On 21 July 2021,

The wheel keeps turning. I sunbathe in Regent’s Park with my bra and panties showing. The editors of Apple Daily are snatched from the streets like nits on a child’s head. Four runners jog in unison. My feet blister from my ballet flats.

The wheel keeps turning. Toasted rye bread, hummus, chargrilled peppers, halloumi. There are people protesting a global pandemic. We avoid getting tested to avoid quarantine. There are people marching for Palestine. I am smoking IQOS because I cannot find my Juul.

The wheel keeps turning. The four-membered One Direction is still on “hiatus”. The four-membered Big Bang is still on “hiatus”. I am sick with all the symptoms of COVID, but without the COVID, but with Sinovac in my blood. We need an app called Clyx to hang out with our friends. A burst oil pipe set the ocean on fire. 

The wheel keeps turning. I think I would rather learn forever than work in any job I currently know exists. I am learning Python 3. Chokers are out, mullets are in. They have rebooted Gossip Girl, iCarly and Sex and the City. Nostalgia is, as ever, damp and sticky.

The wheel keeps turning. I cannot form political opinions because media is not trustworthy and I am terribly removed from some planes of reality. A book exists that explains Taoism through Winnie the Pooh. I got a First in my BA Comparative Literature thanks to my dissertation titled “The Myth of Hedonism and Eastern Otherness: the Bacchae, the Beat and the Banished Immortal”. I still haven’t read my friends’ theses. 

The wheel keeps turning. London knows the difference between Tinder, Bumble and Hinge. I am still trying to fall in love. The Amazon rainforest is emitting more carbon than it sequesters. Longboard dancing is in, my father can do it. Home isn’t a place nor is it people.

The wheel keeps turning. Cities forget what silence is. Animals only approach those with kind souls. Time ripples as I dive in like a duck in a pond. 

The wheel keeps turning. I read but I don’t know how to write. The freckles on my sun-kissed skin will never fade away. Strange men stare, racists snicker rather than glare. Football did not come home, lads. 

The wheel keeps turning. Hot girl summer is in, friendship bracelets beaded on flimsy fish-line strings are in, qipao’s are in, Asian racial justice is out. ‘Asian’ refers only to East Asia, for most people here. Progress is in, innovation is in, using and inventing new technology for climate change is in. Jeff Bezos is in space and there are two hundred thousand signatures on a petition to keep him there. The days are getting shorter.

The wheel keeps turning. I miss home and I am alone. Post-colonial cuisine. Hardbacks. Mexico. Sei Shonagon. Upcycling. Downgrading. Rosters. Love Island. That cargo boat that got stuck in the Suez Canal. Men’s shorts. Flying on winds fanned by others. Red lip, hair flip, take a sip, get a grip.

The wheel keeps turning. I keep writing. I struggle to believe I matter. A Boris bike, a hamster wheel, the loom of Philomena. Arcadio, Aureliano, Remedios. 

21.7.12

In emanation of Liu Yichang’s The Drunkard, ch. 4: ‘Remembrance of Things Past’