A Luxury We Cannot Afford

"In 1969 ‘he who cannot be named’ declared: "Poetry is a luxury we cannot afford."

ALWCA is a poetic response to the myths and narratives that loom large around ‘he who cannot be named’. It is part homage, critique, analysis, rant, fiction, representation, exploration, examination and antidote to The Man."

I wish I was living in Singapore when A Luxury We Cannot Afford was launched at the Arts House. I wish I was there to drink in the energy and wit of the poets while they read their pieces. I even imagined the goose pimples on the skin of my neck listening to them despite the fact that I haven't had a whiff of the freshly printed book yet. My hands tremble slightly at the knowledge they will get to immediately devour the book when it shows up.

The below two attempts were submitted for consideration but you know already why they are here instead. :)

The Damned

A companion of mine was these pages with a bind.

Once I peered into its core and saw

Its red-inked outpour,

Weaving words into the fragile lace of truth,

Its pure gold bedazzling and its beauty a-glowing

One day I turned it backwards and began to read.

The lace was torn, the gold dull and the beauty broken

Because backwards is the wand that conjures truth into deceit.

A blasphemy whispered by a sorcerer.

Cursed is my companion.

For my salvation, I bestowed upon it

Eternity in the forgotten dungeon of solitary,

A mountain of conscience bearing down on its spine.

So none shall ever breathe its poisonous whiff.

There was no water.

There was no sun.

But asphalt flowers grew through bricks and stones.

Red, blue, yellow, white.

My disdain I could not conceal.

My fear I could not subdued.

I banished it to more deep locks and keys.

In the stillness of the night I hear

It grows bigger and bigger.

Its long arms and legs of falseness feeding it,

Moving it forwards and forwards,

Thirsting for my neck.

But I am my rock,

I am my mountain,

I am my law,

My long arms snuffing out the maddening buzz.

I know they need me.

I know they do.

Run Baby Run

Run baby run

Before you stumble upon fear

Before he hears you

Run baby run

To where the blind-folded lady stands

To where the oak tree roots

To where your heart bursts with white moon and stars

But your soul is already a-blooming

Don't slow down

Don't let the terror of unknown fill you, thrill you.

He smells the last straw in the night.

He implores that his ears listen.

Collecting hearts and minds, his tongue strives.

Not to the dark side,

For he is the tireless workhorse,

Whose sweat and blood is in the mighty dream.

Like Lear, the serpent's tooth he fears.

A sheep I am not, you say.

But his eyes refuse to wonder.

Your love is true.

Your heart did not fail to see.

Rainfall is when mother left,

Rainbow is when he brought quarrelling siblings together,

Crimson night sky is when you finally have a room,

Bright shiny clouds is when more food is on the table,

While his lips impart values so you know your decorum.

With his iron fist, you daren't go astray.

It pains you to bite the hand.

Never in his wildest dreams does he think you would dare.

He doesn't yet know.

You are no more an ape but a soaring butterfly.

You don't walk the old ways anymore.

But on a new road paved with stories and songs to keep you warm.

He doesn't yet know.

The cane used on you will be used on him.

The karma police will catch up with him.

So, run baby run.

The coffin lid has closed.

The tortoises and the whales will remember

The mountains and the hills do not forget

The heavens and the earth bear witness.

So, come baby come.

 

Quiet happiness

I was reading The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll when a phase in the book struck me as very apt in describing a particular moment in Singapore in my yet-finished piece. As my mind was toying with ways on how to weave those words into the article, another pleasant surprise awaited me in the next sentences:

"... all transported me to a European colony somewhere in Asia, and for moment I could have sworn I was traveling across the Malay Peninsular between Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, where I had enjoyed periods of relatively prosperity, thanks to the teak trade and other similar activities less easy to define." - Maqroll the Gaviero

In a space of six sentences, I was carried back to Singapore's colonial times, the old shophouses, its bustle and hustle, the heat and humidity, the fragmentary memory where I was playing with five stones and paper dolls. Ah, the power of words! Its aptitude to flood a tired mind with treasured emotions at its whim is... inspiring. I won't say its magic lets me indulge in the wild dance of joy but the simple pleasure which honest and true words evoke must be shared and announced to the world. Happy.

 

I wish them strength and courage in their battles

I am hugely disturbed by an article I have just read. The story left emotions running amok inside me and for a long while, I can't seem to assuage my disquieting heart or stop angry thoughts from racing through my head. Reading my book proves futile. I very much wanted to express that turmoil into a poem or into some written form but I find words inadequate. I can't even articulate an intelligible response to my friend's FB comment about the article. Sure, my feelings are secondary and trivial in comparison to what the girl has to go through. This is not about me. Still the need to say something about it is compelling. I have to get it out of my chest, even though the words are not mine:

"She'd felt earthly desire ebbed - from her heart through to her limbs, into the soil, and she knew, finally, at some point, to leech into the lake - as she had been raped. As the dawn segued into a clear, humid morning and she lay motionless for hours, she knew then what it was like to be a vessel. Life would be easy from then on, because she'd been given to know what emptiness was. This is what Theravada Buddhist monks give up verbal speech for. This is why Hindu ascetics put up one arm for ten years and allow it to atrophy. The piety of transcendence conferred upon Zurotul through utter violation - not the violation in and of itself but the verity that after the most painful and demeaning thing in the world had happened to her, she was still there - not devotional apotheosis; by a crime of opportunity - that the four men had probably already forgotten about, that no one in her village was going to be punished for - not self-cultivation." - Two Ways To Do This by Amanda Lee Koe

"To live without remembering may be the secret of the gods."

"To learn above all, to distrust memory. What we believe we remember is completely alien to, completely different from what really happened. So many moments of irritating, wearisome disgusts are returned to us years later by memory as splendidly happy episodes. Nostalgia is the lie that speeds our approach to death. To live without remembering may be the secret of the gods." - Maqroll the Gaviero in The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll

The passage brings to mind a treasured childhood memory of being fed Yong Tau Foo drenched in sweet sauce while sitting contentedly on the lap of my grandmother on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Years later, the search for Yong Tau Foo which bears the exact same taste etched in my nostalgia proves in vain. As with most food, the Yong Tau Foo sold these days don't taste like they used to. The ingredients and methods go into preparing it must have undergone changes in the hands of the younger generation. I still love a good bowl of Yong Tau Foo soaked in plenty of chilli sauce but sadly each bite of it is not accompanied by any faint reliving of that same taste. I am not transported back to those simple days of playing in grandma's attap house, watching my uncles burning red ants, my mum showering us out in the open with cold water or does it stir fond emotion of warmth and joy on our faces. But it is because I remember, therefore I try to recall and to retrieve the emotional essence of what happened a lifetime ago. While I understand the disappointments these nostalgic memories sometimes tend to bring, to live without remembering would mean a life that is empty and meaningless. I do not want to be stuck in time and just be living in the present and not have a narrative of my past. Our recollection of a particular moment, a memorable event, a strange cousin, or even a painful experience serves as a form of our autobiography. Not only are our memories essential, they also define us and give us a sense of personal identity. Without which, we all would have no sense of self to speak of.

 

 

Autumn in fashion

Autumn rustle underneath their feet must be music to their ears. Broken leaves sticking onto their little boots and shoes is often the evidence of piling fallen leaves and a performance of stomping on them. The sound of crisp leaves crunching lights up their eyes and sends pleasure to their innocent hearts. It's a delight to see the children basking in the golden glory of fall and to know they look forward to a white winter, snow angels, Christkind (Christmas gift-bringer) and of course presents. Oh, the joy of living in a four-season country!

As the temperature dips, it also means the search for warm toasty gears begins. Wasn't it just last year I bought a new parka? A year later, it no longer holds any novelty. The colour is old, the shape unstylish. To make myself feel better, I window shop online for the latest trend in outerwear. Oversized coats and parkas in new colours and shapes are the rage everywhere. The most notable enticement is the relatively low price tag which makes hitting the 'Buy' button all the more easy and guilt-free. The instant gratification one gets is undeniable. Sadly, such inexpensive fast fashion has its side effect: disposable clothing. We wouldn't think twice about tossing these lower quality consumable into the bin or feel much remorse shoving it to the back of the closet. It is however another story when it is a pair of €300 leather boots.

While I do not have the means to splurge on a €400 luxury coat, I am making a conscious effort to do my part in reducing textile waste. Despite my narcissistic inclination to keep up with the latest trend, much thoughts are now given to selecting pieces which are timeless and can be worn season after season. These classics may appear to cost more in the beginning but as these high-quality clothes are made to last for many years to come, it's definitely an investment that's worthwhile.

So no purchase has been made just yet. I am looking out for that four letter word before I make the kill. SALE.

Analysis:

Fashion-conscious - using clothes to hide insecurities

Environmentally-conscious - trying too hard to be righteous

SALE - Cheapo

My flaws are everybody else's too. :)

"It pains me physically to see a woman victimized, rendered pathetic by fashion." — Yves Saint Laurent

 

Do one thing everyday that frightens you

Here

From the creek of spidery veins and bowel of an old soul,
Words spill, staining the pixels a bright red wine.
Like a clean-eating diet,
Freeing me, detoxing me.
Onto digital stones I inscribe my ink.
The bleeding is honest, true and raw red.
But my skepticism lurks like a shadowy presence,
Coercing me into fits of diffidence,
As doubts of self-worth and ability take roots.

4 years of nurturing the precious growing flower.
Those are not wasted years.
But I stand on the world stage
Eager to perform
Again, today is not the day to shine.
My personhood seems to be welled within the four walls we live in.

Enduring sliver fumes of longing,
I do not regret
For the moves I have made,
For what I have lost.
I linger lesser
In the landscape of a past long gone.

The riches I have now,
The evolved self, dropping words and baring soul,
Clinging to the perfume of hopeful dreams,
All would not be,
If I didn't leave behind the castle of my home
and cross the oceans to build a new world
Of spices, chicken rice and Sun Wukong,
Of Schäwbisch, Schnitzel and Kindergarten.

Let the powdery sand slip through my fingers
It proves futile to hold on to.
Let me count my wealth
They grow in my heart.
Let me drink and taste and embrace the here.
Because here I am.

I thought long and hard about posting the above poem on this space. The fact that a notable literary site has rejected it makes the idea even more terrifying. As much as I believe writing is to bare one's soul, the mere thought of allowing friends and strangers have access to my fears and vulnerabilities frightens me. Strangely I am unfazed if it gets published on a well-known platform but on this puny stage, it suddenly feels like I am strutting my own feathers. Already the poem is not endorsed by the experts. Where would I hide my vain pride if others respond to my naked honesty with ridicule and scorn? Like everybody else, I seek approval.

Will Self's reflection on failure however changed my mind: 'But a creative life cannot be sustained by approval, any more than it can be destroyed by criticism – you learn this as you go on.'

I need to get past my insecurities and find the strength and courage to face my fears. In other words, to be more thick-skinned. :)

 

 

Blah

Watching the ducks, white and black swans darting here and there whenever bread was thrown at them left the little one in squeals and stitches. She never fails to bring smiles to our face and joy in our heart. We are constantly amazed at her ability to derive joy and pleasure from the simplest thing. We grown-ups indeed have much to learn from these innocent kids.

It was a lazy Sunday with a weak autumn sun and chilly breeze. Our slow walk in the refreshing cold air left me longing for the flavourful and richness of leftover goose from last night's dinner. Funny it was only last night I swore to myself and everyone at the table that I wasn't going to eat another duck/goose until Christmas Day. Today is evidently a case of body over mind. How does one resist tasty hearty food that makes us feel all warm and cozy against the frosty temperature outside? I dread the short days and long nights and I long for rich hearty meals. I suspect a big part of me won't find comfort and warmth in carrot sticks, smoothies and green juices for quite a while.

My mind however begs for a different type of food. Other than trying my hands at poetry, with not much luck, just yet, I haven't been doing much serious writing. Instead I occupy myself with books which are a departure from my usual novels and books. And I am loving the books by Singaporean authors. These people are truly an inspiration. If I can't be like any one of them, I am equally happy to be able to catch a glimpse of their wisdom and creativeness.

My complacency got to me but guilt insists on walking alongside me. No sign of it letting up when I tried to outrun it. While mine is positively not a tortured or conflicted soul and to say that I write in order to save my soul sounds a little cliche and an overstatement, I certainly do feel better after writing. Whether there's truth in the stereotype of 'tortured soul/writer' or 'starving artist', I am not so sure. Because into each life some rain must fall so all human beings suffer and suffering is not only exclusive to the creatives. Charles Bukowski couldn't have said it better about the starving artist:

"I remembered my New Orleans days, living on two five-cent candy bars a day for weeks at a time in order to have leisure to write. But starvation, unfortunately, didn't improve art. It only hindered it. A man's soul was rooted in his stomach. A man could write much better after eating a porterhouse steak and drinking a pint of whiskey than he could ever write after eating a nickel candy bar. The myth of the starving artist was a hoax."