I’ve never wan…

I’ve never wanted to off myself this much in 3 weeks before.

I am drowning

In a mountain of books and readings about philosophy, feminist waves, Islamic feminism, anthropology and psychometrics.

It is massively ironic that the person who sparked this entire part of my life doesn’t even know how clearly I see the world now and how much I’ve changed because of him.

I should give myself more credit. I’ve had this in me the whole time. Just needed a little digging out.

Life is funny.

Your Move.

If you ask me what I see this as, I’ll say
I see this as a short film. Les Pseudonymes
sort, p’haps. Not a mind wringer, be swift.
Metaphorical like. But curious enough to

linger.

I like radio static,
and medleys,
so soundtracking will be a breeze.
Full HD colour. None of that black & white
sepia toned indie stuff.

Then the cast: we’ll get a boy,
we’ll get a girl (can I be the girl?).
We’ll start them out in England
and Singapore,
his move,
then Singapore and Singapore,
his move,
then England and Singapore,
her move,
then England and England,
her move.

Her move
but she’s rooted – all thousand yard stare
this point, he exits set. London backdrop stays.
Hers switch – she stays on mark -
then Bath
then Wales
then LondonParisIrunMadridValenciaBarcelona
then MonpellierMarseilleAixEnProvenceAvignon
then MilanPadovaVeniceTrevissoFlorenceVerona
then PisaRomeNaplesSorrentoPompeii
London backdrop stays
empty.
then London.
now half empty.

She stays on mark.
Thousand yard stare.

Her move.

-

My biggest fear is that I’ll never stop feeling this way for you.

(:

Dear self,

You are one badass lucky motherfucker, you know that?!

yours,
you.

I feel like

I’ve grown ten years since I first arrived in London.

Like I’ve never felt so much in the 21 years I was in Singapore. Like fear is more real and so is happiness, and hope, and sadness, and heartache.

I feel like I’ve never cried as much in my entire life, and like I’ve never felt as cold or as warm or as thankful and blessed or as hurt or moved or inspired. Like I never knew how time can slip by so quickly or crawl so slowly. Like I never did anything vaguely risky in my life before this. Like I’ve never put my heart on the line like I have. Like I never realized how painful silence can be. Like I never believed in miracles until a miracle happened, and I’ve never dreamt that I would ever let it literally pass me by. 

I feel like life just started.

The Best Decisions Are Made Half-Asleep. (I)

Honestly, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

If this is the cusp of a brand new, life-changing, coming-of-age adventure, it doesn’t feel like it. What it feels like is what it is: it’s 5.12AM, three hours before I have to leave for the airport for a two-month trip in Europe I’m pretty sure I can’t afford, and I feel absolutely wretched. One would think, Well, of course you’d feel that way, it’s nerves! It’s not nerves. I’ve had nerves – boy, have I had them, and so has my eustachian tube last year when I had that pressure-cooker headache - and right now, I’m calm as a monk. I haven’t had the obligatory (traditional) burst of anxiety that blooms in the pit of my stomach just when I never wanted it to yet. I foresee it strolling in sometime later the in the day, when I’m nowhere near any Wi-Fi hotspot which can potentially assauge my mostly practical worries. I’ve not gotten that travel diary I’ve been wanting to get, I still don’t have a bottle of shampoo, nor a working sling bang, and this would usually cause a flurry of panic due to my compulsive personality. But no, right now, it’s all good. Almost.

Aside from the obvious fact that I can’t see further than about three steps ahead of me. Actually I’m pretty sure the third step’s half-lit.

Right now, I’m listening to Jack’s Mannequin’s “Bruised” and trying not to figure everything out.

I never thought I’d actually say this but….

I’M REALLY REALLY GONNA MISS MY FAMILY WHILE I’M GONE HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA.

Kay.

I should probably leave it up to interpretation but…

I have a tendency to over-explain things.

So this is what I meant to do with my installation:

I was asked what theme I tend to work around and grew completely blank. What do I usually write about? Writing, the creative process, self-reflection, self-hate, self-love, self-identification, self-consciousness, the relationship between the self and the external.

It’s all pretty…selfish.

Perspectives from the self.  I said the first thing that came to mind, which also happened to be the vaguest thing one can think of: “Self-actualization”. In a way, I freed myself from creative boundaries because – really – everything personal is a step towards self-actualization, somehow. I think so anyway.

I worked my installation around Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, in which it is theorized that there are five tiers of needs for humans, the most basic at the bottom. Physiological, safety, love/belonging, esteem and self-actualization at the top of the pyramid. (Neurologist Viktor Frankl later added “Self-transcendence” above that).

Some ideas I thought vaguely of because I don’t really over-think concepts (they just come to me like happy accidents):

1. The notion that the theorized needs should be tiered in a specific order

2. All the needs, when met, supposedly make up one fulfilled consciousness

3. The possibility of achieving self-actualization without meeting more ‘basic’ needs (like “property” or “sex/sexual intimacy”) – for instance, asexuality does not hinder anyone from achieving self-actualization

Most of my personal attempts at grappling to the top of the hierarchy of needs involve the creative process, which is why my installation looks as unkempt as it does. I wanted it to represent the disorganization of a disposition, the creative process and mental states. I titled my work “Onomatopoeia”, which means sound words, because I imagine that when put together, my pieces result in a cacophony. I wanted the strings to represent interconnectedness and growth. I wanted it to look jejune and yet talk about shit like murder.

But honestly? Most of it was just decided on because I thought it’d look suh-weeeeet.

So. I suppose that’s what I intended to do. I guess.

Rahim.

Let me tell you a wonderful little story about my first art exhibition.

A few weeks ago, after a meeting for SlutWalk Singapore (organized independently by a group of amazing people), I talked to one of the organizers, Vanessa Victoria (not to be confused with Vanessa Chan) and she told me about her and her friends’ plan to collaborate on an all-woman art exhibition based around typographical art, femme identity and gender/sexuality. It piqued my interest straight away, especially the idea of using typographics, which is one of my favorite niches of art because of its combination of two things I love: words and visuals.

We had less than 2 weeks to start everything from scratch: discuss our themes, hone on these ideas, evolve the concept as we saw fit, think of an exhibition name, recce the room, start working on our individual projects, and set up the whole installation. Slot these between our other projects, our job-hunts, our full-time job (in my case), freelance work and personal life.

Needless to say, we were fucked.

But we did it anyway. We got together and blasted Motion City Soundtrack and drank a lot of coffee and hyped one another up and danced and we did it anyway. And those last few minutes before we were officially opened were stressful as hell, but we went through it despite glitches and I am so insanely proud of all of us. None of us have had any experience doing anything like this and still we managed. Most of us never went to art school. We did whatever we wanted to do and we did it however we wanted to do it. We weren’t backed up financially by any organization or sponsored, we just went ahead and did it.

Opening night went fabulously. I felt ridiculously fancy. I dressed up and felt so buzzed and high from excitement. Seeing people stand in front of my work and read my stupid little poems most of which I wrote while in a state of emotional chaos, and most of which are in their first drafts, was exhilirating. I might have hovered behind a few people awkwardly, trying (and failing) to listen in on their discussions about what I wrote. Someone told me they loved my writing and found it, quote unquote, powerful. I said thank you repeatedly and beamed so much, I might as well have kissed the ground he walked on. A friend made a surprise appearance. I drank so much orange juice and got so happy I started doubting what I was drinking and was convinced, at one point, that I had mixed it up with the cranberry + orange + vodka cocktail instead.

I was that happy.

By the end of it, the four of us snuck a moment in the room when it was empty and screamed out lungs out.

Everyone was wonderful. It was amazing. And as self-conscious as I felt when people read what I wrote, I was insanely proud that I did it. And I’ll do it over and over, despite having someone tell me that they’ve found tense errors in my poems (which I totally acknowledge, by the way, I am not the most careful writer), and having someone not having any particular comment on my installation (which stings sliiiiightly more, but I get over things quick).

It was fantastic and fancy, even when everyone was sat down on the floor outside Substation, eating cheese and crackers, laughing too hard, smoking and drinking beer like classy people.

I loved every minute of it.