day 31 | dream bottle

staccatos

picnic/vision boarding spaghetti "everybody dance now" eyelid in the eye, engulfed Tiong Bahru to Tanjong Pagar silent smiles 9-6 seuty gaiman him leaving through my sleeve water day 3: a product of the system shanthini Sugar exploding veins fumbling with the lens erased gangsta songs right art-a-day late. period.

unveiling hybrid realities

so it's been a few days since i last got back from KL, Malaysia. one thing i love about KL is how real it feels. in fact, i have a feeling most if not all cities feel this way, except for Singapore. i don't mean to sound like one of those people who constantly diss Singapore - because i do appreciate a lot of things about this city - but it just feels too contrived, too sanitized. and sometimes, it would be nice to have some dirt lying around. it would give me something else to photograph for a change. but yes, i planned a solo trip to KL so i could get away from it all and just be with myself for a bit. but of course, i've learnt that being alone in a foreign place is actually worst than being alone at home. imagine sitting up in the hotel room late at night, in a queen-sized bed where you only occupy the left side of it, the rest untouched, as P.S. I Love You is playing on Star Movies. you sit there alone with a temperature because you were sick on your way into KL, and your tummy still feels (shitty) weird as you sniff away into tissue after tissue - used for both snot and tears, sometimes at the same time. eew. that movie always gets to me. tear jerker. and falling asleep is never easy because you're a scaredy cat who despite having finished your ghost thesis, is still afraid of ghosts and has an imagination that can summon them anytime. and so, i slept with the lights on. blaring hotel lights. under white covers. alone. not that it's any different at home but something about hotels just make it lonelier. but loneliness is good because it makes you discover things about yourself, things that would otherwise be clouded by the presence of people, work, or trivial distractions, like ice-cream. and these are things that one needs to know, or come to terms with in order to move ahead in life. hence, onward!

searching for the revolutionary

perhaps it's because i've grown old-er, or because i've studied for too long. 19 years. 19 freaking years, straight! but lately, it feels like every argument i hear is one that i've heard before. ideas that have been argued before. recited. reused. arguments about life, love, religion, philosophies on things, anything and everything. all of it. i know them inside out, back and front. and so, certain discussions feel unnecessary, certain 'intellectual pursuits', boring, certain 'doctrines', irritating. feels like i've reached the top of a plateau, the flat surface that makes it easy to walk on, but isn't challenging at all. after all, we've learnt to walk very early in life. the rest of our lives should be spent on using the art of walking for some other purpose.

something more revolutionary.

the search begins.

of fate, freckled pages, & an uncracked spine

i just finished reading Veronika decides to die by Coelho. i've been meaning to read it for a while now but didn't for i believe that my relationship with books, like love, exists and is run by fate. i read a book when i am fated to read it, even if the book is within my possession and i find my hours in the day sauntering away. each time i finally read a particular title is when, at that point in time i find myself searching for an answer, to something. answers that most amazingly grow in the pages of the book. as we are all permitted our idiosyncratic ways of reasoning, pray, leave me with mine as i sway a little into another story about fate.

i believe that i am fated to do 'art'. i took art classes when i was a youngling. an eager girl who spent her afternoons after school tracing pictures of flowers and animals from huge encyclopedias. words didn't interest me. i derived immense pleasure from holding a crayon in my hand. second skin. its somewhat hard clay-like texture felt normal against my rough skin. i also loved it when crayon got under my nails. as i was a nail-biter, i found myself on several occasions swallowing small deposits of crayon buried under my nails. i've since however, stopped.

art class. i won second prize for the school's art competition drawing dinosaurs (long necks). using crayons, i drew three long necks, a mom, a dad, and their child. the typical family unit. mother insisted that i not draw the 'm' birds -those that children would usually draw- as those were 'modern' birds which did not exist in the time of dinosaurs. in her eyes, my drawing would lose its authenticity. she specifically said that if i wanted to draw 'birds', they would have to be those 'dinosaur birds'. the pterodactyl. winged lizards. not birds after all. but i didn't know how to draw those 'dinosaur birds' and my sky in the drawing was looking too empty. and so i drew in the 'm' birds. the fake birds. a lot of them. i won the second prize. there was however a girl in my class who knew how to draw a real bird. she drew a parrot so perfectly shaped and colored for the competition. it was green and had a sharp beak. she won the first prize.

i'm sure it wasn't because i didn't win the first prize, but my parents soon reprimanded me whenever i decided to draw and trace. i should have been studying instead. and so i studied.

i took art for my 'O' levels and did very well in it. i got an A and with encouragement from my art teacher, was determined to head to the local art college. this didn't sit well with my parents, especially my mom. no future in being an artist. and so i headed to college to do my 'A' levels. and then university. and then had thoughts of doing a PhD, until finally, i reach this point in my life where i'm revisited by art yet again. through photography, tea bags, and ink, i've become addicted to art and it is something that i plan to start and finish, even if it means i'll have to learn to draw a 'real bird'. i've since recently purchased, after 14 years, a new box of crayons. pastels!

they're still delicious!

so yes. i believe that i am fated to do art. even though it took me many, many years to actualize and chart its path in my life. i believe it as much as i believe that i was fated to finally read Veronika decides to die, for, having refused to spend $26 on it at BORDERS, i finally got to it at a second-hand bookstore at Bras Basah complex two days ago. it was priced at $5.90. and even though the cover and pages have been freckled by time and the sun, its spine was still uncracked. i fell in love. instantly. and i got some answers.

rulers

there is so much to learn from the young.

last night, as my 9-year-old brother, ammar, was preparing and packing his bag for his exam today, he took out three rulers and showed them to me. i simply went 'wow' and said nothing else. this was part of my 'i-don't-want-to-ignore-you-but-i-can't-give-you-all-the-attention-coz-i'm-doing-something' routine. evil me.

later this morning, my mother told me that as she was checking his pencil box to make sure he had everything he needed for his exams, she found the three rulers and asked him why he needed so many.

he replied saying that last year, during the final-year exam, one of his friends forgot to bring his eraser. in the middle of the paper, out of desperation, he started begging to borrow an eraser from the other kids, but nobody helped. everyone was engrossed in their exams. and some, for fear of being caught by the teacher. ammar however, did.

so this year, he told my mom that the reason why he wanted to bring an extra of everything is so that should any of his friends forget something, he could lend it to them. my heart melted.

there is so much to learn from the young. even as we're teaching them.

*

o silent shout

of conflict dreams

her vaginal tear

upon thy feet

a babe's born

his mind is weak

a rusty repertoire

the black blot whizzed by the entire visual area of the window. a bird. i think so. or at least, i'd like to think so. they're the only beings flying around early this morning. well. hopefully most of the time.

the connect. or the disconnect. i recently watched Waltz with Bashir. to a certain extent, it was a great disconnect. an animated documentary about a war that took place even before i was conceptualized as a human being. yes. conceptualized. to become, human. on levels of the intellectual, emotional, and moral. on the other hand, it wasn't a context that i was entirely estranged to. o, the bane of such incidents. incidents. if it could be lightly termed that. the bane of such horrors in its refusal to become History. its refusal to end and become a chapter in History. instead, it keeps Time as a constant mistress. a neverending affair with Time. an eternal patron. each feeding on the other. sustained.

the film. my greatest connect/disconnect surfaced through the film's use of animation. like the film Persepolis, the use of animation presents us with a different experience/perspective/representation/performance of reality. the reality of real events such as wars and revolutions. expressed, illustrated through motifs. comic style colors. surrealism is expected. picturesque dreams. grotesque nightmares. epic scenes. room for the visually-idiosyncratic. an animated film can easily create all of this. blood begins to look, artistic. in fact, it is no longer red. but black. brownish-red. maroon. it becomes symbolic. and we, as the audience, recognize it, nonetheless. connect. even death as expressed through animation, is made artistic. unreal. and perhaps, surreal. however, when this light-hearted use of animation is suddenly juxtaposed, mirrored, 'mimicked' by footages of the real, that is when the greatest connect and disconnect happens. both, at the same time. footages. terminology.

and then the realization. and then the tears. and then, the end.

the ability to finish looking, seeing, feeling something, as time passes, as a footage ends, as a memory fades, is perhaps the greatest disconnect between us. as one. the human race. can one perpetually look, see, feel, remember, and do?

momentaries

there are certain things in life that are just hypnotic. mechanical. like staring at the moon. it gets brighter and brighter. as everything else around it diminishes in sight. like watching fish swim in a tank. around and around. becoming blurs of colors floating around a landscape of blue. like the flailing arms of fire, etched onto a stove. its unachieved potential to soar. blue. orange. mild tints of pink. licking the bases of pans. limited. like peeling off dead, dry skin from a nasty cut. can't stop until it's all gone. even if it's bad to do so. scars. like a face in the fan. sitting in front of it, on a hot day. the constant wind, blowing secrets into the eyes. closing to contain. closing to contain. ruptured blinks. like waiting for the moments. the perfect moments. when they come. will they come?

the sit & stare routine

the sit & stare routine
newly developed
it involves the act of sitting at any random space that is permitted in both public and private spheres. although. in private, you can sit anywhere you want. worst case scenario: you'd be compromising your own comfort
and staring at anything as long as it does not stir chaos or uneasiness of any sort to the person or object being stared at
and although I have been in a state of utter ugh
this new sit & stare routine has become effective for me
let me explain
because I have been trained to never waste time
a trait I believe most, if not all of us, have been taught to instill in our everyday
seize the day!
it is because of this very socialized trait, idea, thought
that the sit & stare routine is successful
as I sit & stare, I subconsciously realize that to merely sit and stare is a time waster
and yet I sit & stare
why?
because
I can
I must
but after a while
I snap out of it
because I actually realize how much time I’m wasting
engaging in this very act
and so
guilt crawls in
and I snap back into work
I become a more productive worker
in doing what I know I must do
making up for lost time
having sat
and stared

the sit & stare routine
do not disturb

Time. like a twitch.

Time is a constant shift when there is an ‘old folk’ in the house. flanked against the fast paced rush of the working adult, Time is not only different in its form as ‘matter’, but also in its spatial estrangement: each from the other. it exists as two separate entities for both individuals. one nestles within the lull of each minute, each moment. in thought. in wonder. amidst questions. of whys and what ifs. awaiting the intervals of meals. breakfast. lunch. tea. dinner. supper. the intervals of medication. before each meal. after each meal. white tablets. blue. plastic coated colors. to-be-quickly-swallowed ‘raw’ pills that cling to dry throats. is it painful to swallow so many, all the time? or has it become just another part of a routine. like plucking eyebrows. shaving. bikini wax. Time is also spent, un-spent. sleep becomes a needy companion. the bed. a comfy overture to the grave. why so morbid? well, isn’t it? the working adult, battles with Time. against it. alongside it. deadlines. dead-lines. they appear on the face, skin. termed ‘wrinkles’. there are creams for them. a multi-million industry. Time boxes up activities and days. lunchtime. weekends. planners. dates. pay day. a slave to time. watches. alarms. sleep is shortened to accommodate more time, more work. more. the light bulb. an invention created to conspire with Time, to extend it. faux daylight. more day. more time. less time.

and then there is the liminal being. suspended in the space where she is expected to conform to the rush of the adult Time. and yet, she wanders with the free-floating Time of the old. lulling. each moment. in thought. in wonder. what an anomaly. she needs an alarm clock. wake her up to reality. yes. but perhaps, at another time.

in darkness dwells our truest form

the cynic killed the cheerleader

the fallen storyteller

it is good to recognize ones strengths and weaknesses. it levels you. it makes life more realistic, amidst this crazed world of illusions. I know now, for sure, that I do not make a good storyteller, not an oral storyteller anyhow. I can’t really tell stories. the presence of a physical audience inhibits. me. the one who has never really been good with people. a social butterfly with clipped wings. the method of the oral storytelling inhibits my thought process, that which is usually left loose during the moment of its construction. all is jumbled up and there is no Goffman’s ‘back’ stage for me to run to, for all becomes part of the theatrical performance. i then leave it up to my medium to provide for its own 'front' stage.

a story requires a multi-dimensional layered perspective, one that does not give up its inner secrets instantly. the moral of the story should only be revealed in the end. elements of climax or the crescendo to a plot are narrative tools to be properly crafted by the narrator to deliver a story that sustains the interest of the audience- an audience who has been spoilt by the bombardment of the visual enterprise. and so, the revelation: I am not a good oral storyteller. I am however, better with the written and visual media. this is because they are secondary media that exists, in itself, as a coded form. a picture is a story already told, as it has been captured out of the series of happenings that we call life, events. and so, it is already packaged. it only has to be delivered, viewed, to fulfill its purpose as narrative. the form of the written word mirrors the latter. the clever and painstaking choice of words, each after the other denotes the process inherent within- masked. and so, like the photograph, it estranges the storyteller from its audience, to a certain extent. I am not dismissing oral storytelling as being a one-dimensional narrative form that requires no coding process, for it certainly does. I’m just saying that I suck at it, or to put it nicely, i am not well-versed with its method.

I started with the form of the written word, and then onto the visual and perhaps, that is where I should keep myself parked in, for now.

writing in air

there lies a huge disjuncture between the person she would like to be, to that of the person that she is. a self of the past, to one awaiting the turn into a future. the ever vigilant to change and the world around, to the myopic individual who casts merely side glances to those around her. hair in the wind. the fan blows. it is constant. each strand suspended in the air in accordance to an exact timing. methodical shifts of the blades. how fast per second? how much wind artificially created per rotation? maths. method. there is no uneven rhythm. waves have begun taking up a pattern. too much certainty. the old man could predict the next wave in its exact moment. where is spontaneity? no more messages in a bottle. he reaches in but falls behind. the landing is uneven. like the bumps on his skin. do two unevens make it even? she toasted the tip of her bottle to the sunset sky. plastic against the now virtual sky cut up by the rectangular window. the disjuncture is forgotten, forgotten for a while. sirens on the road. someone is dying. they sit in the dark. the people are coming.

batcave

the girls love the batcave 

grandmothers, being ill, & time

the combination of having ill grandmothers and having little time to spend with them, is both a painful and guilty feeling. how necessary it then becomes, to know their stories from before they became grandmothers. 



my nenek (in Bahasa Melayu, paternal grandmother)



my nani (in Bengoli, maternal grandmother)

Site, Situation, Spectator opening

i meant to write something about this a while back, but procrastination always wins me over. it went well. the audience were intrigued by the exhibits and for a student project, it was well executed and presented. for me, however, the experience and thrill was derived more through the conceptual and curatorial process of it all, as it's something that i'm interested in. i'm never good with openings but i think i managed it well. was asked to give an impromptu closing mini-speech, and as usual, i spoke too fast, as i always do when i know what i'm talking about. taking pauses to breathe seems unnecessary during these moments. nonetheless, it went well. am happy about it, and am looking forward to creating and curating my own projects soon. 

first up, The Classroom. 

and just because tears come easily

i wonder. if you grow 5-10 years within a year itself, does this mean that as you actually grow (chronologically & physically) older, you won't grow (metaphorically) anymore. or perhaps, the growth process decelerates. learning lesser things. merely a stoic squirm amidst the world of the happening. i've seen that. i've lived through it. that, is life. degrees of inaffection. stagnance. you can die now. you've seen, done it all. 

or perhaps, our inner growth far surpasses the 'life expectancy' number limit that chains our bodies to 'mortality'. perhaps, our inner selves encompass a more accentuated concept of the immortal. a 26 year-old with a 70 year-old soul. a 70 year-old with a 218 year-old soul. she dies, but fragments of her self survives. the photos she's taken. the cameras now in the hands of great-great grandchildren. stolen moments with the people she loved. pieces of words embedded into cracked walls. fibres of world she existed within. even as her body perishes under the laws of mortality, she continues to grow. a growth that is not dependent merely on the memories of the people she knew (because people are never really enough), but within the entities - even the intangible - that she had created, touched, breathed, owned, discarded. because, in a way, nothing is ever really gone. nobody is ever really lost. 

 

it merely transforms. pocketed, from one form to another.

bodies, into earth. persons, into memories. memories, into objects. objects, into other objects. living amidst one and all. 

and for those gone from our touch, may they linger in our thoughts. and just because tears come easily, it doesn't mean it brought sadness along as a partner. 

life worlds

like it or not, we often relate to our 'reality' through the life experiences of those around us - those who reside within the same cultural and social circles of our everyday. i remember being a young girl, influenced by the concept of 'wanting'. wanting certain things, to experience them just because the other girls had them. freedom. being able to get a haircut from a salon and not mom's brutal bowl-shaped 'bob' style. Polly Pockets. small girly worlds encapsulated within cute, colorful pocket-sized compact cases that, well, fitted our pockets, but not without the existence of a huge bulge on the side of the pinafore. an intrusion to the girlish figure.

the teenage years are harder. association. belonging. peer pressure. we begin to form ideas about friendships, boy-girl relationships (BGR, as they termed it). we begin to develop ideals of who we are in relation or in constrast to others. we create fads to differentiate ourselves from the masses. black bracelet bands. short socks. never tucking in our blouses. solidarity in defiance. in juxtaposition, or in agreement to one another. the teenage years, filled with carefree moments of fun and play, indented by major examinations that bring about misery. solidarity in misery. great milestones of the education system. all hail.

leaving the teenage years. university. everyone seems motivated. some are motivated to play. others, motivated to work and work. get on the dean's list. get that perfect CAP score. score. and then there are those motivated to cause impact. impact. looking at the motivated ones keeps one in check. am i doing enough? should i do more? should i care? what can i do? it shapes the way we begin to make choices. choices about what we want to experience, and how we choose to experience them.

and then comes the mid-20s. for those who go on to become 'real adults', they move into the working world. but for some of my friends and i, we chose the postgraduate path. resisting reality for a little while more. looking at our friends who are working and earning, we are reminded of the need, the want for money. savings. zilch. postgraduates are usually financially-challenged (FC) people. yes they have a lot of free time, but they're FC. to a certain extent. the mid-20s also introduce another 'necessary' step to ones social evolution to adulthood - serious relationships and marriage. being a single 25-year-old (soon to be 26) woman in Singapore, who also happens to belong to an ethnic community that prides the value of a woman on her being married, is agitating. i repeat. agitating. looking at friends and cousins who are married, some with a child, reminds us that they're either going too fast, or we, too slow. and so, this period of mid-20s has lately been alot about marriage. when. who. where. how does the dress look like. why are you still single!? SPG. single. picky/petty. girl. hmm.

i'm not sure what the patterns will be as we progress into our 30s and 40s. perhaps it'll be about job security. are you earning your first million? or about the family. are you pregnant yet? are you getting your own place? divorce? or maybe about achievements. nobel prize!? who knows. but i'm very sure that we will all reach a phase in our lives when we start conversations with Death. that person we went to primary school with, passed away last week. recognizing familiar faces on the orbituary page. people we've grown up with, now gone, reminding us of our mortality in this world. reminding us of our regrets of the younger days. the good moments. the bad ones. reflections. the past summed up in stories told over casual dinners. the 'future' embedded in that present day, in and of itself. of life, and living.

dreaming of reality

often, one wakes up astounded or mystified by their dreams. crocodiles under the bed. large snakes that envelope. doors that lead nowhere. making love to a man with no face. biting down on metal fingernails. getting eaten by a wild boar. what do these dreams mean? these convoluted concoction of metaphors and imageries, mixed and intertwined across content and context to cohere within this level of the subconscious that intrudes into reality through our dreams. heavy-laden symbolisms to be deciphered. dream dictionaries can be found on the www. they offer pretty interesting interpretations to the symbolisms in our dreams, encompassing a nice mix of the good and bad connotations of each object or situation dreamt about. but perhaps, we can also turn to self-reflection in aiding the deciphering of our dreams.

i once had a dream about this large crocodile that was discovered somewhere - dreams are usually either very specific about sites, or not. and so, in this dream, this enormous crocodile was dug out, preserved in its semi-alive state, and kept frozen in time. it was placed in a garden, surrounded by bushes of roses, as if it was a Greek statue, posed. everybody loved it. a spectacle. when night came, they all went home. somehow, the crocodile 'thawed' back to life and it was on a prowl. it swallowed up buses of people, eating everything and everyone in its path. i was sleeping in my bed and suddenly it came in. i saw myself asleep. the crocodile coming into my room. i was still sleeping. it crawled under my bed and stayed there. it just stayed there. and then i woke up.

heart racing.

i'm not a believer of dream dictionaries but this time around, i thought i'd check it out, for fun (and curiousity)

To see a crocodile in your dream, symbolizes freedom, hidden strength and power. It forewarns of hidden danger. Someone near you is giving you bad advice and is trying to sway you into poor decisions. Because crocodiles can live in water and on land, they also represent your conscious and unconscious and the emotional and the rational. Perhaps something is coming to the surface and you are on the verge of some new awareness.
Alternatively, the crocodile may be an aspect of yourself and your aggressive and "snappy" attitude. Or it may reveal that are being insincere, displaying false emotions and shedding "crocodile tears".
To dream that you are chased or bitten by a crocodile, denotes disappointments in love and in business.

i also refered to an Islamic interpretation of dreams and 'crocodile' churned out:

represents a cunning enemy without compassion

hmmm.

and so, i did my own assessment of this dream. why a crocodile? i recalled my obsession with the Sarcosuchus or 'Supercroc' that was unearthed a few years back. the massive reconstruction of a dino-croc that swam the deep waters of what is now Africa. (it's both fascinating and scary how much our earth has evolved) i followed the excavation documentary on the National Geographic Channel and when it was on 'tour', i remember heading to some mall here in Singapore to witness the 'Supercroc', in its 'real' form. the majestic reconstruction of its bones. how small we humans are. i have been secretly in love with crocodiles since then. in love and yet fearful of it. i never did manage to decipher the dream. didn't care to. i got caught up with the 'Supercroc' and started reading up on it once again. the crocodile under my bed. i've left it in my journal for a possible story, someday.

the most recent dream that inspired this post is one that disturbed me the most, because it was so real. in fact, it IS still real. i dreamt that i kept missing my thesis submission deadline. this is in fact, true. it is very much real. and so i woke up that night thinking, hmm. ok. so what else is new? my reality has infiltrated my dreams, in absolute terms. no masked symbolisms. no picturesque metaphors. no room for deconstruction. damn.