Stories of the Pygmies

From 'The Forest People' by Colin Turnbull

"These stories grow until it is difficult to tell the difference between

what is meant to be a straight, factual account

and a traditional legend. 

And there is always the element of the two way process in which 

face becomes legend, and 

legend becomes accepted, though constant repetition, 

as fact"

Chapter: The forest and the stars

"There is the material plane and there is the spiritual plane. 

The two domains are never confused, not are they kept apart. 

The mediator is the shaman, 

and it is his ability to slip between spheres that allow for the maintenance of 

the sacred balance, 

the harmony of social, religious and political life. 

The shaman is the one who swims in the mystic waters the rest of us would drown in" 

(Joseph Campbell)

Watching a leaf fall at Fort Canning park

It was different from the others. 

it was more beautiful, and its long, 
curved and spiral contour made it 
move differently. 
It fell so slowly, 
but not in a way that I was waiting for it to reach the ground, 
but the manner and grace of which it fell so slowly,
was how I noticed it. 

As if descending from the heavens, 
taking its time, 
turning
over 
and 
over, 
experiencing the world from different perspectives, 
knowing that the time will come when it will reach its destination. 
I know that its journey does not end at its fall, 
but that it falls only to rise again, 
because it lives 
within 
the circle of life. 

Souls do not die. We are reborn. 
To think that we exist once, and independently of the entire cosmos is a thought that 
disregards all the bubbles of possibility around us. 

It was different from the others
because this time, 
I was looking. 

When I watched a construction site of a new building I thought:

A memory,
the best moment of your life, 
taking place in a box in the air. 
The world is changing so fast and yet so 
quietly
each second, you don't even know what has changed and you think that that building has always been there
all along. 

Thoughts in a bus

Looking around at all the people. 
Saw this middle aged man on my right,
blue office shirt, black pants with his Samsung galaxy phone, wet combed hair-
or whatever was left of his hair. 

I wondered what his story was, 
where we came from, his childhood, how he looked like as a little boy, whether he likes his blue and black attired job. 
And then suddenly I thought, 

everyone is made up of stories. 
Everyone on this bus holds so many stories and memories. 
The best moments of their lives, 
and their worst. 
Their first love, their first kiss.

We're all on the bus of life. We all get on, people leave, just that 
some stay longer than others.