I like sugar-plums In general (of course, always in general), we women do not speak often of the good points of men. When we do it is usually in a tone of surprize, as if one has been handed a sugar-plum when one least expected it.

Labels: men

  ¶ 4:16 PM 0 comments

  For nothing As I continue making art, or being an artist, I feel a flow, like it is an extention of myself - almost a third arm.

For all the agony of rushing to complete something before a deadline, or the abysmal dread that is 'artists block', the gnawing self-doubt (against the urgency of people dying in the streets, what use is my multi-media installation?), there is the sweetness of opening night - an almost tangible taste on the tip of one's tongue, a heightened feeling quite unlike anything else I have ever known. To say nothing of the thrilling velocity when the making becomes thinking and the thinking becomes feeling and there is a momentary one-ness of words, action and thought.

I believe in an art for society, an art that contributes to life and to people. But in the making, sometimes I feel that this art has no message, no role, no expectation, no rules. Like love, there is only the moment of it, and the recognition that it is there in ourselves. And just like love, if you can, you hold it and you use it for every part of your life.

Not for identity politics, not to address issues, not for manifestoes, not for ideologies, not for weak social protest, not for biennales, not for anything.

For nothing.

Labels: art

  ¶ 3:59 PM 0 comments

  Papier Machine 'I'm Going to Pwn You' The title 'papier machine' comes from one of Elizabeth Presa's sculptures that I like very much, which in turn was based on a reading of Derrida's collection of essays called 'Papier Machine'. It is a reflection on writing in a digital or paperless age.

http://www.sylviaschwartz.net/M_River/Presa_images.htm

I know it must seem terribly fuddy-duddy to insist that the clicking of keys and a blinking cursor cannot compare to the very physical act of writing with pen and paper. I maintain that how one writes something determines the nature of what comes out. Neil Gaiman wrote his fairy tale 'Stardust' entirely in long-hand, and I have seen facsimilles of Lewis Caroll's hand-written, self-illustrated 'Alice In Wonderland'. The latter is a wonderful document full of cancelled-out words and ink blots.

Even a type-script produced on a typewriter will bear the touch of the hand - mis-spelled words, letttters doubled as a result of pressing on a key a moment too llllong.

It's really the 'touch' that I'm getting at, though I know I'm dangerously close to seeming stupidly nostalgic and archaic. I have been told though that there ARE examples of 'touch' even deep in the digital orgy of cyber-gaming. E.g. In a killing frenzy 'I'm going to own you' often comes out as 'I'm going to pwn you'. I'm sure more were mentioned but I like this one most.

I keep a diary in a black spiral bound notebook with cream-colored pages. As I write the pages accumulate like dry leaves. It is a strange transition from there to this blog, whose text is formatted by the CSS I have tweaked in the html code. I swing back and forth between writing who I am and who I want to be seen as. My diary is a surrogate for my mind, there is an intimacy and trust that I find difficult to invest in other people.

A blog is a nice middle-ground.  ¶ 5:00 AM 0 comments

  Which one are you? You may pick more than one category. You may add to the categories.

1. The boys
2. The girls
3. The gay friend
4. The drinking mates
5. The needy
6. The casual fuck
7. The best friend
8. The ex-best friend
9. The people I actually dislike deep down inside
10. The soul mate
11. The show off
12. The ones I am secretly in intense competition with
13. The hottie
14. The insecure
15. The hi-byes
16. The closet racists
17. The art crowd
18. The deathly boring
19. The tight-arses
20. The rich kids
21. The urban malays
22. The chinese-educated
23. The white people
24. The alchoholics
25. The copy-cat
26. The social vampires
27. The synchopantic suck-ups
28. The people I'd like to fuck
29. The chronically late
30. The pedants
31. The ones I'd do anything for
32. The mentor
33. The family friend
34. The people who called me fat in primary and secondary school
35. The cute cousin
36. The confidant
37. The equals
38. The true love
39. The intimidatingly intellectual
40. The sexy musician type
41. The females I carry a flame for
42. The casual drug users
43. The eternally understanding
44. The refreshingly candid
45. The intruders upon my personal territory
46. The just plain rude
47. The ones I like immensely and have great affection for
48. The people I never have anything to say to, no matter how hard I try
49. The people who talk during movies
50. The imaginary friend

Labels: friends

  ¶ 4:00 AM 2 comments

  Blood-letting People want a blood-letting. People want to know you like you know yourself. What you make and what you put into an arena to be viewed is never enough.

To viewed is like pornography. If people are 'your friends' they expect to know you, like people expect a reciept when purchasing a new pair of shoes, or a new eau de toilette.

Here, come close then. Closer and closer, ever closer. But it's not gentle at all, not a civilized exchange of information at all. There are all manner of harsh words, thoughts gone hopelessly astray, endless discourses on fornication and obsession, unchecked by the humanizing effect of poetry. Yes, poetry is humanizing. It is not a disguise, as so many people seem to see it as.

Poetry is a filter, like my art is a filter. I just can't comprehend why people seem to value the unfiltered. If you want to know me, you may simply look at my art and listen to what I have to say, that is all there is to know. The unfiltered is private territory into which it is not a priviledge to enter, it is simply impolite, vulgar, an advantage of information.

The unfiltered is a grab-bag of desires I have buried, deep deep deep down. Sometimes they come up, like a leak from a sponge you thought was long dry. It is such a strange feeling, this seeping. Involuntary and uncontrollable. That is why I hate it.

But the desires are very precious. They come from very precious very private memories. Like a day on a beach, with the wind blowing at an angle so hard that your ears ache, looking out to sea, surfers suspended halfway between a great grey sky and the white tip of a crashing wave. They must be riding a velocity that you can only imagine. Sometimes walking in a city where the lights are always at a distance, but the pavement seems to know and understand every step you take. Sometimes holding your hand, striding against the cold in the deep of winter, always with the promise of a warm bed underneath blankets or covers of books once we reach home.

Home.

These belong to me, only me. No one may have them. They are as precious as currency, to be spent when I feel grey as I drive along these half-built highways of my home city. I experience this city like an old friend I never liked. We have a history neither of us can deny. Kuala Lumpur... you're like a hook in my heart. Sometimes on a balmy evening, you bring out a sunset gentle enough to melt my mind, jaded from the oppressive heat and unrelenting demands of the day. I float as supple as a cloud, into your twilight, into your night, into the next day. I'm always convinced I'll leave you behind, straining forever to occupy my shell with a truer form of myself, but I'm never sure, I'm never sure.

Labels: sweet misery

  ¶ 6:15 PM 0 comments

  Nightmare Nightmares that wake you up at 3 in the morning are the worst. Suspended halfway between one day and the next, you are left feeling immensely vulnerable and alone. If it was a frightening dream it will have made the shadows in the room larger and darker. Morning seems very far away and as you stare into the ceiling you wonder how you'll make it to 7 o'clock. At those times you realize just how much difference there is between night and day.

Labels: sweet misery

  ¶ 3:43 PM 1 comments