This is a rejigged Instagram post What makes Stockholm – that astoundingly beautiful city – extra special is the people that Flemming and I get to see. Fujifilm Nordic is headquartered here, so when we’re in town, we get to catch up with our Fujifilm family. All of us – the good Fuji Nordic folks, fellow X-Photographers Knut and Mia – met at Fotografiska this time, at that wonderful restaurant with the epic view at its top level. There was talk of pirate eye patches, getting your teeth industrially checked at the Eastman Dental Institute (never knew Kodak and teeth were a thing), Swedish crayfish parties, and Instax cameras. Against the mad vista of Stockholm at dusk, very fine food, and a decent amount of …
Singapore-Malaysia border Both my parents were born in Malacca, Malaysia, so as a kid, we went there at least once a year to visit family (mostly Mum’s though: my aunties, uncle and grandfather). A long while ago. It has been more than 20 years since I’d stepped into my uncle’s house. The place itself was largely unchanged, a cool, quiet respite from tropical afternoons, terrazzo floors soothing to hot, dusty feet; my grandfather’s old pedal-drive Singer sewing machine still in service. Downtown, UNESCO Heritage listed Malacca though, brought back only occasional moments of deja vu. The bazaars and shops on Jonker Street meant little to a child, although Heeren Street, with its stately Peranakan mansions, is still impressive. We went inside a few restored shophouses; …
A week before I returned to Singapore from Australia, Mum had to put the pug down.
My sister Chris lays emotional claim to my pictures of seagulls. “They’re my birds,” she says of the ones that were in the big book of pictures I once gave her for Christmas.
30 April 2014, Singapore: I’ve been in Singapore for six months. This is the longest time I’ve been here since I left fifteen years ago.
Walking is in my blood. My father was never one for it, but my mother is a walker. It wasn’t unusual for her to walk for hours for the hell of it, with unfailing regularity. Now in her mid 60s, with troublesome knee joints, she still possesses enough enthusiasm to out-walk many people half her age.
The thing that haunts me, is how normal my father’s absence feels. Has felt from the beginning.
2013 has been the best year of my life so far. I say this not only for the great parts of the journey, but the shitty bits too. I say this because through it all, it felt like I’d actually lived for the first time in my life, rather than just existing for no discernible reason.
2013 was year where my desire to go walkabout with possessions in a bundle at the end of a stick – or a couple of bags in my case – came true. I’ve been on it for a year and a week today, but rather than some far flung locale, I’m writing this post from my childhood home. Home is something that seems to punctuate journeys though, so perhaps there is no better place.
My entire understanding of my father’s death at this point, rides on numbers. September 4 – the stage of cancer he was diagnosed with.
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