KA YAN SO
30 Minutes (2022)
Medical powder on daily accessories
Showcased in The Gallery of Hong Kong Arts Centre
2020 is a monumental year. I was diagnosed with severe depression and tried countless medications. I struggled every day with vomiting, diarrhoea, and poor memory, but I still remember the two chances of 30 minutes to visit him each month. If you stand from the correctional institution's perspective, the daily necessities were nothing but objects. Accordingly, you will examine their brands, tags, weight and printings on it, like an outdated yet still functional computer. Yet, these toothbrushes, chocolates and towels hold my promises that I will recover for him, that I dragged my weakened body on thin ice to deliver to him. I managed to survive that three and a half months eventually. So I ground the remaining medications into powders and painted them on the daily accessories.
It was a cold and humid winter with zero degrees celsius in Hong Kong. The waiting line for the minibus from Choi Hong to Pik Uk correctional institution was particularly windy. The stomach is empty, vaguely remembering throwing up this morning; it seems like the food's prototype was still recognisable. As for what I had for breakfast, I no longer remember. It was the new medicine's fault, I think. I remember fewer and fewer things, like shrinking into a goldfish. But I remembered the last trip with him. I said, "I would wait for him."; he said, "we would be playing with the claw machine in three and a half months."
Counting the things in the bag back and forth, making sure I left nothing behind. I grabbed the bag tight on the minibus trip, praying for some mercy from the correctional institution, hoping that I could send my hug in.
I have long forgotten the nervousness from roll calls, or at least I didn't care about it during my student times. But when they read out his number, my heart shivers intensely. When I ran through my hair for the two hundred and seven times, twitched my lips, and we went in. The 30 minutes started to count down. How long can 30 minutes be? It was hard for me to fill three minutes in an oral exam, yet these 30 minutes were so treacherous that I never thought it was too long. I said, "I missed you. I brought chocolates for you, also hand cream and toothbrushes..." I didn't say, "I went through supermarkets in the whole district, searching for the assigned brands and types. I was afraid I couldn't get them all." And I didn't say, "I am sorry, I have let you alone through the winter." I could only confess in my heart. I only hugged him for five seconds on the day he went to prison; his silhouette seemed so fragile that it could vanish in the wind. When the 30 minutes ended, I saw the light flickering in his eyes, which almost died down. We said goodbye in distress, and went back to the wait for the next cycle.
My days swirl around medications and 37g M&M chocolates. My life lost its palate beside sweet and bitter. And it remains bitter for most of the time.
I seldom saw my cat throw up in-between moult seasons. And perhaps I am also a cat that is moulting, arranging myself, taking in medicines and throwing up. I think cats knew they would be better after vomiting. I used to hope for the same through these three and a half months.
零度的香港冬天，又濕又凍，彩虹那個等候前往壁屋的小巴的位置特別食風，胃內空空，勉強記得今早嘔吐過，好像還能見到食物原型，至於早餐吃過什麼，已經忘了。都是新藥的錯，我想。我記得的事情越來越少，像是逐漸萎縮成一尾金魚，但卻記得我送他的最後一程。我説要等他，他説我們三個半月後去夾炸蝦尾公仔。
來來回回數算袋子裏的東西，多番確認自己沒有帶漏。我在小巴上把袋子抱得很緊，祈禱着：今天懲教署可以仁慈一些，寬容我將擁抱一併送進去。
我很早就忘記被點名的緊張感，或者我從來不在乎，至少在讀書的時候。不過他們讀他的號碼時，心臟有劇烈的震動，然後我第二百零七次撥弄自己的頭髮，扯扯嘴角，我們進去，三十分鐘就開始倒計時了。三十分鐘有多長？以往在口試中要説滿三分鐘足以叫我抓狂，但這三十分鐘顯得彌足珍貴。我説，我很想你，我今次帶了朱古力比你，還有hand cream和牙刷……沒有説，我昨天走遍了整個區的超市找指定的品牌和款式，好怕買不齊東西；也沒有説，我很對不起你，讓你獨自一個孤單地過冬天；我只能在心裏懺悔，那天他入獄前我甚至只擁抱了他五秒，而他的背影那樣單薄，像要在風中消散化無。三十分鐘完的時候，我看見他眼睛裏的光猛地搖晃，幾乎熄滅。我們狼狽地道別，又回到下一個等待的輪迴。
我的日子在藥和37克的M&M朱古力中周旋，生活失去了甜和苦以外的一切味蕾，而且後者居多。
我偶爾也會看見自己的貓嘔吐，尤其是換毛的季節。我也是換毛的貓吧，理順自己，努力吃藥，瘋狂嘔吐。我想貓自己是知道嘔吐後就會好起來的，我也曾經這樣盼望着，渡過了三個半月。