moments so dear.

hi again.

it's been a while. some stuff has happened since we last chatted, you and i. nothing i couldn't handle without too much mess though, afterall, here i am, 56 war wounds not withstanding. (my buddy only counted 55 actually, that one night when we decided there was a ridiculous amount of bruises from the naturally harsh Railay walls, mosquito & other unidentifiable insect bites and scratches on my legs, and they needed to be counted. number 56 & more were incoming.)

i went to Railay, came back different. i talked to folks and changed. saw things so beautiful i teared from staring at them gape-mouthed. said wow more in 9 days than i've done in the whole, harsh year. and yes, my hair's changed. dreadlocks - who would have thought? my mom didn't even really blink, aside from the first outcry which hurt, a little. she's used to me. two weeks before i left for Koh Yao Noi & Railay, i'd had my colleagues draw on two full sleeves of neo-tribal tattoos and a back piece too, for halloween. it was striking & scary-looking, but she still didn't refuse to give me a hug. she's not telling me that she's upset i'd ruined my hair, which she loved. but that's okay, hair grows, and i'd be normal again before she knows it. and so she knows, like the ink that washed off eventually, this too shall pass.

does the hair on top of the head reflect the thoughts between the ears of it? i don't know that i've planned it, but there's a huge change churning in my headspace now, and i'm waiting to see what i'd see when the waves settle down.

my artboys tell me i've changed. hiao, was the word they used, but in a kinda flattering tone. one, veteran of 4 years, told me matter-of-factly, that he thinks now there's a chance i'd make it to CD level. a huge gush of pride and glee later, i'm not so sure that's what i want. but we'd deal with it when it becomes a real possibility lah. until then, frolicking with the artboys is a nice way to spend the time between the screaming fits from above and the workworkwork drone.



it may be awhile until i check in again, stay well and out of trouble, internet strangers.





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(fictitious, but borrowed from life for realism.)

Jo White. Lighting Designer.
she's the girl who would paint her nails black when she's in a good mood.

she'd lift her alabaster-white hand to the light to squint critically at her work, split a banana-shaming smile, and paint on little flares wherever the light hits on the glossy finish of her dollar-store nail polish. in her spare time, she churns horror stories in her head for her friend who dare not laugh anymore for fear of cracking his healing, broken ribs. no more comedies for him. ah well, they have to find something to do while hanging out still. she dances in the changing rooms and have sworn off boys as more trouble than they are worth. she maintains though, that that's through no major fault of their own. they are just the allah-blessed lightning rods onto which girls and all their dramas hurl themselves toward. she's still more than willing to stand by the poor girl-worshiping fellows, blinking the glare away and chatting about the sunny weather, but they aren't allowed to rebound to her, ever.