The other day I discovered that Singapore is the 3rd wealthiest nation in the world.
A week before I returned to Singapore from Australia, Mum had to put the pug down.
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.
March 2014, Copenhagen: I’ll always think of Copenhagen as the place where things came together. The crossing of impossible borders by actually getting to Europe (I still cannot believe I got there, and am going back again), artists to collaborate with, a different atmosphere, and overall, a different (better) kind of self to be.
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.
Responsibility to yourself means refusing to let others do your thinking, talking, and naming for you…it means that you do not treat your body as a commodity with which to purchase superficial intimacy or economic security; for our bodies to be treated as objects, our minds are in mortal danger. It means insisting that those to whom you give your friendship and love are able to respect your mind. It means being able to say, with Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre: ‘I have an inward treasure born with me, which can keep me alive if all the extraneous delights should be withheld or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give.’ Responsibility to yourself means that you don’t fall for shallow and easy solutions–predigested …
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.