Saturday, September 10, 2005


homies: Possible origin from the French word Hommes which translates to "Men", as in "Pour Hommes"; for men. (urbandictionary)

I prefer to think of it as home-ies. Like they're home.

While I'm hardly delusional, and certainly don't say "fo shizzle" except in jest, I kinda like the word "homies". Like "home boys". Like the boys are home.


Home. (click on pictures)

and everywhere in between.

A denizen of both, enamoured with both. But lately more and more, I've come to realise that Melbourne is much more my home than Singapore is.

I leave behind in Singapore, my friends, my family. and of course, the food.

But in Melbourne is where I am allowed to be myself, and where I've literally made my own life.

and as I realise that more friends are now scattered all over the world, the home is with them. And so now, more than ever, I am all over.


Tonight, I sat around a table with people, chatting about nothing at all. Or rather, I sat there falling asleep while everyone else was talking. Dogs milled at our feet. and all of sudden, a bright flash of light lit up the night sky.


and the lightning came in sheets. and streaks. and the low rumble of thunder soon followed.

I grinned excitedly as a shover ran down my spine. "I loveit"

heartfelt nods followed. Everyone understood.

It reminded me of home. Except that I was home.

As the night wore on, I went downstairs, curled up on a matress in the lounge, and watched the light display across the night sky through floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The dog pattered around me.

The smell of rain. Rushing in on warm humidity.

Home away from home. Home that was home reminding me of home that no longer was home.

It was almost like the two homes were bypassing each other in a Venn diagram.

My life at present, high rise apartments, the life of living alone, fending for myself; my childhood, of rain and thunderstorms, counting the seconds till thunder hit after the lightning. How far away the storm was.

My tropical home visiting my desert island home.

I am home.


Home is....a word that has always eluded me, partly because every place and no place is home. Displacement is home for me. A girl who used to move every 3 months, what was 2 countries to juggle?

but recently, it's become far more concrete, and obvious that I have to make my choice. on one. And it's hard when I realise that there are many more homes too seek out. New York. South America, Cambodia.

Where do I touch home base where I have none? And I've slowly come to the decision that Melbourne may be it. It fully crystalised tonight, through an unconcious answer to a deliberated question. But it may be it.

Reading: Clive Barker's The Yattering and Jack

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