Tag: Life

First Try at Lomo

photography October 25, 2018

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Hyde Park, London 2018


I write to express my feelings: the bed-side thoughts that keep me up on quaint nights, or troubles that cloud my head every passing hour. Or things that I want to remember: the nice cosy cafe by Russell Square station I’ve walked past one early evening or that one night I’ve strolled across the empty park under the biggest full moon ever. When I write stuff like these I try to write them with an immense amount of detail, because to me writing is a way to keep track of things. A way of not forgetting things. I am not going to lie about this pastime of mine by prefacing all my writing with a notion that I derive happiness from simply the act of creating or imagining something. To be ultimately frank I write to remember. Hence my ability to write or lack thereof springs from my desire to keep things intact in my memory. Like a paraphernalia for old and lost moments in my life I often forget about. For some time though, writing was insufficient in capturing everything I want to keep in my memories. Sure, I could describe indefinitely about how I was entranced by the reflection of the moon rippling across the lake or that one stranger I came across who had the oddest-looking boots; but sometimes there were limitations to which I can describe about things I can distinctly recall. So I was looking for other platforms of expression, and somehow I stumbled into lomo cameras.

I have mentioned multiple times on my blog that I am a very analog-obsessed person; I like everything from crumbling old love letters — even if they aren’t addressed to me — to rusty gold-rimmed clocks. I could say that simply the traces of age the items harbor make them different from the modern times, where everything is swift and easy. We can access everything nowadays with a click, press, and a swipe. Nothing was easy back then. Everything had to be thought of countless times before the backlit feeling of the heart could be expressed. It is harder, but hence more thoughtful. The years of hand-held evidence feels different; it just seems more heartfelt and dear. Lomo cameras — analog cameras, so called — use rolls of film to process photographs. And to process film, you would usually have to wait an average of three days. It seems like an agonizing wait for a set of thirty-six photos, but the beauty of time makes up for it. Just imagine taking pictures of the things that you love and thinking and recalling about them for three nights before facing them once again. It is slow, but it feels more precious that way. You learn to appreciate the act of remembering.

In contrary to my previously explained love for lomography however, my first roll turned out to be a disaster. I did not know (although I should have known) that you weren’t supposed to open the back of the camera with the film still rolling — or however professionally you’d phrase that — and exposed my film too early. I ended up losing one-third of my photos. It was a shame, but to be fair the rest of the photos that I’ve managed to salvage were not as exceptional either. I’m satisfied with the few photos, considering that this had been my trial shots. The three photos I have uploaded are my favorite shots (actually the only decent ones in the entire roll), all taken from Hyde Park. I have been to every corner in Fitzrovia street to Hyde Park, but those three were my most memorable ones. The soft-spoken conversation that the couple sitting on the bench was having, the genuine looks they were exchanging — there is an element of intimacy in that moment. It is a feeling that I can never describe fully in words.

One good thing about analog camera is that there is rarely a need to edit them. I usually edit and fix my photos here and there when I use my digital camera — sometimes so drastically that I’d only need a quarter of what I have actually taken. I’d have to edit the brightness or contrast to fully bring out the colors and feelings I was looking with when I was taking the photos. Films capture the moment itself. Its lens has a layer of antiquity marked by a bona fide feeling of sincerity. And that is something I hope to acquire when I look back on my memories — an unfeigned honesty with a hint of wholeheartedness — not with a perfunctory, prompt acknowledgment of past events.

The Art of Writing a Letter about Thinking of You

Life September 28, 2018

I write a lot of letters. On sleepless nights like these, I like to listen to one of my oddly named Spotify playlists and scribble whatever comes up to my mind with my very messy, occasionally – actually most of the times – illegible penmanship. Maybe it’s because that I have this peculiar obsession over the analog era. Old rusty clocks with gold rims that don’t tick anymore or binoculars you use on your night escapades to watch constellations. Besides the point, I just like the idea of completely immersing yourself into the thought of someone while you’re writing about them. The whole moment is surrounded by that one idea of the person. The way you hold your pen, or write your ‘g’s, the words you choose – they are all dominated by the thought of it. It’s more genuine, because the recipient of the letter can actually read the heart and time in between the lines.

I feel like it’s a more effective way to deliver a thought to someone you care, more than a text or an email. But that’s just me. There are probably faster, more effective ways to tell someone you care. It also does not help that I am analog-obsessed. So as much as I love receiving a letter, I love writing them. When I have someone I just can’t get off my mind I start writing. I write about everything. About my day — the one good halloumi wrap I ate that morning, the homeless guy sleeping I saw on my way to the park, this old record shop selling a bunch of ABBA records that I probably should not get, or hours spent trying to tell apart the stars at night. And sometimes I write about writing about them. About how much I think of them. I write about thinking of writing about them. I rarely send them though, because sometimes they are so transparent and honest that I would feel too exposed and bare just by the thought of them being read. Most of my letters are disposed before they are sent.

That’s probably the reason I grew up to be a coward. The more letters I write, the more I hide when I actually have to say something. It wouldn’t matter to me because I would just say those in the letters. The letters I will never send. The letters that will never be read. The words he will never know. I have many regrets about things I hadn’t had the chance to say. I write them all down, well-knowing they will never get delivered, and try to send the thoughts away by disposing the letter in the morning. Will I have more regrets about unspoken thoughts and hearts? Probably. So I write this as an extension to my unresolved letters. Who knows, this might be a letter in disguise too.

the difference between me and a fish

Life September 28, 2018

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Just when I was ten, I was afraid of swimming. I didn’t like the feeling of water brimming up to my throat when I immersed myself in water. I didn’t like the pressure of water pressing against my eyelids, or the slightest distance between my feet and the bottom of the water my toes could never reach. I hated the weight of my own body bringing myself to the brink of drowning. I didn’t like the feeling of losing control of my own body. The aversion reached to the point to which I felt like I was losing a grasp of myself whenever I sank beneath the waters. I am a month short of nineteen as I write this, and I am perfectly capable of swimming and manoeuvering my limbs underwater. And I also understand my deep aversion for swimming when I was little. I didn’t like it when things got out of my hands, so hopelessly that I can’t even attempt to handle them.

It is rather odd to realize this through the concept of water. Maybe this is why I have always possessed an element of awe towards marine creatures. Even the two goldfish that lived in the bleak corner of my house when I was eight held some kind of wonder to me. They are so free underwater – free of any sort of physical limitation in an environment I have always found so foreign. (Although using the adjective ‘free’ to describe the goldfish in this case would deem quite ironic because they have lived and died in the minute glass bowl in the corner of my small room in my tiny, tiny apartment.) But it still depresses me a little, just a tad bit whenever I see a giant roasted fish on the dinner table, with is once glossy eyes covered by a layer of dried cloudy mucus, its fins dried up and flesh ready for disassembling. It is a morbid, bleak feeling – a kind of dark promise that I will never be free of whatever that is restraining me either.

If you think about it, my awe towards fish and other marine creatures is completely invalid. It is normal to feel a little physically restrained when underwater, because the water is not our natural habitat. If you put a fish on the shore, I am sure it would feel incapable too. (Not implying that this should be tried out of pure curiosity) Any other land that isn’t home would feel foreign and unfamiliar. By the time I realized that I discovered that my fear of water was more psychological than I had thought.

So I have figured as I waddle towards the end of my teenagehood, that it wasn’t the matter of whether I am capable of swimming or not. It wasn’t simply the question of whether I can successfully maintain my floating stance on the water surface, or move my arms against the waves such that I can propel myself forward. Because I am adept at all of those now, to the extent that if I were involved in a plane crash and I had to escape the wreck and swim to the nearest island, I would probably be able to do that. I can proudly say that my swimming isn’t necessarily terrible, per se. The real issue is that I am still deeply terrified of situations in which I cannot do anything about. I still hate the feeling of helplessness. Throughout my life, there had been various occasions where I was subjected to this; when I say this though, I don’t just mean the triviality, like being unable to open the jam bottle no matter how hard I try (because in most of the cases, it is very likely I can’t).

These occasions hold such an integral position in my life – especially in building who I am as a person. Perhaps that is the reason I am so deeply terrified of this feeling, because it constitutes such a big portion of my identity. Or maybe I dislike changes. Or both. Who knows? The important thing is, I am still learning. I have found out that my fear doesn’t actually lie in swimming. I have discovered the specific cause of the ‘phobia’. I’ve narrowed it down to a point where this feeling usually occurs during human-to-human interactions, in cases where people I love are at their lowest point and are slipping through my fingers. I am continuously finding more things about myself – but I also know now that just because something is so integral to the construction of your identity, it doesn’t mean that it has to dominate yourself as a person.

A fish can swim. So can I. I was afraid of swimming, and I bet you a fish will not be the most delighted to venture on land. At least now, I’ve disintegrated the fear further enough that I understand myself more than I did before. Maybe one day I won’t even remember that I’ve had this fear of swimming.