karma police

I hope that this week is one that involves very little work seeing as my boss is away the entire time. I was expecting to have to work this weekend and I am truly grateful for not having to. Because I spent most of this weekend awake, sleep-deprived, stuffed-to-the-gills-with-lovey-food, drunk and/or hungover.

Between Friday and this morning, I squeezed in a lot of things – a dinner with Pink and friends, drinks at Shimpy’s beautiful rooftop, a wedding dinner with colleagues, a skype date dinner with Elvish Pixie, two nights of reckless partying a subset of which was an encounter with a ridiculously beautiful half British half Jamaican sportsman who treated me really well and made me wish for such men to exist in the same zipcode  as I as opposed to a whole other continent, a Mexican brunch with an old mate, a stroll around Sheung Wan, an afternoon of lazing on my mate’s balcony with cigarettes and introspection, a surprise visit from an old old friend and jamming with both those lovely boys to songs of Pearl Jam and Radiohead and even Ronan Keating against the backdrop of Hong Kong’s gorgeous sea with ships and helicopters whizzing past.

So I walked into work this breezy Monday morning, it was no wonder that I wished for a weekend to recover from this weekend. As I looked forward to lunch with the beautiful Jamaican British boy before he left for London, I thought of everything (and I really mean everything in the broadest possible sense) I have and continue to experience. I thought of how we (my experiences and I) are like teflon to each other, how it seems to be enough for now and I wondered if it would change. For someone who has chased stability, my ephemeral lifestyle is almost stupidly ironic. Karma Police is stuck in my head (as a carryforward from the night before, and why shouldn’t it be considering how deservedly my recent actions invite judgment and concern?)

And so is the beautiful poem “One art” by Elizabeth Bishop, a perennial favourite of mine, where she so poignantly writes,

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.


—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
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