1. The reason why Pollock is still relevant is because his paintings promise the possibility of liberation, of being-in-itself, being-in-the-moment, of unhindered movement, fluid, intangible and multiple, an escapist dream. That in our own little ways, we are able to find loopholes in the system, loopholes that allow us to be free of rigid structures, chained minds (most of all). And I know I am naive and idealistic and over-optimistic. But in this tiny space that I own, at least I am able to put everything down and fully, whole-heartedly, engage with dreams. Whether they actually come true is another matter.

2. Last night we heard the story of the dead body found floating in the canal. Apparently it had been there for some time because the body was discolored beyond recognition. So...we wonder...how many dead bodies lie beneath the water?

3. In the tram, a man leans over to kiss his wife. Twice on the lips, a pat on the thigh, he smiles.

Bibliotheek

Typically, if I had a choice, I would never go to libraries. They are always too cold, too quiet, too claustrophic. But the Amsterdam central library is the best library I've ever been in. I am so inspired by the architecture of the building and the unique interior of each floor. The air-con temperature is just right. Comfortable couches accompanied by little tables occupy the space next to every window. There are music corners, glass displays of art pieces, and a lovely cafe. You see, these subtle details are also the most important things to take note of.

Obsession with lights

At the bag museum, I was more enthralled by the lights than the bags. When we asked a woman on the streets if she knew where the museum was, she said, "I don't know! There is a museum for everything in Amsterdam!"
(Copyright! Please do not use the photos without permission.)

I wonder when I developed this ability to wait, for the phone to ring, for a person to show up, in the end I got stood up. What's even more absurd about this eager waiting business is that I've never even met him before, not to say know him, now I'll never know. In between the hours of waiting, I confront blank walls, the flower motif bedsheets, they drive me crazy. I confront myself and I still can't differentiate between now and then, me and you, this and that. At MacDonalds, I contemplated getting some mushrooms to get high but they cost too much. So I ate fries instead, and wrote in my notebook about this strange day and this strange feeling. And I looked so pretty today, but I was freezing and hugging myself while waiting for the tram. A man pooped and peed in the tram, I'm not shitting you. It was so funny (of course in reality, it was not funny at all because the tram conductors had to deal with the shit; they were going on and on, "Het is niet normaal!!!" (no of course not). But I couldn't stop laughing. The man, he left the tram with a huge stain on his pants, and I saw him turn his head back and smile. Man, you're not the only one losing your mind.

Ode to

The evening light shines through the foyer, a shadow cast across the man sitting on the steps. His eyes are closed, his hands clasped tight, veins stretched and skin worn out. I want to ask him, “How do you feel now? My hands are cold and punctuated with frost bites. I want somebody to warm them, heal the cuts, and give them life because it scares me how absurdly cold they can be (and it’s only September).” But my voice falters, weakens, and becomes as lifeless as the fingers turned blue. He doesn’t look at me. He never looks at me. I imagine that we are one in the grass, the golden rays falling upon us. I imagine that we are in love with love, with wind chimes that move the city. Fierce hearts. The littlest things that sparkle and blossom into clouds of laughing cupids. But this is not to be. “No thanks, no more, no love. I’m done, I’ve had enough. You’re going away with her and I wish I was...alright, be on your way” (Ode to, Rachel Yamagata). Opposite him, there is a woman and her child. She sees her child with a funny eye, which says, “Are you really my baby? You come from my womb but you seem so far away from me.” The child does not hear her mother’s cries. She is looking up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with her fingers. There is no past for the forgetful. No present, no future, if there is no past. How can he remain so still, so unmoving, or is this also part of my imagination? This illusion of failure, only because I dreamt of success? This nonsense called love – I never believed in it – and therefore wanted to believe in it so that I could doubt it when I finally did trust it? A man walks across the foyer. He wears blue, and carries a bucket of paint. He stops mid-way, a gloomy silence. Has he forgotten where he comes from and where his destination is? Clocks stop for the man deep in thought. I hear the sound of an aeroplane. I see the engine smoke spiral downwards. He starts again, this time in rapid paces. Dust descends, he says, “This too shall pass.”

I need to fix my eyes and my memory. I keep forgetting people. This morning in the kitchen, I met a guy and I said, "Hi I've not met you before. My name is Angeline." He looked at me, shook my hands, and then I realized that I have met him before. In fact, he lives in the room next to mine. And he remembers my name and that I come from Singapore. Just now, I bumped into a girl, and I asked, "which room do you live in?" She said she is Kim (one of the flatmates)'s friend. Then I remembered that I have also seen her before. She remembers my name too. I need a camera and a notepad to take down the faces and names of people I meet. This is really embarrassing.

Utrecht

I decided to do my review on the exhibition(s) in Utrecht Centraal Museum (and to take the opportunity to visit the city where I once lived). First I grabbed a doner, then got my kway teow from Toko supermart, checked out the weekend market, visited the museum, and had some beer. I'm still in love with Utrecht, with the golden leaves.