This is Tomo. He is the life of our friend and landlord, Baowen. As I write, they are at the vet, where HY is serving as the life-saving vest if anything major is to happen.

Not a major operation, just scaling, my friend. Our friend is not yet inconsolable, but he appears so, does he not?

We wanted Stevie General Store to be a home for Philomel Clothing and nothing more, but when you put something out there, it gets a life of its own. Like this guy.

That’s what happened to Stevie. Update your bookmarks!

Today I asked everyone this: of the two, a security guard or a gravedigger, which would you rather be?

Signing off,

The Woodpecker.

P.S. Can you believe it is already the first day of June? I’ve done nothing except grow younger!!!

There is the heaven we enter
through institutional grace
and there are the yellow finches bathing and singing
in the lowly puddle.

Yellow, the first poem in Mary Oliver’s latest book Evidence.

I once drew a picture, titled Red Strings. There are two parts to this picture, I always try to explain. But even I cannot explain. This video made me think of it. It now hangs in the toilet of Stevie General Store. I also once wrote a poem called Only The Ones We Love. I reworked and reworked, and reworked this poem. It is now lost, in the memory of what love isn’t, and yet, so alive.

Lately there has been a hiatus in Philomel Clothing. Reason for this could be that I’m uninspired to produce to sell, yet selling we must. My head is grey with globules of city living, where every brain cell is a compartment for dollars and cents, or forgettable, boring black white notions of fashion. In fact we considered taking Philomel off the racks in Singapore and make that long-planned overseas trip. But I may give it another go.

Once upon a time I looked for a vial, for purposes you can imagine why. Now that love does not shed blood, I no longer have use for one.

While going down the escalator in the train station:

There is calmness to a life live in Gratitude, a quiet joy.
Ralph H. Blum

Should we be grateful for love in a well?

***
Well well well. April Stevie will be filled with more jewels that will rock your granny’s socks.
Use this Jewelry link while we fix the navigation around here I know I know…

More than once have people approached our landlord, because they wonder if there could be a chance we give up our store at 93 Club Street. First there was a bookseller (not any on Club Street!), and today there is a rather well-known figure whose father has come up and told of how many concessions they have received in all areas of life as a result of his fame. I’m not sure, these bits of info are volunteered by my landlord. I am sad, disheartened and I have so many questions. I had earlier welcome the bookseller when he came into the store one day (also with his son!), when he wanted to see how big our store was. I didn’t mind this, as I thought it would be good if he could gauge the upstairs unit (up for rental) from looking at our floor space. He asked questions, almost like we were giving it up, but still I thought it fine. Then today our landlord called and asked if we were really interested in his place. I mean, we signed the tenancy agreement long ago… Rental issues on Club Street have become notorious, which explains why Front Row had to move out of its old crib. Today I learn that if you are interested in someone’s rental unit, you could always talk your way into getting the unit, vacant or not. All that matters is getting co-operation from the right sources.

I guess humans are not humans unless they have a business. Whatever that business may be, the human mark, not unlike Cain’s mark, means that we have to decide at every point in the journey of survival, self-interest and legacy. And if our compass is not guided by strong principles, or that our crutches are not backed by a solid integrity, what could the replacement tools be?

How could small, independent businesses like ours prove anything to the country? That art has a place called the heart. That there is no art without science, and vice versa. That freedom is not a privilege. How could we build something Singapore would be proud of, not because we want to be like A or like B, but like what we have painted in our heads, in our heads and nobody else’s before!

93 Club Street is the third place we’ve moved to since we started our little business four years ago. We’ve always depended on ourselves, with our own funds, our own production means, and our own distribution channels, with no external help. We don’t even mind sacrificing press to spend more time on production. We always believed word of mouth, while it may come slower than direct advertising (at least for us), is the only way we know how and will accept. The truth is we have not sought funding because we’re so busy making things come alive. We’ve not known weariness.

I wish I could spell out names and not think about lawyers. (Or fans.)

I wish I could unlearn what I learned today.

Antique Snake Brass Bracelet

These plastic barrettes are what I used to take for granted. Do you still have one lying somewhere? As I gain more days on this wonderful yet weary world, I keep imagining there is a possibility of running a store selling provision items that are special, useful yet whimsical, serious yet funny, still yet musical, and above all, years full and beaming. People would wander in and get two plastic barrettes, one old but unused writing pad or a small bottle of vanilla powder, a pretty faux leather purse or two old postcards sold by the Yosemite National Park souvenir store in 19-something. These people would not mind the crease down the middle of a print; they would also ask me if I sell a cheap frame to go with it. I will go to the back (behind another set of shower curtains) and offer them the only plastic or enamel photo frame in the store. On their way out someone comes in to buy an apron, three junior combs, and 100% pure Glycerin lotion in glass bottles. We may also sell vintage style men’s underwear (S/M/L) and silk petticoats. O I could go on and on.

Since we saw her basking in murky moonlit, we have stopped by a few times in the last week to visit or to give her some yum. Her tag reads Coco, and her owners seem to be away on vacation or business elsewhere. I climbed over the fence once. It was only to spend some time with her, to be closer to her. Last night we thought her owners came back, seeing there was a car in the driveway. But when we came back that way again the car was gone and the house went back to weedy and wind hollow. It must be someone asked to feed the dog, who warmed the sofa awhile before he was gone. Doggies or pets left alone get really sad.

She knows the camera so well, refusing to give us a decent shot. She must be well loved when the house is full.

And then some.

I turn to Mary Oliver’s poetry a lot, now that I’m not in school and school no longer reminds me how to read. School now reminds me of why I didn’t break the rules sooner. Maybe one day I can write again.

Here is a poem of hers, for those of us who run because we cannot fly.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean -
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down -
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver

Many times she takes the words out of my heart. Then I have an eagerness to be clouted by poetry, and in the next second equally let down by poetry. This ebb is not uncertain. It is certainty that frightens me.