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Singapore

We scavenge and curate homegrown works from aspiring artists and dreamers alike.

There Is No Flaw in Simplicity

Literature

We get a glimpse into Jennifer Anne Champion's mind as she shares her experiences with literature, how she fell in love with writing and spoken word. 

There Is No Flaw in Simplicity

Weetee Neu

Featuring Xiangyun

tweedlingdum.com

 

QUITE THE OPPOSITE OF WRITERS who resonate warmly with darker versions of emotions, whose minds traverse unlit alleys and ominous sewers, Xiangyun calls herself a "hopeless optimist". 

And how rightfully so. Her words, when taken as an entirety, makes you feel slightly upbeat, as you nod in agreement, as you marvel at her success. What is truly amazing though, is that there is truth in her words. Truth that is sad, a hideous reality that you cannot tear your eyes off from. But in her attempt to convey her thoughts and emotions in an unabashed rawness that she is most comfortable with, Xiangyun has created something rather unique. 

 
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Saturdays

Saturdays start with the fading buzz of half a bottle of wine into the deep quiet of the night, with the knowledge borne from conviction and belief that you will get a good well-deserved long sleep, and naturally

you wake too early. You head for a pee to reason this awakening, silence your mind petulantly and dive firmly back to bed, and perhaps that is why

in your dreams, you are with your loved ones, admiring the attic that will (finally) be your room, but suddenly, they are buried under collapsed rafters. Still, you emerge

with the drowsy pride of sleeping past 8 hours, even (oh the audacity!) dozing for a while more. This time, your body seem to have gotten the message, and for the next hour or so, the best you can do is to roll over onto your belly to reach out for some sort of reading material. You watch the

clouds shape-shift in the changing sun rays and shadows. There is not much wind today, and the loud laughter of kids reaches you fearless and clear. Your mind is still restless and planning, but instead of being an ADHD on drugs, it remembers your basil plants that need propagating, remembers your craving for kopi and semi soft-boiled eggs, remembers the perfect fit of salty popcorn and a movie on weekend evenings.

The beauty of Saturdays is that it isn’t so much about the numbers around the clock anymore. You can remember what time really is; this essential void of activity that brings you back to life. You can

listen to your grandma drone on about the increasing storms, you miss your bus stop because you were watching the baby in the seat before you illicit proud smiles from her harried mother, you alight after and wander aimlessly, eyes wide open.

If we forget, who will teach the next generation how bright the world looks after rain?


 
 
 

There is almost always a presence of young and naive love, lingering about her words. But as you read on you realize there is a certain sweetness tainted with regret or melancholy that comes with a matured mind. These, all in all, is a trove of symbolisms and meanings that is easily accessible to everyone. 

Xiangyun comes off like her writings. Humble, unpretentious and deeply introspective. There is no flaw in her simplicity. In fact, in her simplicity all is clear and easily witnessed, like a story woven with great care so as not to overload the reader nor take away what truly matters. In the end, we too, can take comfort in her rawness and simplicity.

She also has "an affinity towards the combination of words and film photography". 

 
 

 

Of Our
Space

the space between us is
thirty-eight centimetres.
this pregnant vastness
is inflating like enthusiastic balloons
tugging at their strings,
crowding cheerfully into our minds,
waving flags at the
parade of our hearts
we stare at each other but not look,
we are near bursting.
neither can think of
anything but
thirty-eight
centimetres.

the space between us is
twenty years.
the upturn of your nose grew from smelling her hair,
your gait from walking her home.
my photos have burnt silhouettes
from the extinguished fire of his kisses.
when we hold hands, the air in between
cradles the musty thickness of our
very first hand fitting,
when our veins sighed themselves
into a spring forest.
now it is an acid that rusts
our breaths
green.

the space between us is
weightless.
the ocean blue only deepens
in our search for an edge,
without the gravity of a heart beat
we float soundlessly in a milky way
for
words if not spoken
desires if not shown
sound if not heard,
do not,
will not,
exist.


 

All photographs were taken by Xiangyun on Agfa 400 film.

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