A pink box bouncing from edge to edge inside a television. A live-streamed funeral on an iPhone, soft-singing voices on low volume. Onion sizzling in a brand-new pan, the flourishing of steak in a bloom of hot oil. Cooked flesh. Kitchen noises, kitchen smells. A beeping microwave fighting the funeral rhythms leaking through iPhone speakers. Onion tears. A sleeping dog curled up in a too-small … Continue reading a kitchen-esque evening.
My mother was a pianist, once. She lived alone, on the second floor of a grey apartment building perched on the edge of Seoul. It was just out of the city, because it was all she could afford, and a 40 minute car ride to her job selling sushi and tea to tourists and suit-clad workers at an art gallery that overlooked the skyline. She … Continue reading the pianist
The cup was yours this morning. It’s funny how it’s yours one day and mine the next. Coffee and tea, tea and coffee. A small clay creation – a model of those little white porcelain ones you get with your jasmine tea at a yum cha. But this one is different. Misshaped and glazed with an array of colours that don’t go well together. The … Continue reading where’s the coffee?
When I was little, I had this houseplant that sat on a shelf in my house above the mantlepiece. It was dark green with these huge elephant-ears that spread across the marble, like legs. I was right near obsessed with that Ficus. I’d sit there just about any time I got looking at it – the waxy fiddle leaves and little veiny webs that weaved … Continue reading ficus
river bends inked with glistening pearls of water – hydrogen, oxygen that when separated are life taking, life giving. and together, life itself. river bends caressed by steady flows of water that swim protected by clouds of flowering yellows pinks blues purples. by towering trees on bladed greens in crumbling browns. but now that’s all they are – memories of colour. river bends … Continue reading cry me a river
the undergrowth. 