OGMA // A TAPESTRY OF LOVE by Ogma Magazine

OGMA CHAPBOOK

OCTOBER 2020

A TAPESTRY OF LOVE — by dian loh —

Copyright © 2020 Dian Loh. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the copyright owner. For permission requests, contact the copyright owner through the details as listed below: Dian Loh Instagram: to󿵒o.di Email: syarafinaloh@gmail.com First edition October 2020 Cover by Dian Loh Edited by Dian Loh Written by Dian Loh Published by Dian Loh & OGMA Magazine Printed by: Ho Printing Pte Ltd

INTRODUCTION I’ve taken the words of these people, of those who have volunteered to be my muses, and spun them into my personal brand of gold thread. These are their experiences, seen through my eyes. I’ve woven their essences together with my writing and they’ve formed a tapestry of beautiful, diverse love stories. I’ve even included mine, as a means of tying up loose ends. Through these retellings, I hope you fall in love the way everyone deserves to; I hope that it brings you closure or the comfort of nostalgia you seek; I hope you find it in yourself to weave intricate tapestries of your own — they’ll be one of those everlasting antiques. This collection is my most ambitious piece of work to date. It’s extremely close to my heart and so I hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Love, Dian Loh P.S. For those who know me personally, my own love story includes an exciting little name reveal! 3

CONTENTS pg 5: We Built Bridges Across the Indian Ocean pg 6: Of Scant Ardour & Audacity pg 7: The Boy King pg 8: Then I Met You. pg 9: All The Things We Could’ve Been. pg 10: And Then I Found The Sun. pg 11: Monochromatic Silver Screen pg 12: The Blue Lady pg 13: 10A.M. @ The Southside Café pg 14: A Child’s Eyes; A Woman’s Love pg 15: Once Bitten; Twice Shy. Thrice Means Goodbye. pg 16: She Belongs Where The Light Lives pg 17: The Romantic pg 18: Serendipity pg 19: Two Souls, Single Star pg 20: Lone Dancer, Empty Stage

WE BUILT BRIDGES ACROSS THE INDIAN OCEAN. Indigo heartbeats. A brief flirtation straddled the s󿵒 and spanned the entirety of ol’ Pan. Muted primaries and playground antics, we danced along the length of light, glowing B12 in the dark. Your laugh bubbled from within, subduing midnight’s drowsy, rolling chime. There was a lively candour about your conduct. You were Ratri’s gift, wrapped in cotton, cloudless and bright. My voice, lodged in my throat, released in even, tempered pauses. Eyes warm, cheeks hot, so loud and yet so quiet — we hadn’t even allowed our hands to speak. It is oft believed that former flames can still birth ashes of the present. In this case, these wispy reminders have gathered themselves into metal-wrought arches to celebrate an evening long passed. Each beam that stretches across a lonely highway still brings me back to you.

MUSE: CHARDONNAY

OF SCANT ARDOUR & AUDACITY Did it feel good? The weighted plastic digging into your dirty hands? The careless domesticity, the hackneyed lie, the easy amnesia that time and a lacking conscience brings. You saw no one but I saw you — in painfully vivid ultra-HD that brought with it explicit, diz󿵙ing clarity. Did it feel good? The fifteen years, my wasted time, our soured love affair. Half-and-half in the heat always goes to pot and life with you was tumultuous Hell. I hadn’t ever pegged you to be the scarlet wolf, with sharp teeth and hollow smiles — the light never quite reaching your eyes. Your cloak was a facade of leather and finesse, hand-held wicker dyed red from the hunt. Our ill-fated traipse grew acres of cloudy crystal beneath moonlit nights. You know, we were always in the shadows. The sunlight never touched your palms and neither did I. Your glacial nature sent my world into a long, flurried winter. Only my doubtful, incensed confusion could melt all that snow. When the spring finally came, what was left of us was just the faint imprints of your boots in a barren meadow. Did it feel good when you hit the ground running? I’ll never know.

MUSE: TUSCAN DAISY

THE BOY KING For you, I was once a vessel. Made scarce, made clear; a maiden of stained glass searching for fulfilment in a hollow, incensed altar. Upon the dais was Ares in his finest armour, wholly Herculean in demeanour; my Greek tragedy, my Classical catastrophe. Forgive me, for I simply could not look away. For you, I was once the bamboo in wintry winds, the fresh kelp past the shore, the clouds when the tides were high. I was once the white flag — the surrender. With the Lord’s hefty laughter and the Devil’s genteel, double-dealing smile, you took a single glance at me. And then I fell. For you, I was once a vision of veneration, waxing lyrical about God’s carpentry. I’ll have you know it was my praise that kept your driftwood afloat. You’d thought yourself Midas so I figured myself gold. The immortality of my youth was entirely yours to behold. For you, I was once the yearning along the rim of an ocean liner. My breath, warm and visible in the crisp Irish air, hung heavy with too many things left unsaid. In a reverie, I'd revisited our final sunrise. Blood-rimmed and razor-edged, your teeth had flashed at me like wicked lightning in the daylight. I would’ve done anything for you back then. But no more.

MUSE: ANON

THEN I MET YOU. Our delicate courtship has begun to map itself across the ripe ruins of my heart, leaving strong sutures in its wake. My mind’s busy with her predicted trajectories. Dearly beloved, you’ve left an infinite mark. So tonight, I shall narrate, with bashful warmth, the origins of our love story. I was destiny, I was luck. Universal mirth incarnate. You were the sloping mountains, the trusty steed. New millennium’s humble oak. We were squared lines, edging towards one of a thousand hopeful horizons when the stars had aligned us once more. You had looked at me then, and I knew. This was what the elders meant when they spoke of tadhana. It’s always been you.

MUSE: K.E.

ALL THE THINGS WE COULD’VE BEEN. Oh baby, the things we could’ve been. Gilded brocade. Streamlined sunlight. An eternal glow. Lace veil. Silk gloves. Vintage wine on the Upper East Side. Everybody knows. Cherry-stained lips and butterfly kisses. Running through beachgrass fields. Your mouth on my belly, your intoxicating stare. The clouds like tufted cream. Golden ropes, freshwater pearls and diamonds — all woven into my hair. Gau󿵙 tranquility. Rattan posts. “Speak now or forever hold your peace”. Oh baby, the things we were. Emerald jelly wellingtons in Spring rain. Familiar laughter at the edge of a chipped maple bar. Metro lights. Hands held and then pulled apart. Crushed juice boxes. Running out past school gates. Youth and wondrous dreams. Scuffed sneakers on linoleum floors. Patchy, roughed-up stickers on a 2011 Macbook Air. Star-studded in󿵒 midnights. The coloured rush of peak-hour traffic. Smiling into the skin of your wrists. Oh ___, the things we never wanted to be. Melted pillows. Chilly sheets. Cobalt fire on alabaster walls. Twisted metal. Splintered wood. Rabid wolves howling in the distance. The Blood Moon. The Ten Suns. Matrix numbers and a mirrored screen. Phone glowing bright in the dark. A thousand and one pseudo-grams of paracetamol, taken dry, two at a time. The devil’s lonely glare. Fights of froth and the syndrome of the imposter. Delayed realisation, absent gratification. No remorse.

MUSE: JADEITE

AND THEN I FOUND THE SUN. I was fire, you were ice. We were born to lay waste to the other and I suppose that prophecy’s been fulfilled. Our endless fights reopened old wounds for my dormant demons to arise, fester, rankle and chafe. By the end of it all, I was a faint flicker of a man, left out in the bitter cold. I remember begging for mercy, within an inch of my life, but you’d said that you were already sold. Now, if I try hard enough, I can still recall your taste, your smell, your touch. They were a blistering blue. They singed my skin and made it sing a broken, decrepit tune. I should’ve known that they were songs of caution; casualties of a war unknown and unspoken. But I had let them play on. Our tale is a tragic one for we were iridescent in the night — a bare blaze on rime and frost. We were psychedelic dreamers, a temerarious sight, but by morning, you were gone. What we had was a love found, a love lost, a love never claimed. Our tie-up has reached finality. You will bring me no more pain and my broken heart can now heal, for I’ve met a girl with the Sun in her name — she saved me and set me free.

MUSE: BIG RED

MONOCHROMATIC SILVER SCREEN We were coloured in shades of cloudy pewter. Sometimes charcoal. Sometimes stone. Sometimes slate. But make no mistake, darling. We were no momentous thunderstorm. We were always just grey. We were paper people enamoured by concrete ideas. A pair of faux-lovers and a quartered year. Felted puppets on laurel strings. Children in the dark, we didn’t know anything. Of love, or of life or of the characters we were trying to play. Blissful and yet not so, our romance was a mirage at noonday. Grassy plains in summer heat. The Sahara when the Sun’s up high. You and I were a dry, drawn-out stretch. I’d wanted to mean it when I said I loved you. I realise now, that by then, that train had already left. But there is yellow at the corners, if I squint hard enough at the s󿵒. Your visit taught me lessons. I’m glad to have met you. Thank you and goodbye.

MUSE: SUMMER PERKINS

THE BLUE LADY Two boys and a woman. Two rocks and the sea. I am the mother of thalassic tempests, a daughter of the Moon, and yet you decided that I was to bow at your feet. It was an ambitious attempt turned greedy, for your bloated egos thought yourselves Gods. One to rule the cosmos; the other, to govern the immortal eye. Callow a girl when I loved you. Now I simply can’t fathom why. The thief in the s󿵒: A petulant child. You’d steal all my days, then haunt my nights. Your cries were void of mercy — they alone could flood the Nile. Narcissus’ concave clone. An overheated, gaslit stove. You’d waded in, young and foolish, thinking I was yours to own. But I am the salt, and the sand and the primordial tides. And I belong to no one. The liar with delusions of sight: Your first divine decree was to purge me. You’d taunted, made me your toy. Callous hands on gentle bones. Spittle words, cutting tone. All that grooming fed your sick sexist fantasies. You were a roaming eye, a clumsy lie, but I am no man’s land. You do not rule here. I am wild and I am free and so, I made you leave. Oracle origins. Spiritual awakenings. The monsters are now laying on the seabed. Manifestation. Every woman is an ocean. Her birth, an epoch-making watershed.

MUSE: SEATTLE

10 A.M. @ THE SOUTHSIDE CAFÉ Marigold honey. Children with sparklers. Toddlers turned lovers. Between the both of us, a handheld star. An ill-fated attempt at forever. Peace made, no hate, a quiet departure from the chaos of it all. 10 months, slow conversations, gentle repercussions, a chilly afternoon. We’re grown now so “How have you been?”. And then. Cider and rust. Silent acknowledgement. A wistful, guarded smile. Strangers but not quite. Tense streets, no teeth, an occasional glance at the ground. Concrete pillars, faint wisps of smoke. Coffee beans roasting in bronze light. Icy air praying for history’s warmth. Golden ambience, throat tight. I wanted to say “I hope your mind is kinder to you now.” And then. Tuscan Sun. Fast forward. Saturday morning. We’re still not friends. I see you in pixels and I laugh. There was once, so much pain. We were mismatched jigsaws. Locked lips, no pause. A calamitous, youthful love. Too haphazard, too blind, unwise. Absence of patience, mutual termination. I was a man with nothing but time. In my messages, it says “Thank you for having been mine.”

MUSE: ANON

A CHILD’S EYES; A WOMAN’S LOVE I loved you in the downy white, when we caught snowflakes on our tongues. I loved you in the tanned summers, in all the tired smiles before dawn. I loved you when I said your name. In the dark. On my own. Eyes shut tight. I loved you when we watched the rain from the studio. That one fateful Spring night. I loved you in all pink chiffon. I loved you in tulle and blue. I loved you with fervour, with longing. For you, I was the yearning fool. I loved you in the Autumn chill, in the chai and coffee and bedside nooks. I loved you so I wrote you. A thousand letters, a million words, countless books. I loved you so I picked violets and dreamt of weaving them into your hair. I loved you so I picked violets and drew them on my skin, drew them everywhere. I loved you during Christmastime. White tights, fairy lights, enthralled. I loved you during your solo piece. Hiding behind the curtains, I saw it all. I loved you in the purple woodlands. You were a magical fae. I loved you when they said I couldn’t. Their hate had no sway. I loved you when I said I didn’t. I loved you when I said I did. I loved you when we were dancing. Two girls, one heart, just kids. I loved you when I was kept hidden. In a closet. Far away from here. I loved you a love forbidden. Those cruel children, they taught me fear. I loved you in the four years past. It felt like a long, sunny Eurostar ride. I loved you like a well-kept secret. And now it’s finally seeing daylight.

MUSE: ANON

ONCE BITTEN; TWICE SHY. THRICE MEANS GOODBYE. Back-to-back episodes, déjà vu, questions for the s󿵒. Neither of you deserve a singular spotlight. Your crimes were twins and I like making dastardly sons share. Clean cut lines turned blurry turned sharp, hopeful youth, residual warmth in the night. Intertwined, we were one before we even held hands. One day, you kissed me and I thought you'd felt it too. Wire-tapping, stones unturned, a snake’s twice-split, forked tongue. Betrayal cuts deep, messy and to the bone. I was stabbed in the same place twice. Transparent walls, faux humility, male chauvinist pigs. I was tolerant and you were luc󿵒. But your gold-streaked smile was amber in the light — you were too obvious and I noticed. Stunned silence, triumphant sighs, delusions and denial. I left you in the dust. Your apologies were a saccharine facade hiding bitter undergrowth. New beginnings, fresh perspective, diamond in the rough. I’ve brighter eyes now; a firmer chin, an assured stride — unfazed, at ease, put together. I’ve become someone you can never touch.

MUSE: GOLD-TRIMMED ROSES

SHE BELONGS WHERE THE LIGHT LIVES Digital dancers. I’d been a baby then, and you’d cooed and cajoled, you’d cradled me so. Until you didn’t. One night, you stopped coming home. You changed all the locks. Covered your face, pressed your lips, left me in charge of all the loose ends and bits of string. I was busy detangling the knotted nickel between my fingers when I noticed that you were leaving. Your bags were packed, flush against the flimsy plastic door. A sudden flash of nothing. You never even said goodbye. I outgrew my bassinet but the hurt still lingered. You’d left me alone to rot in that flat and closure was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Dancing queen. I was starved for a love I never truly received. You came along and you licked my wounds for me. Held me close to your chest. But soon your anger turned violent and I suppose I knew from the beginning that our love would hold unrest. You were a plane in tropical storms. I was in the passenger seat. You'd searched for greener pastures, made love to different lands. And I was in the passenger seat. You almost hurt me, forced your hand. And I was still there, aware, in the passenger seat. Because I loved you. You must know. So I was willing to risk it all, inhale the toxic exhaust. But soon I found the strength to push open the exit door. I breathe fresh air now. That was a close call. Dancer’s dream. There was trauma to unpack and so I'd laid down my armour. I'd gone to bathe in cliffside pools filled with tonic water. You’d found me then, healing lady of the woods. You’d sought to conquer. There was something I possessed that your depraved, lowly being wanted. Lured and lifted straight into your cold, silver hands, I was soothed for they were lined with the stars. You’d picked me up and kept me trapped, like a secret, like a blessed vial. I was your golden chalice, your holy grail. On Hallow’s Eve, nearly drained, I pulled your fangs out of my throat, I ran away. I wish it had been real for you. All honesty, no shade. The road’s been tough. But I’m on a climb. I’m moving forward. I’m going to see the Sun.

MUSE: AUDRA

THE ROMANTIC I wasn’t always like this. I used to be happy. I’m still trying though, and my bitterness can be attributed to the world and its inequality. I had four women in my heart, one of whom has left for good — an indefinite journey to the stars. The other three were friends, and I'd loved them dearly. They’re doing well enough now and I’m thankful, even if they’re eating at tables that aren’t mine. I suppose I’m just looking for some warmth. It can get cold here when you’re often on your own. This first girl was the Moon. She shone iridescent in the light. I’d spoken to her through a thick, glassy screen, seen her reflection in the night. My emotions could only be laid bare there. In a world full of numbers and code. But she’d talked to me when no else one really did. And so it was to her whom my heart was sold. We were platonically related though, not quite lovers, just temporary soulmates. I’d wanted for that to be enough. But I could only want. One day, the Moon was but a slivered coin, her face turned to the rest of outer space. A lunar cycle had passed and that was the only one I would ever get. - my life was midnight at a lonely bar atop a busy street until you arrived. We weren’t lovers either. We were friends. The second girl was a satellite out of orbit. I’d held my hand out to catch her, but instead I fell in too deep. She’d said no, said she wasn’t for me and I was hurt but I understood it. My world was in chaos, debris and bad dreams. Like a young boy searching for respite, I’d looked to the skies to stop the ruin. - you’d seen it all and turned away and it’d left me a little broken The third girl was a gentle willow. I couldn’t taint her innocence with my grief. I was a walking precatastrophe, a bomb with seconds to explode — I couldn’t allow her to be destroyed by me. When her spectral branches first called out my name, I’d thanked God and thought I’d been saved. But soon I realised that within me was a poison I had yet to purge. I couldn’t soil her roots with my unresolved trauma and pain. - i pushed you away because i wanted you when i shouldn’t have The woman who travelled to the stars was my mother. She’s the only one who never really left. I can’t see her anymore, but her spirit’s always here. Mom, if you can read this, I hope you’re happier, I hope you’re somewhere up high past Heaven’s gates and I hope you know that I’ll always love you. - ‘drops of jupiter’ was written about mothers

MUSE: ANON

SERENDIPITY “It was bedlam before you got here. Absolute pandemonium. Sweetheart, where have you been all my life?” Life before you was mythic lore and chaos. A hundred and two mistakes. Torn in half, torn apart. Timber cages. Sister witches. A worn out, half-eaten wolf heart. Angry children with too-sharp teeth. A ghost brother. Pandora’s box in heels. A runaway love in metal chains. Soft eyes. Bones of steel. Things were a mess, I was in distress and so I’d broken past the splintered wood. I had to go, I had to leave, I had to find a new neighbourhood. Young and foolish, I went to the city, met a girl who’d illuminated my mind. She was a counsellor, a grounding force — a person turned spirit before her time. Stone pillows, silent hill, a joint smoked once and rolled twice, I hadn’t been cushioned from the fall. But we spoke again, past the hidden veil, and her name fulfilled her otherworldly call. She’s guided me to greener pastures, steeper mountains, cooler plains. She’s guided me to you, I’m sure. It was the greatest decision of her reign. Ever since you arrived though, she’s been fairly quiet and I suppose it’s for the best. You’ve become my home, my peace — it isn’t even a contest. With you, the world seems bigger and it is with you, that I wish to explore. To you, I write this love letter. To you, my heart belongs.

MUSE: DISARMING CHARM

TWIN SOULS, SINGLE STAR. I can’t quite remember a time when you weren’t by my side. It’s been 36 years and you’re still my safe haven, cerulean all the same. I didn’t know this back then, but when we met in that canteen, my whole life was about to change. Best friends, opposite ends, we were a dyad of complementary forces — a pair to be reckoned with. I was the ocean and you were the s󿵒. It was natural, it was inborn, one of God’s primordial monoliths. Young and wild, I understood and experienced Life’s mighty highs when I had your calming presence beside me. Wide-eyed, you’d held my gaze in the fluorescent light and I knew then that this was something worth trying. Our red strings have only ever been tied to each other. I’d wondered if we were jodoh — meant to be. This, I’d realised only after some time, with the chance meetings and numerolo󿵋. They couldn’t have been coincidences, for in Life, there are absolutely none. They must’ve been Fate’s tender hand, Destiny’s laughter, Kismet’s influence in metric tonnes. The foundation of our romance was friendship; we were tight, no loose ends. You’ve seen me, I think, most clearly. With you, I didn’t have to pretend. Titanium and steel. Din󿵋 staircases. Hot on our heels. We’ve been there through it all. Unabated crying. Tired of trying. We’d broken each other’s fall. I’m reminiscing and I remember our petty fights, our late nights, our quiet calls. I remember pitying the girl you would marry. I remember our favourite hawker stalls. I also remember, with vivid detail, how I wanted to be an eternal spinster — single for life. I also remember, with a warm feeling, how your existence made me change my mind. We’re getting old now. No longer young and sprightly, we’re both half a century in. In you, I’ve found more than a friend, husband or lover — I’ve found my timeless companion.

MUSE: GONZO

LONE DANCER, EMPTY STAGE TO: RYOTA PROLOGUE Oh dear God. This is the first time I’ve truly said your name and relayed the entire story, details and all. I’m in a bit of shock myself. All my past work about this particular love of mine was in bits and pieces, a calculated mess of torn scraps and ambiguity. This structure lent me an odd sort of anonymous identity. It was something I hid behind. I’d never dared to speak about what happened in one fell swoop, or with unavoidable clarity, for fear of looking like the mad woman, like the bumbling, psychotic fool. I’ve never mentioned your name in my writing either. The anonymity was comforting because addressing what happened and putting a name to the pieces was terrifying, to say the least. But I’m not afraid anymore. So here goes nothing.

DECEMBER 2018 — JANUARY 2019 Newly acquainted. Easy conversation. Bare warmth and familiar sounds. I didn’t think very much of it. My heart was on a guilt trip, far away, on foreign ground. One night, you’d let me call when I needed you most. Up until then we were just the occasional text. You’d heard me cry about saying goodbye then you soothed me and put my remorse to rest. Soon, we were more than just strangers talking — I’d thought you a dependable friend. But then that week happened. There was a glimpse of potential passion and I was never the same again.

Tentative, teasing quips. Shock and shy surprise. I was on holiday, watching the clouds along a backroad trek. The beginnings of a courtship. Figuring things out on the fly. We were poker players, drawing cards from a loaded deck. Genuine promise though, no glib. Hidden rooms bathed in golden light. Longing whispers between the cracks. A delicate secret. Winter’s Turkish Delight. Your voice like honey on the phone, toffee-stained triple sec. “I saw magic,” they’d told me. I was enamoured by you. I agreed. But then suddenly, the low tide came. An inverse crescendo waned. A single black dove. A warbling, cautionary tune. You’d closed shop, turned me away. With all that emerald gone, my blood red heart rued.

FEBRUARY 2019 — APRIL 2019 There was so much yearning. So many trials. A thousand texts of things unsaid. Every time I spoke, it was in brief, quick breaths, interlaced with too many apologies. Then you delivered the final blow: “I don’t want to talk to you ever again.” I’d cried for what seemed like weeks.

JUNE 2019 — JULY 2019 The eve of the summer solstice. I’d taken a chance, a hopeless leap. I'd wanted to make sure you were okay. Things were alright for a day and a half but it was an armistice with no real peace. Eventually, you made it clear that what we once had wasn’t to be. You told me I’d overstayed my welcome so I left that very day.

OCTOBER 2019 Happy birthday. That was really all I had to say. Call it charity, call it nostalgic familiarity, I just wanted you to celebrate. And it was your 21st too — did you think I would forget?

DECEMBER 2019 - SEPTEMBER 2020 New Year’s Eve. The early sentiment. My resignation. A culmination of reflections. And then months upon months of putting things behind me. It’s taken me a great deal more than a year, but I think I’m finally free.

EPILOGUE I think I’ve written more than enough about this love story. There’s only so many times I can tell it before people get bored. I don’t blame them. Speaking about you was once therapeutic in its own little cathartic way but there’s a blandness now, a forced nature about it. I suppose it came with time. Sometimes I wonder how you’d react though, reading all the work that’s revolved around you, putting your name front and centre, like a spotlight in the dark. My words are all too much. I write in wild, unyielding colour. I’m sure you’re well aware. I’m also sure that if you laid your eyes on them, you’d be blinded and then burned. My love was white hot, you see. Our bond was finite but my love shot past the stars. Dawn is nigh and the city is fast asleep but I’m still sitting here, steeped in skewed recollections. I suppose what we had must’ve been a shallow, slipshod fling for you my darling, but for a while, it was my entire world. FROM: DIAN LOH XXX

fin

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