Wednesday, July 22, 2009

day 82

Only the departure is true; only now does the very long unlearning of the self begin - before the gangling boy returns to take up his blushing glances one by one and, one by one, imperiously, his hesitations.

Giorgio Agamben



It's hard to remember my childhood. I have only photos to testify to a life I once lived -- all cheeky and always doing my best to strike the best pose. I craved for attention. I am not sure if it was a disorder.

I had almost forgotten all about the times I hid, and rejoiced in the fact that I couldn't be found. Then, as I was repeating the motion of walking the same path to take a bus from the same (and not) bus stop, I glanced briefly at a girl in a red dress who was playing catch. It occurred to me that I once was part of an ingenious child invention - block catching. This great sport involved a group of us hiding in various locations within a HDB block. The game required only a catcher, sometimes a pair, and the rest had a minute to find a place to hide. Some would ride up the stairs, some would take the elevator, and some simply had a combination of both. Eventually, as the block once again retained its quiet peace, those hidden would be found, and the searched disappeared without much of a trace. Some often cheated by returning to their homes. The catcher usually didn't know or could never control. We played this game based on honesty and trust. And I sincerely believe that the appeal of this game was that we could actually have a mastery of the cold and enclosed surroundings; that we could be really excited by the very act of hiding, uncaught, excited by the danger of being found. That few minutes of being caught between found and unfound - alone in the learning of the ideal spot for hiding, and to conceive the best way possible to be forgotten.

Whatever the expression could be for this desire to disappear, I geninuely believe that I have lost this personal side of mine, forgotten in the residue of my impersonal and unconscious clumsiness. The infinite feeling of that finite moment of disappearance, only aware of my own presence, fearing that the absent catcher would appear any moment - which was often accompanied by a loud scream and quick escape - was my anticipated event of a boring weekday afternoon.

I hestitate to be the boy again - because one by one, the most concrete of memories about my childhood will slowly fade away, replaced by the fear that I never had a childhood to begin with. But perhaps, my blushes of insecurities have a more meaningful reason for appearing as such. It is to be suddenly and acutely aware of a catcher, who is patiently and labouriously searching each level of my life to find me. As a boy, I became more and more anxious to know the result of the catch, I wondered once how it could end and I could repeat the game again. I didn't mind the end, eventually, because I was quite confident it would have another session. But I grew up, and the fellows scattered, truly disappearing.

There is something more in my hestitations that stops me from appearing. As a grown-up, if such a definition is possible, I hestitate because I didn't want to know that I am abandoned - that the game is over and everyone has gone home. I hestitate in life because I am still hiding; hestitating if I should poke my head out to find out if everyone has reassembled for the next game or to end the game because I have disappeared. Perhaps, I do want to disappear once in a while, busking in the quiet glory of being able to disappear, as long as I am never found. But there is always that underlying fear that I will never be found and soon to be forgotten.

It is fine to be clumsy, for the child in me to catch me unaware.
Perhaps, that is also when I also hestitate, not because I fear the child, but at that moment, we could both decide who is to be the catcher or the hider.

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