Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
The category, Heart, is for posts that make us feel.
The title for this post implies that I shot these photos in Hong Kong. In fact, I shot them in Kowloon. I’m not sure if that matters. If I lived in Hong Kong, I suppose it would. Last week, I spoke to friends who grew up in Hong Kong. He grew up on the island; she grew up in Kowloon. They way they told it, you’d think he was going out with a girl from the wrong side of the tracks.
While in Singapore, we had an invitation to the Tanglin Club. Our host, who is ethnically Chinese, showed us the plaques spanning the club’s 150 year history. The plaques listed presidents of the club, almost all with British names – names like mine. In fact, it was a Barker who officially opened the latest wing. Our host pointed out that, until the 1960’s, he couldn’t have been a member of the club – whites only.
Unlike other ethnic areas, Singapore’s Little India seems less interested in tourist kitsch and more interested in catering to the needs of the people who actually live there. That includes a large population of migrant workers employed in construction, road maintenance, gardening, etc., all brutal jobs in Singapore’s humidity.
In North America, I’m amazed at how little traction the whole “cigarettes guarantee cancer” message has gained. To be honest, I’m not amazed at all. I come from a city that elected a mayor they knew was a crack-smoking imbecile.
Last summer, during Toronto’s 2015 PanAm Games experience, I noted a general rise in the prevalence of selfie sticks. It was an impression I had, but nothing I could back up with carefully gathered statistical evidence. That impression returned to me with redoubled force during my January visit to Singapore. Everywhere, tourists were trying to place themselves in shots of buildings, sculptures, signage, restaurants.
Naturally, there was a security guard posted to keep the gawkers out. He followed me around. I assumed that he assumed that I was going to try to sneak into the building for some interior shots, so I thought I better say something to assure him I’m not stupid.
I met this woman in the space south of Trinity Lutheran Church in the St. James Town area. She doesn’t feed the birds and squirrels every day, but when it’s cold she makes a point of giving them something to eat. She comes with bird seed, peanuts and, in case the squirrels don’t like the peanuts, she brings walnuts.
I wanted to send him a copy of this shot but he couldn’t think of how that would work. In the last month, he’s had two cell phones stolen, plus he can’t use his email account anymore. His ex-girlfriend is a computer programmer and, like, psycho. She’s hacked all his passwords. He’s got to figure out something else for email.
Was out Sunday afternoon with my camera and, dull weather notwithstanding, people were chattier than usual. Maybe it has to do with the approach of Christmas. Or with the fact that Christmas is still far enough away that people aren’t feeling stressed by it.
While the official story holds that Ian Fleming named his most famous character after an American ornithologist, local legend tells a different story. In 1942, Fleming spent a few weeks at Camp X near Oshawa where he was taking specialized training (he was leader of a British commando unit). Fleming was staying at a home on Avenue Road, and, every day, on his way to Camp X, he passed a local church, St. James-Bond United Church.
I met Amry outside a dental office in Cabbagetown. He was leaning against a poster of a big perfect smile, smoking a cigarette.
I eat my lunch at noon and my supper at six. I go to bed at eleven so I can have a good night’s sleep. I like the regularity. It never occurs to me that I could disrupt this well laid pattern by snipping up a novel and pasting bits of it onto carefully selected surfaces. It might make me late for lunch.