holidays.

Holidays are powerful. They cure what medications can't cure, and put you to sleep in such peace and quiet that no dreams would bother to come and disturb. Dreams need a rest too, don't they.

Sunday breakfast.

self.

“For now she need not think of anybody. She coud be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others... and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures. When life sank down for a moment, the range of experience seemed limitless.” 

To the lighthouse. Virginia Woolf.

Dandelion Latte.

It feels so good when Monday is a holiday.

Morning was sunny and warm, which I wouldn't have noticed if I spend my time in a classroom or bury myself with piles and piles of untouched assignment. 

I went out in the afternoon. After getting something settled in Sheung Wan I decided to take a walk to Central. I took a turn into Cleverly Street, away from the hustle and bustle of the main road, up the stairs (with lots of graffiti) to Hollywood Road where I wandered about the antique shops and art galleries for a little while. It's pure delight to stroll along the alleys and hang around the district, where you can see small shops with white wooden doors and roots of banyan trees spread across the walls.

I was looking for a place to settle at, a place to spend the next few hours sipping a nice drink, marking students' writings. It's something I've been doing at the weekends over the past few months, as if a delicious hot drink in a cozy cafe would ease my reluctance to work and alleviate the pain. And somehow it does. 

I was at Shelly Street when I noticed a restaurant with wooden windowpanes. I went inside and took a seat at a quiet corner on the second floor, beside the windows where I could look at the people outside. It's an organic restaurant. I had a dandelion latte with soya milk and it tasted so good that I finished it instantly. The first and the last time I had a dandelion latte was at the Bookworm Cafe in Lamma Island. The one I had now tasted even better. Then from my bag I took out the writings that I swore I had to finish today.

The customers came and went. I was struggling through the paper when the lady who sat next to me spoke to me.

"Where are you teaching at?" She asked, eyes on the paper on my table.

"In a girls' school. You?" She too was doing her marking.

"In a private boys' school," she said.

"DBS?" I made a guess.

"Right," she replied, surprised.

"There aren't many private boys' school in Hong Kong," I explained for my being too smart.

"Do you always do your markings in a cafe?" She asked, curiously.

"Yes, it's what I usually do, as if it's less painful."

"I can see your pain. I like to do it this way too."

She's an American, teaching Spanish there for the first year. We chatted for a few minutes before going back to our work. Eventually there were only the two of us left in the restaurant, two young (and pretty) female teachers, diligently marking. For once in my life I didn't feel alone.

So I wasn't completely lazing off my Monday. I struggled, but with the company of a lovely stranger I persisted and finally managed to get everything done before sunset. I had Eat, Pray, Love with me but I didn't want to read on after the first Chapter on Italy had ended. So I said goodbye to her and left. Outside, some Korean stars were filming with dozens of fans around. I crossed the road to Flow Bookstore but couldn't get the book I wanted.

A perfect Monday working and not working.

A Sunday of one's own.

Magritte.

Sunday.

I wake up when my bio-clock tells me to, and it's still early around 8am. Then I'll get changed and go to the cinema. I have no need to worry about getting a ticket because it's easy for someone who's alone. There are always empty seats left between the occupied, ones that are left to waste until someone like me takes it.

It's not weird to go to the cinema alone - if you feel awkward it's because you're being too self-conscious. No one pays any attention and no one cares whether you're going with anyone at all. And it's pathetic if someone finds it embarrassing to be on her own, even in darkness. If you can't get along with yourself, you can hardly be a good companion for anyone else.

That's how I usually spend my Sunday morning. As for the afternoon, I'll write about it next week. I'm  literally exhausted now. Monday is too soon to be here.

a comfort on an idle Sunday afternoon.

The Things We Do For Love, Joanna Wang. 2011.

Listen to it

Mid-Autumn Festival

Spent Mid-Autumn Festival with an old friend who lives nearby. It's nice having a neighbor. It makes you feel less solitary living in a suburban home.

We walked to the central park. It was overcrowded with families, friend circles and couples. I was very much impressed especially when I thought about the last time I went to a park and celebrated the festival with candles and paper lanterns, and I could not remember at all. I can't even remember what I did last year. Festivals started to lose its meanings for me since I-don't-know-when and instead of anticipation I felt dreary.

But last night was different. It was delightful to see what the people were doing just for the night, and the energy around was more than enough to excite you inside. They were all well-prepared, very much so. They sat on newspapers or bamboo mats spread on the lawn; some even had tents or shelters to settle in (!). There was a sea of candles and it was quite a sight to behold.

We were both pretty tired so we didn't talk that much but that's alright. Forced conversations are lousy. I'd rather nothing is said. And I like it when someone walks me home.