dolorous interludes.

Same Old Brand New You.

I needed a passport photo urgently and so my dad drove me to this old shop at Whampoa that I used to frequent as a little girl to get my photos taken. I haven’t gone there for four years now because a new Kodak shop opened just around the corner about a year back. But its gone now, bad business I’m presuming. Anyhow, my dad parked the car and I got off and waited for him to peel the coupon bits out. We then walked together through the dimly lit carpark, the smelly lanes, the old shophouses (like we used to when I was little) with my hand in his. It brought back a wave of old memories. My grandparents used to live there, and I hated the lifts because people always used to pee in them (I don’t know if they’ve got lift censors now though). But I caught myself feeling rather surprised that I actually recognised the old lady tending the photo shop. I remember my dad and I taking a photo together in their musty old studio when I was about five. I wore a laced yellow dress, and the background was blue. My dad still has that photo by his bed, and its memories like these, that really make me wonder where all those years have gone, how they’ve slipped by and how old I am (possibly not as old as some of the readers here yes, but still old-er). I went into the studio room rather cautiously tonight- it was as if I was expecting an ugly grey rat to cross my path, or an old spirit that lingers as with all relics. The mirror was still at its exact place- with fingerprints coating the rims, and the green combs with its teeth almost blunt (okay I know this is sounding almost disgustingly old and unhygienic- I didn’t use the comb anyway heh), but there was a foreignly familiar sense of beauty, or even comfort (forgive the oxymoron), in seeing how nothing has changed in that shop, besides the white fleeced dog that used to reside next to her cash counter. This is why the value of old buildings cannot and should not be understated- with every demolition, each upgrade, every bit of modernity- it taints our past, for it is in these relics that we are reminded of yellowed memories that only relive themselves in our minds when we journey through our only connections to the past (physical connections anyway).

A snapshot doesn’t quite do it for me. I reckon it never will.

posted by voyeur @ 3/31/2005 02:07:00 AM