To Trim Perceptions

  What are you trying to write? Eating. Walking. Sleeping. Spending time. Waiting for things to change. How and when will things change? You read a little. Nor for long, just enough to make you feel less alone. Then you return to panicking. You wonder if you are trapped in a nightmare. The inability to do anything, the dumbfounding reality, the difficulty to connect with other living subjects—aren’t these all the constitutive elements of a dream? Except, they say, that you can’t write in a dream. Maybe writing is what you are using to resist the nightmare. Maybe through writing you can escape, like Sophie and Alberto. Then lucidity and control will return. But what if you never wake up? What if you slowly wither in your velvet fortress? The white flowers are dying, they see, and the red curtains are staring into you, calling you out: Get ahold of yourself, you amoebic slug! The incandescent sap of loneliness is oozing out of you like tears. Hold it back. Hold it in. Your faltering ...

 I had a dream last night about packing. Clothes, shoes, skincare, makeup, books, electronics…everything meticulously put in its place, into oddly shaped baskets and bags that fit together into a pale mass. I don’t remember where I was setting off from, neither where I was going, but I was not planning to return. Sometimes I feel like my waking self is even less cognizant of what is going on in my life than my sleeping self. The things I worry about—scholarships, jobs, thesis, and boys—float about in my head, pulling me in one way or another, keeping me in a constant state of mild panic.

  “Davey’s predilections as a writer echoes those she displays as an artist.”—Brian Sholis  Photography and writing comes together in Moyra Davey's works. It occured to me, after a painful night at this year's edition of Art Taipei, a frustrating morning with Gertrude Stein, and a quick run to the photo developement shop just now, that perhaps I, too, am a writer first and foremost, and a photographer second.  I have always struggled to express my obsession with abstract lines, shapes, and textures. I find these in contemporary art as well as poetry, and cherish the experience of looking at them--intensely--until they are fixed to my retinas. Is not this a kind of photography? The pleasure of this looking is extraodinarily similar to the pleasure of looking through a viewfinder. I lose the sense of time and space, and the pleasure of encountering this visual feast gushes forth from deep within my body.  The distinction, of course, is that photography has an end goal....

The choir was chanting an unfamiliar song, to which I wasn't paying much attention, as always, when I finished my prayer.  I opened my eyes, and right then I caught a glimpse of something wonderful - the priest, one of the most saintly and ethereal priest I know, lit up at the sight of a tiny person.  He smiled like any common man would, looking adoringly at such innocence, and gently shaking the boy's thin, marshmallow arms. Then he carried on to bless the children, and I sit back on the bench.  The brief, beautiful moment filled me with a feeling that haven't visited my for years.  More of a memory, it was related to content, kindness, holiness, and a simpler attitude towards life.  My mother used to say to me, quite often it seemed, as I had a very young brain and fresh memory at the time, that "children are God's favorite."  "Why?" I would ask, I would always ask.  "Because children are innocent and unstained."  And I would feel so ...

為甚麼人要活著呢？我願意以純粹思想的形式漂浮在宇宙中，理性而不受驚擾地存在。 血液運行在血管中，從心臟爬上大腦。究竟從哪裡開始，是我？又有多少只是化學？ 我們是會被情緒綁架的人。 被綑縛著，手銬、腳鐐、與口罩。在睡夢中感到無助，只能揉搓時間的沙土；遙遙觀望人與人群的嘻笑聚散，萬物禁聲打轉。或許我們不是缺少了甚麼，如處方箋所暗示；只是我們的內在另有一面大鐘，運行之間溢出或多或少的代謝汁液，暈染大腦皮質，隱喻鐘面後的世界。 被夾在兩個世界之間，沒有一套規律可以通行。我不得不去尋找語言來描述、去解釋這些斷裂與矛盾，回答那些「正常人」不以為意的問題。 我需要文字，來分析與理解事物。而當我試著描述這個朦朧又私密的世界、當我試著尋找甚至建立規則時，卻發覺必需的語言尚未被創造──邃只能停頓，繼續徘徊於混沌之中，載浮載沉。 或許人只會被不了解的事物所箝制。或許把一切神祕攤平曬乾以後，我們就自由了。

I’m seasick.   REGARDEZ The nauseating forms of ideas and letters and letters and words.  It  reeks of menacing whispers warm and snug, tracing over itself and paved in itself and, It’s the novel I cannot write.  It’s every novel I dare not read.  In this sea I’m able to see, in this raft I’m able to write.  The written words, lie the contours of flesh, lie some failures, lie and the true Truth lies; they say.  And such. Science is never uncertain; the clever ways of nomenclature ensure it.  How tame is the Universe, wooed by so-and-sos in such castrated grandeur.  Uncertainty invigorates consciousness - itself enchanted; Certainty, raveled, is no more than a senseless puzzle solved.  

           Things are looking up for me.         My Self is emerging, thriving and growing stronger day by day. Realizations come to me. I contemplate and pursue like the flowing water unobstructed. Almost all day I give my whole body and mind to the present. I don’t think about the possibilities, but live them. I look at things with a fresh and vigorous spirit, and treat them as adventures. I dwell in beauty and ingenuity, and connect with them with the purest intentions. I accept and treasure affection, and willingly dive in the gleeful human connections.          Every day I discover wonderful things I’ve never dreamed of; every other day I realize there’s nothing stopping me from pursuing them. Every day I’m reminded of the diversity of human lives; every other day I find the lessons they taught will forever be with me. Every day I’m complimented in the most unexpected ways; every ...