I am on the flight home to Singapore on an A380, and I just finished watching a movie “The Reader”. The credits are now rolling, and the accompanying music is beautiful; French horn, flute, piano, pizzicato viola. It is a good movie. Or perhaps I should watch it again before I conclude so.
A sobriety
But it is good enough to inspire me to write. It is good enough to make my lips tremble. It is good enough to engulf me with a sobriety a good movie, a good book does. I do not even understand all of the movie. But does it matter? It drenches me in a consciousness that allows me to notice every detail around me; my retina changing size as it oscillates between the glow of the screen and the darkness of the cabin, how the person next to me puts his cup into the cup-holder as he continues to read his book under his private light, how my fingernails hit the keyboard like a lady with long nails, how my lips feel as the tissue wipes away grains of salt after the crisps. I can feel the sobriety on the tips of my hairs.
The damp clarity
I do not know what this means, but this dampness of a heightened clarity of mind is so powerful it inspires both my mind and my fingers, allowing words to flow from both entities as if two jazz musicians improvising perfectly despite meeting for the first time.
The double bass and the piano continue to flow into my ears, into my words. I do not know what this all means, where all this is heading.
Uncle T
20 Jul 2009
19 Jul 2009
Learning to "let go" 12:27 am
My familiar grey hat in front of me, double espresso with milk next to me, I await my flight home. No, my flight to Singapore. For now, I am not certain where home is. But I will get there; I will know where home is, and I will get there. Home is where the heart is.
And now I must begin. I am ready to learn to “let go”.
The opening scene of the movie “Love Actually” is of an airport, and has remained a poignant mental mantelpiece for me. Airports are gateways to change, to alphas and omegas, to journeys. I cannot believe how real those Hollywoodish scenes can be, but here is mine right here, right now. Once I leave Heathrow today, I officially end one journey and start a new one upon touching down at Changi. It doesn’t get more Hollywood-harbinger than this.
And to begin this new journey, I must “let go” of the previous.
I never believe when someone says letting go is as easy as “turning the page to a new chapter”. Even if someone did say it, I believe they are euphemistically expressing a painful process, much like swallowing whilst having an awfully sore throat; you get on with it but it sure is sore doing so. Perhaps it is easier for others, but leaving Warwick behind sure has been and is difficult for me.
How can you actually let go of something that has become a part of you, when it has infused itself as part of your eternal entity? It is not like an accessory that can be taken off, it has become an organ; my university life in Warwick has become a part of me, a harmony so tight like a perfect fifth. So letting go will be at best “letting go”. To “let go” is to come to accept that the future holds opportunities and realities that my past cannot hinder. My Warwick experience can augment but can never replace my future.
Just two days earlier, I was so reluctant to throw out my old clothes. Daddy joked in his exaggerated philosophical stature that a new life was ahead of me and I should throw out my old clothes for new ones. But his joking swaddled me in a profound sobriety that I have to be brave enough to throw out the old to make way for the new. And so I did. Two bagful of abandoned clothes later, my heart wept not for the buttons and made-in-china fabrics, but for the breathing memories they held.
I sip my coffee. I check the time; one hour to take-off.
What about the hearts I got to know, the faces I got to recognise, the accents I got accustomed, the stories I shared, the bodies I got acquainted, the souls I intertwined, the experiences I smelled? These can never be let go off; they can only be archived in the shallow depths of my spirit, the key always in my mental-pocket, on hand. “Letting go” is learning what to keep, what to throw.
The speaker above informs me it is soon my turn to board.
I stare at my keyboard which is more British than Singaporean, my ring more French, my red luggage more Londoner, my grey hat and made-in-china shoes fully British.
The speaker above informs me it is even sooner my turn to board.
Faces, smiles, lips, running mascara, late-night messages, hands, cups, chairs, grass, bunnies, ducks, books, winter, Grey’s Anatomy, dresses with strings, suppers, toothbrush, summer, eyes, kisses, books, tears…
Its my turn. I have got to go. Row 45. Seat J. God. It feels like standing at the hatch before the sky-dive I never took. I can almost hear the MRT train announcements in Singapore. Almost. “Let go” nic.
My nostrils flare, I bite my trembling lips.
Uncle T
And now I must begin. I am ready to learn to “let go”.
The opening scene of the movie “Love Actually” is of an airport, and has remained a poignant mental mantelpiece for me. Airports are gateways to change, to alphas and omegas, to journeys. I cannot believe how real those Hollywoodish scenes can be, but here is mine right here, right now. Once I leave Heathrow today, I officially end one journey and start a new one upon touching down at Changi. It doesn’t get more Hollywood-harbinger than this.
And to begin this new journey, I must “let go” of the previous.
I never believe when someone says letting go is as easy as “turning the page to a new chapter”. Even if someone did say it, I believe they are euphemistically expressing a painful process, much like swallowing whilst having an awfully sore throat; you get on with it but it sure is sore doing so. Perhaps it is easier for others, but leaving Warwick behind sure has been and is difficult for me.
How can you actually let go of something that has become a part of you, when it has infused itself as part of your eternal entity? It is not like an accessory that can be taken off, it has become an organ; my university life in Warwick has become a part of me, a harmony so tight like a perfect fifth. So letting go will be at best “letting go”. To “let go” is to come to accept that the future holds opportunities and realities that my past cannot hinder. My Warwick experience can augment but can never replace my future.
Just two days earlier, I was so reluctant to throw out my old clothes. Daddy joked in his exaggerated philosophical stature that a new life was ahead of me and I should throw out my old clothes for new ones. But his joking swaddled me in a profound sobriety that I have to be brave enough to throw out the old to make way for the new. And so I did. Two bagful of abandoned clothes later, my heart wept not for the buttons and made-in-china fabrics, but for the breathing memories they held.
I sip my coffee. I check the time; one hour to take-off.
What about the hearts I got to know, the faces I got to recognise, the accents I got accustomed, the stories I shared, the bodies I got acquainted, the souls I intertwined, the experiences I smelled? These can never be let go off; they can only be archived in the shallow depths of my spirit, the key always in my mental-pocket, on hand. “Letting go” is learning what to keep, what to throw.
The speaker above informs me it is soon my turn to board.
I stare at my keyboard which is more British than Singaporean, my ring more French, my red luggage more Londoner, my grey hat and made-in-china shoes fully British.
The speaker above informs me it is even sooner my turn to board.
Faces, smiles, lips, running mascara, late-night messages, hands, cups, chairs, grass, bunnies, ducks, books, winter, Grey’s Anatomy, dresses with strings, suppers, toothbrush, summer, eyes, kisses, books, tears…
Its my turn. I have got to go. Row 45. Seat J. God. It feels like standing at the hatch before the sky-dive I never took. I can almost hear the MRT train announcements in Singapore. Almost. “Let go” nic.
My nostrils flare, I bite my trembling lips.
Uncle T