I only want the smell of rain

Days like these
when things don't matter
when you don't matter
when
I only want the smell of rain

of cities & streets
& eyes dreary with sleep
indelible & sublime
swallowed dappled light &
leapt in air, soared

& curled up in love & silk scarves
This is where I belong
in liquid sound
I am going heady with grey
douse me in flowers & sweet tea


______________________________________________________

'So, we have now spent three & a half days in Paris. It's been such a long time since I've sat down & written in this journal, which is strange because I have gone to a great many places & many things have happened since the last entry but somehow nothing has warranted the action of picking up a pen to write. But Paris is something else altogether. 

Even as I write about it, I feel a smile forming & a strange tingling sensation under my skin - I can't help it. For many years I wondered if I loved Paris truly or simply the idea of it, the conglomeration of blurry images & romantic associations pieced together from books & films but when I finally arrived here two years earlier, I knew that I wasn't wrong at all about my intuitions. I remember being bleary-eyed & restless from the flight, but as we rode into the city late in the night, everything felt new because the landscape unfurled willingly at my feet, glowing & resplendent. The city in the day is magical, but at night & in light rain is when I love Paris the best. 

There have been moments before in my life where scenes & moments have stolen my breath & formed images in my mind that stay for a very long time, but Paris two years ago & Paris now are rare instances where the singular scene lengthens into long & beautiful films & last for days. It is a city that resonates deep, within & into my soul. All those beautiful scenes - walking along the love-lock bridge, browsing the tiny bric-a-brac shops by the river Seine, the curly French consonants, smooth like meringue & light as air rising like coffee swirls around us, & yes, all the ugly parts of it too - the dingy backstreets & dusty flea markets, the crummy cafes at St Michel. It is in those places where I can imagine Henry Miller carousing the streets with his ragtag bunch of newspaper men, the Lost Generation writers' bent heads in Sylvia Beach's antiquarian bookstore in the Latin Quarter, & Ezra Pound & Picasso discussing art in Gertrude Stein's house. Paris is all at once a culinary feast, a lovers' destination, an embodiment of art & culture, a sanctuary, a bastion of the finest literature ever written & I love it, I love it all. 

Tomorrow, we leave for Stockholm. After days of French pastries & glasses of wine & bookshops, the Swedish capital feels somewhat drab. But I'll be back soon, it's only a matter of time.'

14/11/2013

Wipe the dust from your eyes

Folk & then some.

Marion - Dan Croll

Open Season - High Highs

Fathers Be Kind - Ivan & Alyosha

I've Got You - Meadowlark

My Love Took Me Down to the River to Silence Me - Little Green Cars

Home - Dan Croll

Selene - Imagine Dragons

Susie - Mikhael Paskalev

Imik si Mik - Hindi Zahra

Always Like This - Bombay Bicycle Club

The Light Is You - Said The Whale

Ragged Wood (Fleet Foxes cover) - Kate McGill

Youth - Daughter

We Sink - Chvrches

Coolie (Prairie Song) - The River & the Road

____________________________________________________

I haven't been blogging much, or rather not at all, but I've been writing plenty. So much has happened & all of it has been inspiring: catching Imagine Dragons & Dan Croll in Stockholm, going to London & spending hours in antiquarian bookshops & reading outdated poetry journals, & of course, Paris. Paris is perhaps the most inspiring of all. Walking the streets alone is a dream & the lines & melodies come quicker than in most places. I remember feeling so incredibly euphoric that I wanted to stop time if only to savour the moment of actually being there. 

But more on that soon. Everything is going by so quickly & I've learnt that time doesn't stop for anyone, so for now I'm treasuring the little time I have left here & soaking it all in while I still can. Till next time!

Currently Reading (4)

1. Les Misérables Volume 1 by Victor Hugo 

'The Paris of 1862 is a city which France has for its suburbs... a maelstrom in which everything is lost; & everything disappears in this whirlpool of the world as in the whirlpool of the sea.'

500 pages of fainting women, the French Revolution & Paris' failed sewage system of the 19th century... Only took two months to read. Only. It's undoubtedly a classic of our time, of course, & I'm glad I finally trawled through the French epic novel but it's going to be a while before I pick up volume 2.

2. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum

'No matter how dreary & gray our homes are, we people of flesh & blood would rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful. There is no place like home.'

Delightful. A classic, albeit in a different way. Anyway, there was a sore need for children's literature after two months of reading Hugo ;)

3. The Cider House Rules by John Irving

'What is hardest to accept about the passage of time is that the people who once mattered most to us wind up in parentheses.' 

I read John Irving's A Widow for One Year sometime in 2012 & swore of his novels forever. A Widow for One Year was an absolute nightmare with its sparse story lines, tiresome characters & unbearably long-winded writing style & I swore I would never put myself through 600 pages of something like that again except that one day whilst youtube surfing, I saw the movie trailer of The Cider House Rules & with an inward groan, decided to give it a go. No regrets at all. While there isn't much of a plot in this novel, the settings are rich & powerful, the events, visceral, & the characters are strong enough to drive the story forward. Irving's writing in The Cider House Rules is also inarguably excellent, with its plot starting slow but swelling like a wave while also tackling sensitive issues without exaggeration or hyperbole, making it believable to readers. Enjoyed it immensely.

4. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway

'Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that.'

The first novel Hemingway ever wrote, & a personal favourite. In The Sun Also Rises, the cityscape of Paris & the violent throes of Spanish bull-fighting are merely embellishments to the main attractions, which are the spirited, but lonely characters & the quick dialogue exchanged between them. There's really nobody who writes witty banter & captures the restless spirit of the Lost Generation better than early Hemingway.

5. By Grand Central Station I Sat Down & Wept by Elizabeth Smart

'Under the redwood tree my grave was laid, & I beguiled my true love to lie down. The stream of our kiss put a waterway around the world, where love like a refugee sailed in the last ship. My hair made a shroud & kept the coyotes at bay while we wrote our cyphers with anatomy. The winds boomed triumph, our spines seemed overburdened, & our bones groaned like old trees, but a smile like a cobweb was fastened across the mouth of the cave of fate.' 

I love love love this book. It's an obvious re-read: the slim volume of prose-poetry is criss-crossed with lines & heavily-marked with circles, the margins filled with ink & exclamation points, simply because this book is so full of beautiful phrases that every line stands out in its own way to me.  Prose-poetry is still a relatively new field of literature to me but even as I explore more of this genre, I am constantly pulled back to this one because of its brilliance. Lovely.

6. Tales of the Jazz Age by F. Scott Fitzgerald

'...as if borne on the dreamy revolution of a slow merry-go-round.'

More literature from the Jazz age. Schizophrenic, quick & grand, & nothing short of the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald.




_________________________________________________________


It's been kind of a slow 2013, reading wise. I've been savouring every chance I get to do some reading, but it's hardly ever enough.Need to set aside whole days for this! Besides work & late-night coffee/ice-cream sessions & random trips to IKEA, nothing much has been happening. Still, I can't help but feel that a full two weeks of sleep would do me some good. So far I'm holding it together, if only by God's grace!

Loads of exciting things are coming up but as far as tonight goes, I'm too tired to type them all out ;) I'll just have to update this space as the events unfold. For now, au revoir!





Other book lists from other times
(1)
(2)
(3)

Paris, 1899

A continuation from here. 

Take time & imagine

A landscape, like hands, warm

& a plane melting into clouds

silently & beautifully as we watch

from down below,

Rose.

Imagine

A scene, like a film, unfolding

enfolding, embracing

tasting like mulled wine, in my mouth

on an autumn day

Cold tongues licking cold ice-creams

A divot, in the glass, in the kaleidoscope, in eyes

Colours aflame

Don't look,

see.

People in graceful waves

These houses must be made of paper, I'm sure

Buildings transform into

shades,

& well

There are a hundred ways to look at the city

but I like my view the best of all.

By the river

the birds cry out,

& the river begins to sing.

________________________________________________

A lot of the time, for me, poetry comes out of a single moment of intense emotion & flows out as if it were seamless dialogue between people. The greatest instance of this happening was in Paris last year, on a three-week-long backpacking trip with two dear friends. I remember we were sitting on the left side of the River Seine, taking photographs & savouring salted caramel & vanilla ice-creams that we had bought with the last of our money. Paris, in all its romanticism & sepia tones & language with its elegant twists & turns, is an inspiration in itself. I remember that it was very cold & the wind was very harsh (even though it was summer) & we were all laughing at the irony of eating ice-cream in such freezing weather, & the very posh & reserved Parisians were looking crossly at us but we didn't care & laughed anyway, & it was all very beautiful & at that moment I started making leaps into my notebook & scribbled masses of words, lines, stanzas. It was just a pity, to not capture that single moment in time on paper, if you know what I mean. I sent it home on a postcard to my family the very next day.

There's a lot that goes into the process of writing poetry, the conscious or unconscious aspect of it all, that's become very interesting to me. Over the course of this semester, I've realised that writers basically fall into two groups: those who sit down & dedicate a portion of their day to writing & mulling over ideas, carefully constructing poems over a duration & creating masterpieces & inspired projects. While I respect these people very much, it's an attitude that I can never hope to emulate because as said before, most of the time, inspiration for me comes from an image or an atmosphere, & transforms itself into a poem or a song. To be honest, it sometimes feels like I'm cheating, like I have snatched the line from thin air & made it my own...

The Only Place

Today I skived school & spent the whole day making photo collages on a new photo app. It was a day well-spent, I think. Sometimes it's alright to play hooky, only once in while, to catch up on life. I miss reading and my guitars. I miss summer.


I miss having time.

Fade out

Imagine

A scene, like hands, warm.

& a plane melting into clouds

silently & beautifully as we watch

from below

cold tongues licking cold ice-creams

a divot, in the glass, in the kaleidoscope, in eyes

colours aflame

Buildings transform into

shades

& well,

there are a hundred ways to look at the city

but I like my view the best of all

Paris

July 2011

Oh, did I ever have it!

I like simple things. I like street shows & the hum of a train station in Paris. I like music with good &  honest lyrics. I like a song composition which musical backbone consists of only a ukulele, a xylophone & three voices. I like simple things, & it's been too long a time since I've heard such a unique sound... it's absolutely refreshing.

Paris' very own We Were Evergreen has a dynamic tome that never goes out of style; Their lyrics & melodies have a naïveté-like quality to it that is endearing, but not over-sentimental. It's something quite special to see... A beautiful song that emerges when a couple of chords on a ukulele are put together with a bass-line & slick vocal harmonies. I always think that the appeal of indie music comes from the sum of its parts, rather than soaring powerhouse vocals or a huge brass section, because it shows such creativity in complex arrangement while remaining relatable to music-listeners. That's why I will always prefer Andrew Bird whistling a simple tune for a pre-chorus, or Edward Sharpe making a song out of claps and twelve voices over more chart-toppers. We Were Evergreen is a perfect, perfect example of this kind of music. Give it a listen, won't you?

You can listen to more variations of their single, Baby Blue, here & here, and also watch this crazy awesome stop-motion video of one of their earlier songs, Penguins & Moonboots. 

Currently Reading (3)

 1. Paris to The Moon - Adam Gopnik

'Paris, carrying on in a time of postmodern immateriality,when everything seems about to dissolve into pixels. We love Paris not out of 'nostalgia', but because we love the look of light on things, as opposed to the look of light from things.' 

A series of almost-academic essays from a lesser-known New Yorker journalist. We've all read the odd epistolary novel on the Parisian experience by an expatriate, who is more or less in love with the idea of Paris but doesn't address it for the true city that it is. This one's different though. It took a bit of time to get through, but Gopnik's reflective novel on Parisian culture & community & politics is beautiful, & breathtaking.

2. Great House - Nicole Krauss

'There are moments when a kind of clarity comes over you, and suddenly you can see through walls to another dimension that you'd forgotten or chosen to ignore in order to continue living with the various illusions that make life, particularly life with other people, possible.' 

Known for quite a while as the wife of Jonathan Safran Foer (Everything is Illuminated, Eating Animals), well, at least to me, Krauss has come out as her own as a writer. The prose is almost poetic, with swelling rhythms & sweeping phrases, heavy, yet dream-like. She writes an impressive, albeit slightly-confusing novel, about an imposing desk & the puzzling array of characters connected with it. 
Other notable works: A History of Love & Man Walks Into A Room

3. Wilderness Tips - Margaret Atwood 

A collection of ten short stories. Not Atwood's best, but good enough. 

4. The Transformation of Bartholomew Fortuno - Ellen Bryson

Rubbish.

5. High Fidelity - Nick Hornby 

'What came first, the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholic person?'

This cult classic, written in Hornby's trademark wit and narrative voice, isn't ground-breaking, but I like it all the time. 

6. What I Talk About When I Talk About Running - Haruki Murakami

'Your quality of experience is based not on standards such as time or ranking, but on finally awakening to an awareness of the fluidity within action itself.'

Have never been a fan of Murakami's writing. Sure, I've read the big ones: Norwegian Wood, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, but I've never seen what the big deal was. And this book on marathon running - Well, I don't really relate well with anything involving physical activity. But strangely, this book was pretty enjoyable. Not a bad read, especially if you're into the sport itself. 

7. 1984 - George Orwell

'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.'

Classic utopian novel. Enough said.

Today... I just felt like writing about books I've read/been reading. Summer holidays haven't really felt like holidays at all, with full-time work, youth camp & the American trip, all following neatly behind each other. And college starts in two weeks. It's been nice though, having these snatches of time: half-hours on trains, whole days in a newly-discovered clandestine cafe, or sprawled on the bed at home, to read. 

Also, I've been banned (by anti-hoarder mom, who else?) from buying any more books till I've read all the ones in my room. We're moving again soon (surprise!), and all I want is a separate room to be modelled into my own library. With the requisite scarlet easy chair, and cosy fireplace.

Too much?



Other book lists from other times
(1)
(2)

Quotes from the Lesser-Known: Part 1

'What is your favourite place in the world?' 

'Paris.' 

'Ah...Really?' 

'Oui.' 

'But why?' 

'(laughs) I'm sure the answer you wanted was something tinged with age-old wisdom that's often associated with seasoned travellers, like 'My favourite place is wherever I am'. I would love to tell you that, but then I'd be lying. Truthfully, I am in love with the cliché that is metropolitan Paris. I am in love with the nostalgic images, the smells of crisp baguettes and hot espressos on a Monday morning, I am in love with the beautiful men (yes, men). I am even in love with my noisy, cigarette-smoking French neighbours, and my grumpy landlady. I sometimes dream of kissing a stranger in the middle of a busy street, like that famous photograph... yes, well, that is how much I am enfolded in the Parisian dream. I might be a cliché, but at least I'm happy.'  

'That's beautiful.' 

'Thank you. Of course, ask me this question again when the faucet is leaking, or when I have three classical lit papers to write, or when I only have fourteen Euros to last me till the end of the week, and I'm sure I'd say my favourite place is anywhere but here.' 

Claudia Lee, 23

Literature student, indie snob & Francophile 

Be not inhospitable to angels

On Wednesday, 14th December 2011, George Whitman died at home in his apartment above his bookshop at the fine age of ninety eight. He will always be remembered as the man who brought fine English literature to the Parisian masses, as the angel who lead many to the joy of reading, and as the Don Quixote of the Latin Quarter. I, for one, will always be grateful for the opportunity I had to experience the magic of Shakespeare and Company. You will be missed.

The European Experience: Part 10

Flea Markets, Bric-à-brac & Knick Knacks

Paris

A world-renown burlesque theater at the foot of a hill, a famous church atop, and stretches and stretches of flea markets nestled behind it. Besides visiting Shakespeare&Company and Laduree Macaroon House, the flea markets of Saint-Ouen behind Sacré-Cœur Basilica stand out the most in my mind.

It was another one of those wandering days; we walked and walked and walked, just soaking in the atmosphere so quintessentially Parisian. No matter, that that day was an uphill trek. We caught our breath outside the church, munched on some savoury crêpes and tuna baguettes for lunch, and listened to breezy live jazz music. The only event that marred the morning was when we were harassed consistently by a horde of African immigrants who wanted to make tourist fare by selling coloured friendship bands. It was rather aggressive, and though Jen & Luki managed to resist the hungry mob, I paid €3 for a sliver of thread (and he had the cheek to ask for €10, mind you!).

After the interlude at Sacré-Cœur, we walked further up in the direction of Saint-Ouen for about an hour, stopping at tiny chocolate pâtisseries and boulangeries. Drifting aimlessly through the tiny street inlets full of beautiful slanted houses and cobbled stone pavement, I didn't realize the gradual change in surroundings. Suddenly, it seemed, we had stepped into the heart of Porte de Clignancourt.

Forget the scenic walks down the River Seine or the thick bohemian air of the Latin Quarter; we have left that side of Paris. Saint Ouen at first glance, is an unruly mass of people, crowded underpasses, and the odd filthy KFC fast food joint standing at street corners. It is the poorer and more real side to the famous city, with large negro families doing their weekly shopping or African immigrants hawking their fake branded goods at roadsides. It is an eye-opener, to say the least, and as we trawled through the noisy crowds it occurs to me that even Paris, in all its elusive magic and grandeur, has its darker sides too.

After getting past the thick band of people, we enter the firsts of the flea markets, which is reminiscent of Singaporean, ah hem, 'pasar malams'. Cheap clothes, boxes of €5 ballet flats and tee-shirt shops. It's not to say that you can't find a couple of treasures (African costume jewelry and bars of lavender-scented Provençal soap, to name a few), but it's the stuff behind all of the fleas we are after; the hectares of Bric-à-brac and antique shops.

It is in places like these where one can get lost, for it's impossible to tell where one stretch of shops end and another begins. They weave into each other like cobwebs, and you can wander into the inner labyrinths of this sprawl, slowly becoming unaware of where you are. The shops are filled with everything, from elaborately gold-leafed teacups to a beautiful leather suitcase nearly encrusted with dust. I remember most clearly, a shop dedicated entirely to the keeping of vintage postcards, photographs and miscellaneous memorabilia, with an almost delicate old man sorting thousands of sheets into small pigeon holes. Double-storey markets like the Marché Vernaison and Marché Antica hold huge collections of art, furniture and 60s records. There you will find the serious furniture and antique item shoppers, and beoccasionally frightened by eccentric shopkeepers who sell eccentric things like (and I kid you not) an elderly couple that sold every kind of 'vintage' farming gear possible. Why miss the chance to own your very own pair of vintage cutting shears, I say!

We didn't buy much from Les Puces due to their exorbitant prices: only a few knick-knacks to bring home and remember Paris by. Still, it isn't the things you bring back, I believe, but the full-hearted experiences and the stories. Saint Ouen, unlike many faux boutiques out there today, is the true definition of the word 'vintage' and has an untouched and unmatchable classiness, even in its forgotten back alleys.

The European Experience: Part 6

Tour De Eiffel
Paris

A quintessential part of Paris' cityscape, a landmark, a glowing wonder. Much has been said about its beauty, but never enough.

We sat on the steps of the Palais d' Chaillot, sandwiched between the luminescent sunset and the rusty-red monument, and simply watched. At 10pm midway though sunset, the Eiffel Tower burst into gold flames and the horde of tourists clapped and hooted enthusiastically, repeating the cycle once every hour. The silent lulls in between were spent writing postcards home and sipping chilled drinks. The night air, however, was punctured by a ragtag bunch of Filipino musicians, eager to make a living out of spare change by doing terrible John Lennon covers. Where were all the saxophonists and violinists in Paris that night? A little Édith Piaf would have been good enough.

Who could imagine Parisians detested the La Tour Eiffel a century ago? Apparently in Paris, the saying goes that 'If you build something, don't expect anyone to like it for the next twenty years'.

So, there's still a chance, dearest Louvre pyramid!

The European Experience: Part 1

Shakespeare & Company
Paris

Weave through the masses of Korean tourists, stacks of new-releases & up the narrow stairwell, and you will find the magical world that is Shakespeare & Company. It is all that a literature lover could dream of; translucent in dream-like quality. Ridiculous as it may seem, stepping into this tiny English bookstore in Paris felt like it was the entire reason I was in Europe; the endpoint of the crossing of continents.

There were tiny, handwritten notes everywhere; stuffed in between wood cracks or strung across walls, left by inspired travelers. It is amazing that ordinary people like you and me can leave our mark where revolutionary writers once lived and breathed and wrote: the likes of Fitzgerald, Joyce, Hemingway, Burroughs... the list goes on.

Perhaps one of the most wonderful things about Shakespeare & Co. is the civility it inspires in people. It seems that everyone is able to sense the magic that is happening in this two-level antiquarian bookstore: even young children or usually-noisy teenagers are quelled the minute they enter. It is as if a pin-drop could shatter the beatific atmosphere. Seeing a queer combination of young girls, children and old men sitting in plush chairs and quietly enjoying the dusty tomes of Sylvia Beach's private library... well, it was a lovely sensation trickling down my spine. I could have stayed forever.



So I bought some A.S. Byatt, a Pablo Neruda poetry medley and a French story collection, to name a few: a burden that Luki unfortunately bore all the way back to Singapore. It's not usually a good idea to buy massive novels whilst backpacking across Europe, but for this, you'll have to make an exception :)