fishing either.) Fresh starts and awakenings. The smell of the One I love. To know and to be fully known. To be fully loved.

These things continue to swirl like a nebula in the deep waters of my mind. 

But I do know I love the open land and the high mountains. Until recently, all the majesty I knew was those in Singaporean high-rises.

Like a child, I look for origins. Where did that rock come from? Yes, I did pick it up at the parking lot. But from where was it mined? How did it end up here? No one knows. They are annoying because they refuse to recount. But I record because I’m afraid of forgetting.