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, May 09, 2008 gum and media bloghopped today, stumbled upon an ex's new blog, got hit by an overwhelming sense of ambivalence. and then more, i went to dawn yang's blog, and other old friends' blog, more ambivalence. i told him, i worry that i'll return to a place that i never knew, a place that is growing increasingly distant and appears monstrous sometimes. he said something like, you are wonderfully deep and thoughtful. don't worry about it, he said. how do i explain that my country is probably one of the only countries in the world who would think about putting some blogger through intensive grooming to become an artiste. we were always groomed, that's the word. how overseas scholarships are shaping a certain clique of its own. a poetry scene ridden with its little petty pockets. how size becomes a self-policing mechanism, "it's not about censorship," i told the german studies prof, who teased me about gum and media, "it's just size. it's a neat, inbuilt, self-functioning mechanism, there's not much to say in a small country, so no one wants to burn bridges." and singapore, and temple mediums, all that crazy stuff i've had to live through, i need to figure it all out--that mess of violence, neverending nights that were my jc, and post jc years, and that i've only finally been able to speak out on. each time i speak to him about singapore, it's as though i'm speaking about a different country, all that love and hate in me. so you really wanna know about singapore? don't give me some half-assed yeah, cos i could speak and speak and speak, because i don't understand it, i really don't. what does it mean to fall in love with someone who is radically different, and ultimately, the same? most times, i'd rather just listen though. jersey, tenafly: you at the guitar, playing everlong, and even the ukulele, singing will you still love me tomorrow. you, and then certain people, "and so i ate a 3000 calorie lunch, which is heated in these little packets, packed with fat for the soldiers on the field," "what's the difference between platonic form and substance," "so my father died, i left the town, i left that small town, came to america, and i decided to stay on here for good," "we need to find an american to marry, i swear we do," "so when we went to hawaii when i was 10 and my mum told me i was conceived there, i refused to speak to them all day after that" "and that thing about love you said last night, when you were half asleep, did you mean it? i just need to know, did you?" sometimes, i speak, but speak silence. we talk, and then, more. i listen until i forget myself, forget how far i've travelled. (in between books) when i was young, when it was hot, i'd stand in front of the fan, arms outstretched. stop talking, get ready for the test, ms cho was say, and we'd stop talking, but keep signing to one another (wish you good luck, wish you good luck...) we'd curtsey to the pianist after ballet class. sometimes the pianist would make mistakes, and we'd stop in between steps, enraged and indignant. we were so young, we didn't have a right to be enraged with anyone, but seemed always to be told what to do. it felt good being able to be indignant. posted by dawn # 6:35 PM Comments: flying home in two days,packing this life into boxes in preparation for the other. am really unconcerned about all these things that define my life like leftover canned fruit. i just want a life thats permanently mine. sigh. take care, love. i hope its nice and warm! # posted by coloured light : 9:57 AM Post a Comment << Home		[publishing] Publishers Weekly . Dystel & Goderich . New York Center for Independent Publishing . Association of American University Presses . Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators [people] clarisse . nurul . aunty zarina (ummi's bakery) . jeremy . pak . cyril . softblow . karen & kenny (booksactually) . eric . joel . [other loves] digitaljournalist . ballet dictionary . poetshouse . urbanwordnyc [me] dawn, singapore, new york city, ithaca. [yesterday] guns and boys making magic i don't mean to be bimbotic or anything, but sabri... that funny old hurt the world is melting end of term blues oberon eve was smarter than adam i'm so blue today. new york city gets you down lik... back [archives] January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009

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, May 09, 2008

gum and media

bloghopped today, stumbled upon an ex's new blog, got hit by an overwhelming sense of ambivalence. and then more, i went to dawn yang's blog, and other old friends' blog, more ambivalence.
i told him, i worry that i'll return to a place that i never knew, a place that is growing increasingly distant and appears monstrous sometimes.
he said something like, you are wonderfully deep and thoughtful. don't worry about it, he said.
how do i explain that my country is probably one of the only countries in the world who would think about putting some blogger through intensive grooming to become an artiste. we were always groomed, that's the word. how overseas scholarships are shaping a certain clique of its own. a poetry scene ridden with its little petty pockets. how size becomes a self-policing mechanism, "it's not about censorship," i told the german studies prof, who teased me about gum and media, "it's just size. it's a neat, inbuilt, self-functioning mechanism, there's not much to say in a small country, so no one wants to burn bridges." and singapore, and temple mediums, all that crazy stuff i've had to live through, i need to figure it all out--that mess of violence, neverending nights that were my jc, and post jc years, and that i've only finally been able to speak out on. each time i speak to him about singapore, it's as though i'm speaking about a different country, all that love and hate in me.
so you really wanna know about singapore? don't give me some half-assed yeah, cos i could speak and speak and speak, because i don't understand it, i really don't. what does it mean to fall in love with someone who is radically different, and ultimately, the same?
most times, i'd rather just listen though. jersey, tenafly: you at the guitar, playing everlong, and even the ukulele, singing will you still love me tomorrow. you, and then certain people,
"and so i ate a 3000 calorie lunch, which is heated in these little packets, packed with fat for the soldiers on the field," "what's the difference between platonic form and substance," "so my father died, i left the town, i left that small town, came to america, and i decided to stay on here for good," "we need to find an american to marry, i swear we do," "so when we went to hawaii when i was 10 and my mum told me i was conceived there, i refused to speak to them all day after that"
"and that thing about love you said last night, when you were half asleep, did you mean it? i just need to know, did you?" sometimes, i speak, but speak silence. we talk, and then, more. i listen until i forget myself, forget how far i've travelled.

(in between books) when i was young, when it was hot, i'd stand in front of the fan, arms outstretched.
stop talking, get ready for the test, ms cho was say, and we'd stop talking, but keep signing to one another (wish you good luck, wish you good luck...)
we'd curtsey to the pianist after ballet class. sometimes the pianist would make mistakes, and we'd stop in between steps, enraged and indignant. we were so young, we didn't have a right to be enraged with anyone, but seemed always to be told what to do. it felt good being able to be indignant.

posted by dawn # 6:35 PM

Comments:

flying home in two days,packing this life into boxes in preparation for the other. am really unconcerned about all these things that define my life like leftover canned fruit. i just want a life thats permanently mine. sigh. take care, love. i hope its nice and warm!

# posted by

coloured light : 9:57 AM