I am envious of other people’s words. particularly in the seasons when I seem stuck, incorrigibly stuck in the daily routine that is life in hong kong. when the words are not coming easily to me, when I need to search for them. read through dictionaries of different tongues in hopes that a word or two will strike me with its beauty. or its ugliness. the deformity that sometimes language knows how to present. because words cause hurt and damage more often than they do any good. but it doesn’t happen. it doesn’t happen as often as I would like. because I am constantly disturbed, my mind wandering in places where it shouldn’t. an email beeps on the screen interrupting my flow of thoughts. after that it’s almost impossible to return to where I left of. where I attempted a beginning of a piece of work. I am a little bit like jamal wallace and I need my own sean o’connery to rescue me. if only it worked that way. (also, read this.)
the city is covered in milky layer of clouds that move across the plain of the sky with difficulty. low weather slows the city down; it appears smaller than it is. street hawkers crowd the corners and overpasses that have become synonymous with hong kong. I am craving things are that are difficult to have at this stage in our lives. he and I are like fighting warriors, in an uphill battle of the early twenties. the art of compromising and the science of conveying your message. knowing the worst and still loving. the art of living the life in synchronization. these are all of the unanswered questions; the everyday life.
I am dreaming of growing my own garden behind a house; a house with eight rooms and three bathrooms. with a mango and a banana tree on either side. a spacious area; miles and miles of open air in all directions. I would grow my own herbs and vegetables. bake my own bread and think up a weekly cake for no particular reason. I would master the perfect pot of semolina; cassava and okra, the staples I am finding myself unable to go one week without. I wouldn’t mind having a couple of chickens and a goat. I would drive a land rover, an old beat-up passed down generation after generation.
an open fire under the skies when the electricity gives up. I would write on a typewriter, with candles as my source of light. one of the bathrooms would be converted into a darkroom. I dream of an analog life. with sporadic connections, but pure and real connections with people around me. we would go on the hunt for the wildlife, without hunting. only watching in awe at the nature that spreads out before us. the vastness of space and its possibilities. an elephant, a giraffe, maybe a lion, if I am lucky.
I wanted too much to give him a taste of fireworks, of comfort created in understanding and soothing silences. I wanted too much to give him mornings of love-making and afternoons of sweet coffee and double chocolate cakes. to feel the aftertaste on our tongues as we exchange kisses and our lips meet over and over, just like the first time. I wanted too much of everything and I wanted it all at the same time. perhaps, one day, I will have everything I am yearning for.
the strength of wanting something you’d never had before is incomparable. and it means only one thing: that you must do something you’d never done before either.
post scriptum, I am reading rules of the wild again, which could explain a lot.