On walking

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…More


The thing that haunts me, is how normal my father’s absence feels. Has felt from the beginning.More

Somewhere down the crazy river…

Yeah, I can see it now The distant red neon shivered in the heat I was feeling like a stranger in a strange land You know where people play games with the night God, it was too hot to sleep…. – Robbie Robertson, Somewhere Down The Crazy River Singapore. Home to eternally anxious masses, the…More

Life, death and gratitude: A year of gypsy living

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.More

On bright stars in dark nights.

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…More

On Lingering

It seemed like my father lingered. When the monitors holding testament to the continued attachment of his body to its spark of life finally displayed flat lines, his chest rose and fell, propelled by the machine that forced oxygen into his lungs. Too ravaged to breathe on his own in those last days, he breathed via…More

Numbering loss

My entire understanding of my father’s death at this point, rides on numbers. September 4 – the stage of cancer he was diagnosed with.More