salle 1003

butterfly hotel on morrison rd., causeway bay. sometimes at nights, after i got tired of walking, chasing the time, reading books, i'd just sit there by the window of this small room drinking coffee and listening to bud powell. watching. watching the flats on the opposite side of the road. sometimes i'd try to take a peek into one of the windows with curtains opened. the rooms were bathed in beige lights—or was it probably the color of the wall? je ne savais pas. i thought of the lives they lived. the events in their lives i could only imagine.

the positive hiatus—i guess?

so many things to learn, explore, cultivate, and put together. i am now enjoying my precious solitude, trying to arrange a decent book and short stories. i want to create a book that will leave people lingering for a long time even after they've finished it. like henry miller's tropics. at saturdays if mood strikes i attend jazz concerts, with friends—gathering inspirations. i have my journal with me all the time. right now i'm enjoying the pursuit of my passion in writing and illustration. i feel the enrichments from the other side of the lens, i can say.

i'll surely return to the blogosphere, of course, although not now, or immediately this month. i plan to change the name of the blog into stealing lights. or the one which incorporates two of my favorite words: fire and dreams—le feu des rêves. fire of dreams.

see you again soon !

les petits riens

ph: devina

it carries a chill in me. a brush of fresh air. freedom. dance. literary passion. curiosity. i love spending my days in a secluded place, reading thick paperbacks to kill time. reinhardt jazz blaring in my ears. i'm feeling strong. i'm still running, always running. j'ai finalement perdu dans mes rêves. i would write love declarations in gaelic, smoke my regular mild seven, go out without telling anybody, and shoot letters at the sky. il y avait toujours un vide, un vide très, très nul.

la joie imaginaire

ph: devina

michel legrand. "sous le ciel de paris". the same afternoon, same afternoon rain. same wind, same dryness, same traces of time on the cold linoleum tiles. i keep on inventing by writing, challenging, dreaming. it is through them that i find insanity, life, internal whispers. i still keep the flame he'd left me that september. it was raining back then, too. i was with him at his studio. same cold, white, bleak linoleum tiles. him: "long day." today, my favorite secondhand bookstore. thick hardback. iced coffee. hot apple tea. cigarettes, cigarettes, seemingly no-end of them.

i think about him. mo grà. he's with somebody else now. elle l'aime beaucoup. il n'est pas l'aime. les complications dans deux gens imparfait.

l'une des nuits

ph: devina

dream. reality.traces. missing steps. stories. i felt like floating on a personal wonderland, writing down about the personal wonderland, getting lost in there, just praying. this city. the people. smoke. cigarette butts. gypsy jazz. all i wanted was to avoid confusion and get on with life. this life.

i was probably missing something, searching something, an absolution, a truth, an echo. that would be just one of those nights. i couldn't stop thinking about you, i wanted to say. tell him. the truth. if i were to write a book, it'd be titled if i were anais.

he could be my henry

olive lights

ph: my sis

i once knew a friend who was addicted to jazz and coffee. she said she wanted nothing else than a good place to read; a good, silent place in which she could linger inside her own hardboiled wonderland. she loved to read, she loved to write, she loved to dream. all day long she told me her dreams about exploding over the city like fireworks. my raison d'etre, she said.

jamie bell

saw the eagle with my lil sister by the end of last month and i was completely blown away by his role as Esca, the briton slave. but damn it, i didn't expect the movie to be that good and detailed !