HOLD ON TIGHT

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. ~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot Friday, April 20, 2007 i woke up this morning feeling ok, the sunlight was immensely bright though. it was dishonestly bright. i felt angry with the shoppers and the people who were eating icecreams. it was irrational. as yesterday was irrational too, there was a jam outside my apartment and everyone was angry, a black guy was shouting at a white couple. i slipped two books at the strand, and left. it's funny. i looked around me to see if no one was looking, then very stealthily, i dumped the books there. i had the demeanour and the guiltiness of a thief, of course i was not a thief, i was just putting two almost brand new books in the strand, and then leaving, very quickly, as though unable to face the unbearable scene of some crime. in less than a month i will be home in singapore. edwin once told me, that going back to singapore is like returning from outer space . in outer space, the laws of gravity are suspended and it is possible to become a different person, i don't mean, persuade yourself to become the stronger, better person that you wanted to me, i mean become the better person. but i am weak. yesterday, like the slippages in a puritan text characterised by the tension between idealised religiosity and vanity, self-doubt, i slipped and fell into contradiction of myself. i am worried that when i go home, i will be bombarded by memories. i know when i go home, i will start writing again. alone in my room back home, my writing was always about me me me . that changed in new york, when my writing took the shape of the city, it was more measured and distant and much, much more sporadic, it was occasionally funny and i liked it. here, i shared a room with a neurotic, anxious room mate, and there is no escape from an outer world, i don't have the luxury of introspection, my poetry is no longer about me, no longer about the bad people i used to know. in african myths, they say if you travel across the sea, the devil can no longer find you. but still the african myth is wrong. in late winter, i wrote about the odour of ash, finding ghosts one day. that night, i was afraid. it was like, the speech act of "in that house" brought me back. my friend, he was angry yesterday, he yelled over the phone, "is it because you like being there?". no, i don't like being there, can't you understand, i'm still trying to understand it, i necessarily have to find closure. my pen slips back into then, automatic writing, because i have to know. it's like a puzzle mystery, a terrible boardgame - only if you've unlocked the mystery, you leave the cave. only when you've finished reading the book, you leave. i went for a reading a long time ago where tamas dobozy read a story about two fathers who died in a plane crash. so these two fathers, they had a choice of returning to their loved ones in the form of anything they chose. one chose to return in the form of lies. the father who returned in the form of lies could never leave. his wife and child needed to hold on to the lie, in order to leave. they conjured up the image of the worst man, the most irresponsible man, the man who didn't love them, in order to justify his death. the more they hurt, the more they grieved, the more the lie was needed to sustain them. the father could never leave. the other father, he decided to return in the form of a ghost. he came to his son, who was frightened, and told the son, "son, i have come to finish the book i never got to finish. but there is one condition, when i have finished the book, i will disappear." he opened the book, and began to read from where he left off the night before the plane crash. as the story went on, the son was torn between the desire to know the story, and the realisation that his father would disappear when it was finished. the son stalled for time, he asked redundant questions. but he could not find a way to stop the story from rolling towards the final "the end". "goodbye," said the father, already beginning to melt at the edges, as they drew close for the last time, "it is almost a kiss." i tell you this story to explain why sometimes i call back the lie, of the bad man, the irresponsible man. i think i was in grief because i had lost sight of love. something in me died, and it died abruptly. i hadn't known it was dead until months later, after i met some, fallen out with various others, woke up one morning and realised, i was in grief. and to try to justify my grief, i needed someone to blame, so i conjured up the image of the worst man, the most bad man possible. this is why he keeps returning, because the lie will continually return as long as the grief is there. and the only thing i can do, is accept that i did a bad thing by losing sight of love, change, let the grief go away. two weeks ago, up west, he read to me. he read the first few pages of "the old man and the sea". it was very late, i had an interview the next day, as usual, i left in a hurry, almost missed my flight, pissed off the taxi driver. but remember, when you can't remember, (and please do try to remember, and if all you want to do is forget) it was almost a kiss. posted by dawn # 11:58 AM Comments: Post a Comment << Home		[publishing] Publishers Weekly . 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HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot

Friday, April 20, 2007

i woke up this morning feeling ok, the sunlight was immensely bright though. it was dishonestly bright. i felt angry with the shoppers and the people who were eating icecreams. it was irrational.
as yesterday was irrational too, there was a jam outside my apartment and everyone was angry, a black guy was shouting at a white couple. i slipped two books at the strand, and left. it's funny. i looked around me to see if no one was looking, then very stealthily, i dumped the books there. i had the demeanour and the guiltiness of a thief, of course i was not a thief, i was just putting two almost brand new books in the strand, and then leaving, very quickly, as though unable to face the unbearable scene of some crime.
in less than a month i will be home in singapore. edwin once told me, that going back to singapore is like returning from outer space . in outer space, the laws of gravity are suspended and it is possible to become a different person, i don't mean, persuade yourself to become the stronger, better person that you wanted to me, i mean become the better person. but i am weak. yesterday, like the slippages in a puritan text characterised by the tension between idealised religiosity and vanity, self-doubt, i slipped and fell into contradiction of myself. i am worried that when i go home, i will be bombarded by memories. i know when i go home, i will start writing again. alone in my room back home, my writing was always about me me me . that changed in new york, when my writing took the shape of the city, it was more measured and distant and much, much more sporadic, it was occasionally funny and i liked it. here, i shared a room with a neurotic, anxious room mate, and there is no escape from an outer world, i don't have the luxury of introspection, my poetry is no longer about me, no longer about the bad people i used to know. in african myths, they say if you travel across the sea, the devil can no longer find you. but still the african myth is wrong. in late winter, i wrote about the odour of ash, finding ghosts one day. that night, i was afraid. it was like, the speech act of "in that house" brought me back. my friend, he was angry yesterday, he yelled over the phone, "is it because you like being there?". no, i don't like being there, can't you understand, i'm still trying to understand it, i necessarily have to find closure. my pen slips back into then, automatic writing, because i have to know. it's like a puzzle mystery, a terrible boardgame - only if you've unlocked the mystery, you leave the cave. only when you've finished reading the book, you leave.

i went for a reading a long time ago where tamas dobozy read a story about two fathers who died in a plane crash.

so these two fathers, they had a choice of returning to their loved ones in the form of anything they chose. one chose to return in the form of lies. the father who returned in the form of lies could never leave. his wife and child needed to hold on to the lie, in order to leave. they conjured up the image of the worst man, the most irresponsible man, the man who didn't love them, in order to justify his death. the more they hurt, the more they grieved, the more the lie was needed to sustain them. the father could never leave.
the other father, he decided to return in the form of a ghost. he came to his son, who was frightened, and told the son, "son, i have come to finish the book i never got to finish. but there is one condition, when i have finished the book, i will disappear." he opened the book, and began to read from where he left off the night before the plane crash. as the story went on, the son was torn between the desire to know the story, and the realisation that his father would disappear when it was finished. the son stalled for time, he asked redundant questions. but he could not find a way to stop the story from rolling towards the final "the end".

"goodbye," said the father, already beginning to melt at the edges, as they drew close for the last time, "it is almost a kiss."

i tell you this story to explain why sometimes i call back the lie, of the bad man, the irresponsible man. i think i was in grief because i had lost sight of love. something in me died, and it died abruptly. i hadn't known it was dead until months later, after i met some, fallen out with various others, woke up one morning and realised, i was in grief. and to try to justify my grief, i needed someone to blame, so i conjured up the image of the worst man, the most bad man possible. this is why he keeps returning, because the lie will continually return as long as the grief is there. and the only thing i can do, is accept that i did a bad thing by losing sight of love, change, let the grief go away.

two weeks ago, up west, he read to me. he read the first few pages of "the old man and the sea". it was very late, i had an interview the next day, as usual, i left in a hurry, almost missed my flight, pissed off the taxi driver. but remember, when you can't remember, (and please do try to remember, and if all you want to do is forget) it was almost a kiss.

posted by dawn # 11:58 AM

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