Now that I am utterly sure that no one reads this blog anymore, I think I can try to revert it back to what it was when I started this 9 years ago.
A journal for my own thoughts.
A journal for my own thoughts.
"I was truly enthralled by the events documented by TWELVE 11 (a rarity, frankly), and was actually hoping that Loh Yin San would post her works on Youtube or somewhere just so that it could gain a much wider audience beyond festival circuits as she has had some difficulties trying to get TV stations to broadcast the documentary. I personally would try to help her spread the film around."
"The passing days and months are eternal travellers in time. The years that come and go are travellers too. Life itself is a journey; and as for those who spend their days upon the waters in ships and those who grow old leading horses, their very home is the open road. And some poets of old there were who died while travelling.
There came a day when the clouds drifting along with the wind aroused a wanderlust in me, and I set off on a journey to roam along the seashores. I returned to my hut on the riverbank last autumn, and by the time I had swept away the cobwebs, the year was over.
But when spring came with its misty skies, the god of temptation possessed me with a longing to pass the Barrier of Shirakawa, and road gods beckoned, and I could not set my mind to anything. So I mended my breeches, put new cords on my hat, and as I burned moxa on my knees to make them strong, I was already dreaming of the moon over Matsushima.
I sold my home and moved into Sampû’s guest house, but before I left my cottage I composed a verse and inscribed it on a poem strip which I hung upon a pillar:
This rude hermit cell
Will be different now, knowing Dolls’
Festival as well."
An award-winning short film I produced, TINY PUPIL (2012) yxineff.com/film/xiao-tong… is now available online for a short while. Please RT this.
— Edmund Yeo (@greatswifty) September 27, 2012
This is the story of a man marked by an image from his childhood. The violent scene, whose meaning he would not grasp until much later, took place on the great jetty at Orly, a few years before the start of the Third World War.
On Sundays, parents bring their children to watch the planes... Of this Sunday, the child of this story would remember the frozen sun, the scene at the end of the jetty. Moments to remember are just like other moments. They are only made memorable by the scars they leave. The face he had seen was to be the only peacetime image to survive the war. Had he really seen it? Or had he invented the tender gesture to shield him from the madness to come? The sudden noise, the woman's gesture, the crumpling body, the cries of the crowd. Later, he knew he had seen a man die.