Isometry

Revisiting this blog feels like returning to a room you once grew up in, and finding a layer of dust coating your bedspread.

It is very sunny today, and I am remembering the people I've lost over the months. My grandfather, who has no more friends alive, had satay and gado-gado for lunch. I had ayam sambal hijau—fried chicken dressed in a fiery green sauce (for sometimes the most intense sources of heat disguise themselves in the coolest colours: consider, for example, the blue flame of the bunsen burner)—and we walked around NEX with Phoebe, our helper. Though I hate this shopping complex, will I love it once it's gone? Every surface in this dreadful place inscribes questions into my head, none of which hold the promise of a satisfactory answer.

Nothing expresses itself in poetry anymore... I find that if anything, language obfuscates more than it provides expression (whatever that means), and in the microeconomy of meaning, there's no room for a generosity of thought, unless one allows one's writing to admit looseness and half-baked ideas.

I think I could live in Hondarribia, and pop into France for groceries should the need arise. I will own a dog named George, and we will grow old in a tiny house perched on a green hill.