Logs i: degree zero terminal afterthoughts
“You look like someone who has trouble with sleep.”
A problem with sleep, always sleep. Is it skin of pale white and ice cold?, or the look of borrowed flesh beneath yellowing skin. I refuse to call this a bug or sickness or addiction to consciousness or aversion to the OTHER SIDE, wrong side and the right side. My memory continues to falter I can feel the —- closing in.. It is a certain kind of loneliness that this language provides, I speak it but it does not say and is answered by no one it [nearly]: “..COLLAPSES BEFORE HAVING RETAINED ANY FORMULATION”.
I wanted to get to that heart, observe it, reduce it, objectify it. It is certainly a question of arithmetic, but now more anemic futility. What should finally interpret Transcendence into our world? The human voice came—Hyperiacs—sounds uttered, marks on walls and then paper, gestures, undertones, cues, mere vehicles of heart. ICONOGRAPH THE PLANET! A mere dead horizon in history, mind you! Have you witnessed NAKED thought? I have dreamt of it and the images were still insane, I couldn’t understand it even if it was true towards the people who practice it, who come from a meaningless state. There were some words we might have made or seen, but no, no! But no, these words were not seen or published. At the end, we revert.
Wouldn’t we? Shouldn’t we?
Go in graceless abandon beyond poetics and politics formalistic and structural endeavours, why don’t you?, retain the textures laden, go beyond binarism of definition of what is and isn’t.. violence manifest of the what is-isn’t. A kind of mad, immolum cynic you see burning in the metal ashtray she used to keep the dust (Note: curious object like the skin of a magnetic lens without its innards, hollowed out and separated into three pieces. HEAD. RIBS. ABDOMEN).
It took no less than the ultimate sacrifice in exchange for a greater gift of raw power, an unborn piece of human flesh so rotten yet raw it poisoned us, weakened us. Who now fell over on top and began ripping at her in spades and spasms. We must change from one cell, every muscle level through the entire organ count up from each successive phonic lingua unit, pixel, line, whether or not it intersects with any set of basic time dimensions like reversible rebel.
The important thing was to be true, do not lose heart! I tell myself it will not happen again and that I must accept the fact that certain days are worse than others. The said fills me with its own weight, with it own heartbeat, with its own sins, and its own past. compare language to sleep it ruins us to brings order of magnificent dull first synthesis of thought and aberration dissect what should not be dissected vision vision there is no vision to my speech shake shake and convulse there is no logic to reason. what is cyberstition we fail to define or is it a success to birth such a monstrous task in methodology, definition definition dualism virus why should it not encompass all? why linear? why guilt? guilt of language of communication, if I could live a life of silence I would give all for an existence of silence, without regret, without weight, without body, without tongue.
..
Conversations between traveller and scribe
22 June 2024
We arrived at Kuching around 2:30–3, and left our luggages at the hotel. The ride from the airport was 20 or 30 minutes. We were all tired, so we took things slowly.
The temples are different here, more intricate. There is one in front of the hotel. There is an island in the middle of the road. We had a good meal at a place recommended to us by Aurette. Quaint and cosy; family-sized. By then it was late afternoon. We left to explore the place, maybe there’ll be more to see tomorrow.
I am rushing my writing, this entire thing feels rushed.
I should slow down. I do not know where or how this will end. I have my apprehensions for this trip; a work is expected of us at the end of it, in the latter half of September if my memory serves me well (it hasn’t for the most part), hence the writing; I should write again soon at the end of each day.
I return home only to leave once more, that is how the month has seemingly gone. This last one feels the emptiest. Where is home?
We found a thrift store in an old mall, dead and run down. Deadbeat. I didn’t find anything I really liked. I got this communist rabbit from an obscure MTV web show, Usavich. I have always wanted something from the show, I will place it above my table when I get back home. By then it was six and it was raining.
In any case, forgive me for having disappointed you, and believe in my faithful thoughts
My watch buzzes, I look at it, I go back to writing
I walked in the rain today, it felt free. The beams of the sea empty moment of the birds in the sky not a single gesture belongs to others
I am so tired, so let me write quickly. We found this place called Unika Borneo, they had a collection of arts, artefacts, crafts etc. of 25 years. I think everything was for sale, but I could only get this little wood sculpture. It feels hollow and porous and I wonder how it ended up there.
23 June 2024
I am up early to write this, maybe so that I will remember to write at night. It is 8 right now, just after breakfast. I don’t know how I am feeling. if an idea or desire to create shall arise from nowhere soon I know nothing of this place and today we will be heading to a museum, objects of spectres of what once was or expectations or speculations of the past. Where do they go when they walk out and leave the relics behind? I will spend six days here, and one can hardly feel it is ever enough. Breakfast was good though.
My fingers they tremble from different origins on again there’s nothing
in the bush a depth system that’s the thing fjisif aka is in fje= ext two japers ver mamipilative dd
I hope my memory and the pictures I took today serve me well. We reached the museum at around 10. There were five levels, I didn’t think we’d be able to finish seeing everything or appreciate it at all.
I found something today, it spoke about the trade in Borneo. I wrote about it in my proposal here, now I am more sure of it, I hope it will last.
Out of necessity?
The artefacts were all behind glass, made it feel distant
Reflective.
There were a lot of ceramics and beads. Exchanged for goods, spices, people, bartering. Trade complicates history and everything becomes one. How much of my life shall be reduced to transactions and the records of my labour by the end of it? I am going off again.
Who got to decide this, logistics of it all?
9 August
The time shall be 2:50 in the morning. I am reading what I have written over the past few days; I rarely enjoy what I write the next day. I am using the old headphones I had lying around again. I haven’t felt such a simple joy and peace in awhile, it feels purposeful and willed; I smile unprovoked. A yearning to create manifest and nightly rendezvous. I can breathe you right there holding on paper and pen glory dancing again.
Da-dum(dum) da-da-da-da-da (dum, dum), dum
23 June (cont’d)
Okay maybe I am that tired. There were a few noteworthy things, I should write about them briefly before the thoughts leave me.
• Barter trade
• Chinese hornbill casks (do they really look like this inside)
• Perfumed wood ; agarwood and camphor—cultural rituals and beliefs
• The sense of aristocracy
• Loincloth
• Maps and Cartography ; landscapes and terrain
• Pots and coins. Coins once more
• 4:26pm time to go
• We need like a big fat break
10 August
And if I could live my life in silence
24 June
It is the 24th of June. I notice I have repeated the same information of the dates. I feel like I am regressing. Regressing. I don’t know why I still keep up with the tedium of writing. That is what my medium feels like: tedious. Should art be tedious? Should it be one at the same time cathartic and tedious?
We went to some biodiversity centre today, I don’t know what I expected out of this. Science Centre perhaps? (When was the last time the Science Centre ever crossed my mind?) It’s a lab or compound of sorts researching the local flora and fauna, working with the local communities.
We walked around the garden as they pointed out the plants. They told us facts I can’t remember, and what products they make with the plants. There were pitcher plants. I really like pitcher plants, but they’re hard to grow here. There was a plant, nice and fuzzy. Oh I remember something, some plants were good toilet paper or something. Reminds me of François Rabelais thorough research on the ways to wipe the bum, before the toilet paper I presume, 15th century I think.
I have, answered Gargantua, by a long and curious experience, found out a means to wipe my bum, the most lordly, the most excellent, and the most convenient that ever was seen… I say and maintain, that of all torcheculs, arsewisps, bumfodders, tail-napkins, bunghole cleansers, and wipe-breeches, there is none in the world comparable to the neck of a goose, that is well downed, if you hold her head betwixt your legs
—Gargantua, chap. XIV et XV
They told a story of two smugglers—or bio-pirates (perhaps too cool a name)—who smuggled some native plants.
The locals treated them well, and shared their knowledge graciously as they do. I wonder where they are now, and how they are feeling if they even feel anything at all.
We tried a local food fern thing, it was really good. They stir-fry it. I will miss the food here.
15 August
I imagine myself stuck on a ship—but only in words, in concept—the traveller returns each day to retell her journeys. The idea of the ship was not mine, but I enjoy it. I never imagine myself elsewhere apart from where I am writing from. I have forgotten my notepad today, the notepad on which I scribble my illegible thoughts on; it serves no function. Most of the words exchanged in our conversations I keep in my heart. But the notepad grounds me. The act of forgetting one’s journal reminds me of a passage on another project I’m working on. I wonder how much it has affected my thinking and writing … other’s shrewdly noticed that the author had portrayed himself and his acquaintances…
I have not played badminton in far too long. I cannot get this sequence I imagine in my head which probably happens countless times in a game.
React
notice the racquet head moving backwards; supination in deception from forearm and fingers
Split-step
push off with my right quad, shift all my weight onto my left, but not too much as I add a little skip
Raise racquet deltoid
Elbow, forearm pronate, fingers squeeze
Follow-through
Breathe
An old lady walks through the train cabin and scans the QR codes.
Poets are just lazy prose writers.
…lie, are you dyslexic?
…lei, are you?
25 June
sad music
sad music
Past few days have been intense. Long days, tiring one where we did a lot together as a group, I wish we had more time together; a few people left us yesterday. I’m not dissatisfied, but we could’ve had a better time together as a group and I hope that I could have a better life. I travelled alone today.
25th of June, I have done it again, repeating myself. I went to the Malaysia-China Friendship park today, thought it could help for some reason. The naming of it feels so clinical and trimmed down, as if everything else has been removed and all that’s been left is an absolute non-poetic diplomatic remark left for history. I am just yapping.
I was looking at trade routes, also wondering why they made this park in the first place. Was it a symbolic treatise, commemorating friendship. A money thing?
Journey there was quick but stressful. I think it took around 20 minutes. My data roaming failed me for the most part so I was travelling blind; an adventurer with no bearings. But I knew vaguely where it was, although my sense of direction fails me often.
And then I was there. It looked so random, like it was just placed there. I think because it was built beside a bunch of terraces.
It was June 25th. This is June 25th. I woke up at 10 today.
There was a giant statue of Admiral Zheng He, curious that they used him as the ambassador for this site. The statue was big but everything else felt cheap and poorly maintained. None of the architecture was carved, glory of plastic and paint. Then it started raining, I hid under the cheap architecture.
“Commemorating 50 diplomatic years between Malaysia and China.”
Perhaps the most absurd sight was a 霸王茶几 (CHAGEE bubble tea) in the middle. The people just went there for the bubble tea; they looked local. The supposedly commemorative site felt awfully commercial and hollow now. There was a ship in the middle of the lake, the whole place felt confusing.
I don’t know how to feel about the lack of sincerity from this place. I think I spent more time travelling there walking about. As I left, there was a stone path, poorly maintained as well. I left back for the hotel, Moore was still there. It was 12 by then so we had nasi padang. Then we went to a museum with Islamic artefacts. Time spent there reminded me of the place we visited on the second day. It is the 26th of June now. Then we went to a bookstore, you don’t see these in Singapore much anyway, perhaps in the more gentrified regions of the island, or the ones untouched; there’s no in between.
I met up with Moore again for dinner, we had this banana with cheese and condensed milk. Yeah.
18 August
My soul which I have often been told was lonely.
My neighbours are moving, and soon it will be our turn. I have written about this move in far too many publications, this should be the last. I think of Bouncer, my neighbour’s cat, my illegitimate first child. The first-ish cat who ever walked into my house. He visits most nights and cries outside our gate, calling for my two cats; they dgaf. Today he meows loudly once more. I wonder if this should be the last time; I have been thinking of endings lately.
I think faster than I can write, sometimes I just type words that only show up later in a sentence.
I went out today. Or maybe yesterday. I went to a show. It was the show of a friend, a friend who very suddenly came to be part of my social circle and should hopefully remain so. We hugged and I held on. I did not enjoy being perceived, though. As well as perceiving others not close to me. I should speak to him about his work soon.
The work was beautiful, its nuances, the humour. But the people laugh, those who laugh not as an expression but a proclamation of their existence. What gives them the right to express joy in such an outwardly manner, to gesture seemingly to say: “Haha that joke, I got it, the one on the screen, I did.” followed by a bitter retreat to where they once were, like the rest of us, viewing passively. I hate people. Is 27 too early an age to shoot myself. I’ve missed the peak of my sleep med, let me take another.
Some people only wish for their existence to be seen, and for the fact to be reiterated every moment.
I still remember how we got close. It was at a studio warming for a close bunch of friends. It was my sobriety’s debut, it was horrid. But my friend and his lover made it better. I remember saying that I do not prefer the company of men, because it is all flattery or awkwardness. Perhaps my feminine disposition makes it feel so uninviting. Nonetheless I shared a lot, and I wonder if in my overeagerness to be understood, I reveal too generously parts of myself.
I throw the word ‘love’ around a lot. But I do. It is all I do and all I hope for. To be understood, and accepted. But I know nothing of it, nothing of what I want. I have been coming to terms lately that life is not going to get simpler, and that I cannot force the people I love to stay with me. Eventually I will have to let you walk and make your own discoveries, too.
22 August
I write this on my bed, windows opened to get the smell of me out, and peachy by my side. He sniffs the air and I write my silly little journals in the book I am making with a close friend.
My air-conditioner has started producing a mysterious ticking noise. Seems to have been caused by the recent cleaning. I have tried to get rid of it by shaking the unit, moving the fan coil, rather stupidly sticking my finger in and I lost a bit of my nail. I was getting quite impatient;. my hearing is quite sensitive, but I have grown quite accustomed to it now. New habits now revolve around it. I put on my earplugs with a bit more reason. I wake up and it’s the first thing I notice. It gets drowned out by other noises really easily but it’s still there. I don’t know if I will ever get it fixed.
And the weeks just fly past, and i’m no closer to finding out what love is, and somehow managed to drift farther from my friends should love feel like a dilapidated mess forcing needless regrets hours why does it no end soon enough and then the time comes where i decide enough is enough i no longer want this i want my time is the problem with me it lies with me i heard for long the mad mad love but it does not come to me the mad belongs with me i am mad mad mad mad close my eyes shut the em up craft to close wrenching wretched touch feel none shall touch what is it that u yearn for ice always imagine a person who wishes options but to die to be full of thoughts but i imagine the kind to be empty decided
26 June
Second last day. Really tired. I woke up at like 12, by then Dr Keylan had already left. He seemed sure, as always. We ate lunch at the eatery where we were staying. Or restaurant, cafe thing? The sotong is so big, I’m stretching my hand to remind myself how big it was. Or maybe it wasn’t that big, I can’t remember.
I feel like my most distinct memory of this place won’t be that park I visited, but the flavours. I didn’t like the pickles here, I don’t know why I usually like them. The taste is a bit more pungent here. We finished around 3:30. Slow day.
It was supposed to be a slow day, but we all knew it wasn’t a vacation; a work is expected of us at the end of it, in the latter half of September if my memory serves me well. We went to a textile foundation, where they preserve textiles and the dying craft. The people there were welcoming and spoke gladly. They held workshops and stuff here so we signed up for one, will we even come back?
The preservation work here feels different from Singapore. Back in Singapore, things arrive dead on arrival, more taxidermy than preservation; a wish to preserve a memory. The lady called us handsome and pretty, I can’t remember what it was. She taught me her language but I forgot.We came across these writings on the walls, it stretched across quite a few walls. outside shops, near tourist locations. I don’t know what it is about but the disdain or disagreement, I feel it. A list of demands. By then it was 6 and the sky was lovely.
We went to have dinner but I haven’t been able to eat like I used to. The banana, cheese condensed milk monstrosity we had yesterday definitely didn’t help. Then we found this little shop with snacks I haven’t seen in ages. Mum’s birthday soon, felt like I should write that. Or not.
I should be flying back tomorrow. I don’t know if I will continue this, I ought to write more. Perhaps travel again too. The mechanical side of existence is something I fear I can embrace to the point of disorder. Although, I forget and falter; return to sick and madness. For when I say return, it is only a pretense. The sick mind is always present, I have only learned to live with the cries of this suffering organ, cohabit. I believe I have only done so as seldom as possible, much of my life I have failed to be alone with myself.
Thus, if I could live in silence I would glady take its hand, and if I were to die later this afternoon.
We were waiting; I had to wait. Now it is over. The writer must continue living, life demands it. At once a broken and complete life, I must now spend the rest of my years as one laid by those uncaring of their future deaths but we have to learn this is all there is to be offered, answers never provided from there I walk, and I shall wait. I wish I could return to blindness.
