dress rehearsal

I am a plane that doesn’t take off. I am a plane that takes off and explodes in mid-air. I am an airliner. No, I’m a jet fighter. I am Maverick.

If I am to leave here a long time and come back and feel estranged from this blog, should I even bother writing in it? And what purpose does it serve except as a platform of self-expression?

This is my dress rehearsal.

This afternoon I was sick and I couldn’t focus on my work. Instead I pulled out books of poetry from my bookshelf and started reciting them out loud, both in English and in Chinese, even though I am sick and my throat has been sore. Still I like having words around me, having words fill my home-office and the streets below for all my homies in Tin Hau.

I am Roy Halladay in the seventh inning of a no-hit game. Tunnel vision under the beak of my cap. I don’t want to talk to anyone now, but everyone’s invited to the celebration that will surely come.

Sitting on the bench, downstairs from my flat, I look to my right...



I look to my left...