Editor’s note: I spent a month in Asia, where I grew up, half a year ago. Recently, I found a series of notes on my iPhone from that trip, largely written on airport tarmacs. These are reproduced below. The picture above was taken by my brother during that trip.
I’m afraid time has washed away the memories of my youth and that I will just replace them with the images of this trip.
When I was young I fell asleep peacefully anywhere — sitting upright in an airplane chair, on hardwood floor, in sand. Now that my body is fat and old, I require unsustainable levels of comfort.
I have missed these accents. They make what people say sound interesting again.
I held my hands over my ears to trap in the sounds. My headphone earbuds buzzed like two electronic flies against my fingertips.
He was tan of skin. Grime stained his fingertips and palms. His hair was nicotine or jaundice yellow; sickly, unnatural.
The muggy heat, the colorful monies, the curry aromas — it all feels unmistakably of HOME.
The shoulder is just another lane in Indonesia
I rode a motorbike down a hill going 80 km/h and extended my hands like in Titanic. I had forgotten how glorious childhood can be.
Here cops keep their lights and sirens on perpetually. To pull you over they point and gesture.
The widower maker.
[Buy Perhapsy’s self-titled album. No, seriously, he’s a buddy of mine and needs your money.]
This is great great great. Thanks!
When pesos fall in my lap, I will purchase this album. I’m liking the demo. It’s so musicky.