Window Seat

About Jeremy — the person who writes Nine Stops from Clementi.

I am forty-one, work in logistics scheduling, and have lived in the same flat since my mother moved out and left me the spare room she used for sewing. The room is still full of fabric I cannot throw away because her scissors are in the bottom drawer and opening it feels like opening a conversation.

I write on a secondhand desk facing the window because the fan direction only makes sense that way. Mornings I see market aunties pushing trolleys. Evenings I see the same uncle walking a dog that has learned every tree by heart. I am not a photographer, though this site uses photographs honestly — mine or stock treated like notes, always captioned.

Nine Stops began as a folder of bus receipts. Each receipt had a time stamp and a smudge. I started matching smudges to moods. Rain smear meant reflective. Coffee ring meant optimistic. That system failed quickly but the habit remained: match movement to sentences.

I read slowly, prefer paper, buy too many notebooks, finish few. Influences are boring: bus poets, old forum posts about neighbourhoods that no longer exist, my mother's handwritten grocery lists that doubled as weather reports ("rain — take umbrella AND patience").

I do not publish on social platforms. If you found this site, you probably followed a link from someone who still sends URLs in messages instead of screenshots. Thank them, not me.

Contact details sit on Bus Shelter. I answer email when scheduling allows — usually late morning, usually with typos corrected once only.

Desk, fan, mug — the whole production.

Crossing home — motion before detail.

I am not an expert on Chin Swee, canals, or hawker politics. I am a resident who notices. If that is enough for you, stay. If not, close gently.

People ask if Nine Stops will become a book. Maybe, if the notebook outgrows the flat. For now it stays here — one page per idea, maps at the bottom, no comment threads to moderate. I like the low noise.

My schedule at work is spreadsheets and phone calls about containers that must arrive before lunch. Writing happens in the gaps. Sometimes the gap is ten minutes. Sometimes it is a Sunday when the market is loud and the fan makes the curtain breathe. Both gaps count.

I keep a paper map in the drawer, outdated on purpose. It reminds me that streets change names slower than apps change interfaces. When I am stuck in a draft I unfold it, even though I do not need directions. The crease lines feel like prior versions of myself checking in.

Thank you for reading this far. Most people do not visit an about page unless they mean to write. If that is you, use the shelter link and be patient with replies. If you are only passing through, the essays are the better mirror.

I do not keep a public posting calendar. When a note is ready it goes up; when it is not, the site stays quiet. Quiet is not absence — it usually means a walk is still being edited by weather.