Wan Chai

on the plane back to singapore, i sat beside this lady with a protruding mole on her ear and i wondered if anyone, like me, had ever mistaken it to be a black ear stud. her daughter sat next to her, and cramped as jetstar planes are, i had to squeeze past their feet to get to the toilet - the perils of having a window seat instead of an aisle seat - you'd to hold your bladder.
she took out a tiny notebook halfway through the journey and began to jot down things, saving a finer manuscript for writing in a larger notebook. i tried not to peek - i was bleary from nodding off in my cozy corner and had mistakenly thought that the mother and daughter pair had swapped places sometime while i was asleep and half berating myself for not having gone to the loo at the exact same moment that they had swapped places - making it easier for me to move through two seats.
i'd no idea what made me come to that assumption - that they'd swapped places, but anyhow i later realised, with a start, that it was the mother who was writing next to me. i'd no idea what to do - was i supposed to notice that she was writing? most people i know wouldn't write on planes. would one writer know another?
i've no answers to these questions, but seeing someone actually writing a great deal made me feel less special.

the trip back to the airport was a heartwrenching one. i stared at the neon lights initally, wanted to remember them as they were and as the neon lights gradually gave way to the more pleasing view of the city as the shuttlebus went across a long bridge, i thought of the short time i had spent in Hong Kong. a ticket bought on a whim, when i was still unsure, a forced click on the mouse, and more than three hundred dollars was transfered to the airline company. it never fails to amaze me how much can be done in the comfort of anywhere - as long as you have internet connection and a working computer/laptop. i booked my hotel online as well, not a decision that was made with a great amount of care or research, but one that came with necessity - oh where the fuck am i going to sleep tomorrow night? a call was made to some tour agency which happened to be the first i saw when i flipped open the newspapers, as i returned, half-dead from camp. a call later, a return fax with a signed copy of a payment slip, and i was assured of a place to spend the night for the next day. out of convenience, i booked the same hotel for the next 2 nights and it was a decision that i did not regret. the rooms were tiny, yes, but the staff did have a way of making me feel at home, and perhaps, it was the novelty of being in a new place all alone - a place that offered possibilites for me to be totally free from everything, and even perhaps the person i'd thought i was.

the weather was wonderful for the few days that i had spent in Hong Kong - breezy, cloudy with a hint that it might rain, but the umbrella that i had packed along for my trip was left unused in my luggage bag. i wanted to travel light but ended up lugging loads of stuff around in that fred perry bag of mine - bless its' soul - which had provided a perfect solution to go along with any outfit. there was the makeup that had to go into the bag for touchups, a camera to take pictures to remember the moments by, my glasses in case my contact lenses popped out suddenly - no it never happened -, the wallet, the handphone, a book to occupy myself during meals, a notebook and a pen to jot down any sudden inspiration, and yada, yada.

i went wherever i wanted - time being of no consequence to me and neither was there the desire to please a travel mate - my only desire was to please myself - sounds well, whatever, but true. i woke early most days, took a look out of the window, and upon seeing that the sky was still a milky blue hue, turned the other way and fell asleep into my sheets again. i woke when i wanted to - most of the time around 10 and then took my time to wash up, maybe read a bit, if i desired.

the first day, i'd gone to tsim sha tsui and had a meal there, then shopped and had my highlights done - oh, i have red highlights now. blimey, how am i going to rid myself of them before school returns? miss punk-teacher? but i don't care about all that now. it's as alien as book checking was to me, lying supine in the sheets in the tiny dorsett hotel room.

the day i was due to fly back, there was a terrible storm, in return, perhaps, for the fine weather that i'd experienced there so far. the airport was on red alert and no planes flew from the airport. the boarding gate for the airline that i was to take, was changed, a consequence of the storm and all of us passengers, had to take a quick one and a half minute train ride to reach gate 43 from gate 12. i was tickled by a sign next to the train doors that said - Relax, the train will be here in three minutes - that was how i'd gathered that the train ride took one and a half minutes - you mean you thought i had timed the entire thing?

the plane remained on the ground for a very long time before it finally took off, once more, a testimony to how nature can always wreck her fury upon us - look at the earthquakes for inspiration!
when the plane took off, the airbus rattled with such intensity that i thought it might fall apart. then, the plane took off into the stormy clouds and for a moment, all i could see was a white light, a bright blinding white light that was almost epiphanic - as if we had all died and the plane was taking us all to high heaven - literally. it hurt to look at the white light that glowed outside the windows and for a moment, i regretted taking the window seat.
i remembered what i had thought about while waiting at the departure lounge, that if the plane crashed - and i have this morbid thing about always thinking that the plane i am about to take might crash, that i died living my dreams and then i would think to myself in the final moments that the plane would take a downward spiral - of the possibilites of a life not lived - of a boy lying in a fitful fever against the headboard of an old bed, of me in the classroom once again, of my parents, of old friends and companions. and i realised in Hong Kong, that there really wasn't much that i could possibly think about in the course of my lifetime that i could want to recall when i was facing death.

i've always not known the phrase - life is but a dream, but over the past few days, in trying to capture each moment as it is, in trying to narrate each moment as it occurs to me, and failing, i see how life really is a dream - i can never capture each transcient moment in its posterity, as it is. and i will never be able to.