text

Capturing The Paradoxical Moment (2008)

Artist’s Private Space (2006)
Revised in 2020

9 minutes of neuropsychosis
Written, in Singapore: 2005 (in response to Neuropsychosis; a performance-installation) 
Revised in 2013

i.

this time round
I played an ethnographer
I got emotionally
churned inside out
an issue is never an issue
it has surpassed me for the past 56 ½ years
rooting my mind, I branched out
subconsciously
the journey brought me to a void
claustrophobic
I wanted to ignore
I wanted to avoid
I never knew her or him
cold
clinical
the womb
but
not this time round
I said, “hello mama!”
I dragged her into this journey of mine
I filmed her nakedness, trying to recall how she looked like before I was out
I filmed my foetus-like state
struggling to not want to get out
the performance is an on-going process that never had an end to deal with
I was totally tied
the womb, the water, the pool
illusioning the idea of space within space
hoping that the theatrical lights would outcast the performance
and hide away my thoughts
I decided
I self-created a book to read.

 
ii.

there I was sitting by the waters, hallucinating
I wrote a poem to confront and then deny
I recalled the smell of chlorine and suntan lotion
of being thrown into the waters
but I was tied to the cord
and it snapped
it snapped real hard with nothing to turn back to.

iii.

the phone rang
we ended ****ing each other
the intensity broke my heart
the issue was never spoken to begin with
we cut all relationships
we have nothing to talk about
how could you leave me

and retain a part of me.

45 minutes of thoughts
Written, in London: November 2004   
Revised in 2013

Chrome lighting hung from black lining.
I keep on turning.
Alone in Revolution Bar.
I made visual love to the waitress at the bar
Though she was busy.
I lit the stick.
And watch the smoke swirl.
15 minutes.
She glances back at me.
The sandwich she bites between her lips.
¼ pint of malt left in exchange.
For time.
Couples set in their booths.
Talking about the everydays.
She smokes.
She laughs.
I don’t love you.
But, are you going?
Cos I’ve got to leave soon.
I don’t recognize love, I can’t handle it well.
I recognize myself in you.

November
Written, in London: November 2004  
Revised in 2013 

As I walked down the streets that we both shared
The pavements swallowed our memories
The air filled with sadness
Where we once stood was an old door instead
The fresh paint that covered the past
Where have you gone to
Those ugly red lanterns
Tell your dad to take them down
They light up too much truth
The staircase that took our steps away
Held too much weight
The white walls
The grills I know nothing about
How cool the night air must have been for you
Where you and I got separated
Never again with old bicycle coming by
Staring up at your window, saying hi
And now, goodbye