Dreaming, Reading
I remember the first stories I read were actually not read, but listened to. There I was, lying horizontally, with my father then lying perpendicular to me. He would frequently visit this tattered red book, with silverfish and mouldy pages, and related little anecdotes of handsome rajahs, exotic spice islands, mythical lions and colonial hostilities. To him, it was history that he studied as a student. To me, it was really just my bedtime stories, read by my dad.
Now we can read these stories as dreams, the companions of my childhood, and now twenty years later, as companions in writing that you read, which I am writing, in a dated pattern, as I am remembering. I remember the impressive imaginations, the storms and sails that negotiated with the winds, that transformed the humid night into a fantasy that seemed to carry me through the night without rest. I placed my head, smelling occasionally my also tattered grey towel...and I, slowly but surely, merged the worlds together - dream and reality. And it always surprised me, that in my inner darkness, how bright, shiny, and colourful the tiny pinholes were, that opened a kaleidoscope of bubbles - each a moment that once pricked, returned as another sultan, another kris, and another fallen kingdom. And so, every night it repeated, a story after another. It didn't matter that I heard them before. Each night it was different. He was different. I was different. And the deficiency of our inherited language, the error-prone and simple English he spoke, made perfect sense to me. Because it was not the story I was following; I was following the grain of his voice, and the rustle of the night leaves. And the annoyed mother who wanted to sleep.
I remember the pitch-dark bedroom, with furniture forming silhouettes everywhere. As I got used to the darkness, I seemed to hear a courtly Malay, a nearby whisper that sounded like a secret to be eavesdropped on. I listened, as children would, and heard a language I didn't understand. Again, it didn't matter. It was a speech that intrigued me for the impregnability - its distance was what made it attractive. I was safe in the knowledge that I didn't have to reply. I didn't know how to. They spoke a language that was not mine. I was listening in a language that was not mine too. But this secret language, took me along, translated me to somewhere I felt I could reside forever; into the depth of its subtle imagery, finding my own entrance to this realistic fantasy.
Then, the awakening was a similar flight - the sleeper more asleep - another detour towards another dream that fades as the sun is veiled. Perhaps, passing clouds take us again unto another detour, but most of the time, at least in our part of the world, the wakefulness and dreamfulness are all determined by the humidity and temperature of our surroundings.
And yet, these rajahs and sultans didn't seem to mind. It was as if they thrived and lived precisely for the climate. I can't tell you who they are. It was a time that they didn't have a religion, a proper name and a face. No Asia, no Southeast, no Chinese. I wasn't part of them. But they are always part of everything imaginable. They murdered, they plundered and they loved. And they resided in stars, with palaces as bright as the golden cosmos. I took my pick, drew a few lines, connected the cities together and formed my warring kingdoms. Even if I was only awake for an hour to listen, my dream continued into the sleeping world, and there, it was pure release.
I remember, I was there and not there. I, seemed to be part of them, a volunteer in their courtly proceedings, and the witness to their killing spree. Or, it was like 'I' watching a black and white film, with music and dance and the halo around spiritual men. So how do you attribute the I in such story? I remember, my mother snoring. I remember next, how I would ask for more, only to hear, in response, my father's own snoring. (I am snoring nowadays as well.) And so, I followed that pattern, that tiny and excited voice that no one was hearing except the muted Malays. We didn't understand each other. But we still played to each other. A strange mix. But I repeat - it didn't matter. Where my mind wandered, there I went.
I forget, what it was like to listen to my father as he told his stories. We don't talk much. I just observe snippets of a younger him, and the occasional reminders of his short temper in the form of my own manifestation of this trait. I am sure I won't hear him talk about a Malay History written by an Ang Moh. Instead, I hear the now softer voice, and the routine "Buy food 4 u" on my mobile. Perhaps, I lost what was imaginative for a stagnant mobility. It is easy to say that I have lost my childhood and my former dreams. But it is always more productive to think of it as a struggle, of which a reward comes with this struggle to move and to be still. Between the ease of just being alive for each other to be in relation to, and the difficulty of communications in this era of silence, I must roughly know what it means to be a son. It is as if, by questioning, by remembering, I forget what it means to be a father. I wonder if he remembers. I wonder if I know enough to remember the way to bring up my offspring. And if I next remember to be a father myself, what question will I next ask myself? And what stories will I tell my child?
Perhaps, I can only talk about stories I inherited from strangers. The ugly ducklings and the prodigal sons. But there are always a time and place for these episodes to be repeated. However, it is really the stories we can never retrieve that makes it worthwhile to live, that we may, in the act of remembering and forgetting, understand and discover the double discovery that there is an occasion for words to be heard and spoken, and another occasion for that struggle to be as it is There can also be an occasion when no words can be heard and spoken. And yes, you can say it is a kind of impossibility. A kind of inconclusive experience. A very different thing actually.
A present and a past, with a future that disrupts them; a real and an imaginary, with a body that entangles them. We must come face to face with them, that in the detailed reminiscence of our past gifts, we miss the reward of a tragic presence that always already loses its past. Our poverty may eventually prove to be the one reason that makes us innocent for trying too hard to remember and to dream. Then again, I am giving too much credit for our depravity. As we continue to wake and dream, to wait, we manage to come to a point that man's illusion can no longer be ignored. So much unhappiness, so many dreams! And between the great rift between reality and dream is really just the animated body, affirming your presence. Or, as one hates to put it - affirming our violence.
Instead, just pay attention to the rustle of any imperceptible speech; e.g. the voice of a father you cannot see while horizontal. And in the vertical state of a rational being, we find the axis of our entire existence, as creatures really just made to enjoy the rudiments of everyday life and love. To just imagine without need of physical materialization. To hear and to speak the language of invisible God.
in other words, imagine love. that we have all forgotten.
dream, read, and dream
I remember the first stories I read were actually not read, but listened to. There I was, lying horizontally, with my father then lying perpendicular to me. He would frequently visit this tattered red book, with silverfish and mouldy pages, and related little anecdotes of handsome rajahs, exotic spice islands, mythical lions and colonial hostilities. To him, it was history that he studied as a student. To me, it was really just my bedtime stories, read by my dad.
Now we can read these stories as dreams, the companions of my childhood, and now twenty years later, as companions in writing that you read, which I am writing, in a dated pattern, as I am remembering. I remember the impressive imaginations, the storms and sails that negotiated with the winds, that transformed the humid night into a fantasy that seemed to carry me through the night without rest. I placed my head, smelling occasionally my also tattered grey towel...and I, slowly but surely, merged the worlds together - dream and reality. And it always surprised me, that in my inner darkness, how bright, shiny, and colourful the tiny pinholes were, that opened a kaleidoscope of bubbles - each a moment that once pricked, returned as another sultan, another kris, and another fallen kingdom. And so, every night it repeated, a story after another. It didn't matter that I heard them before. Each night it was different. He was different. I was different. And the deficiency of our inherited language, the error-prone and simple English he spoke, made perfect sense to me. Because it was not the story I was following; I was following the grain of his voice, and the rustle of the night leaves. And the annoyed mother who wanted to sleep.
I remember the pitch-dark bedroom, with furniture forming silhouettes everywhere. As I got used to the darkness, I seemed to hear a courtly Malay, a nearby whisper that sounded like a secret to be eavesdropped on. I listened, as children would, and heard a language I didn't understand. Again, it didn't matter. It was a speech that intrigued me for the impregnability - its distance was what made it attractive. I was safe in the knowledge that I didn't have to reply. I didn't know how to. They spoke a language that was not mine. I was listening in a language that was not mine too. But this secret language, took me along, translated me to somewhere I felt I could reside forever; into the depth of its subtle imagery, finding my own entrance to this realistic fantasy.
Then, the awakening was a similar flight - the sleeper more asleep - another detour towards another dream that fades as the sun is veiled. Perhaps, passing clouds take us again unto another detour, but most of the time, at least in our part of the world, the wakefulness and dreamfulness are all determined by the humidity and temperature of our surroundings.
And yet, these rajahs and sultans didn't seem to mind. It was as if they thrived and lived precisely for the climate. I can't tell you who they are. It was a time that they didn't have a religion, a proper name and a face. No Asia, no Southeast, no Chinese. I wasn't part of them. But they are always part of everything imaginable. They murdered, they plundered and they loved. And they resided in stars, with palaces as bright as the golden cosmos. I took my pick, drew a few lines, connected the cities together and formed my warring kingdoms. Even if I was only awake for an hour to listen, my dream continued into the sleeping world, and there, it was pure release.
I remember, I was there and not there. I, seemed to be part of them, a volunteer in their courtly proceedings, and the witness to their killing spree. Or, it was like 'I' watching a black and white film, with music and dance and the halo around spiritual men. So how do you attribute the I in such story? I remember, my mother snoring. I remember next, how I would ask for more, only to hear, in response, my father's own snoring. (I am snoring nowadays as well.) And so, I followed that pattern, that tiny and excited voice that no one was hearing except the muted Malays. We didn't understand each other. But we still played to each other. A strange mix. But I repeat - it didn't matter. Where my mind wandered, there I went.
I forget, what it was like to listen to my father as he told his stories. We don't talk much. I just observe snippets of a younger him, and the occasional reminders of his short temper in the form of my own manifestation of this trait. I am sure I won't hear him talk about a Malay History written by an Ang Moh. Instead, I hear the now softer voice, and the routine "Buy food 4 u" on my mobile. Perhaps, I lost what was imaginative for a stagnant mobility. It is easy to say that I have lost my childhood and my former dreams. But it is always more productive to think of it as a struggle, of which a reward comes with this struggle to move and to be still. Between the ease of just being alive for each other to be in relation to, and the difficulty of communications in this era of silence, I must roughly know what it means to be a son. It is as if, by questioning, by remembering, I forget what it means to be a father. I wonder if he remembers. I wonder if I know enough to remember the way to bring up my offspring. And if I next remember to be a father myself, what question will I next ask myself? And what stories will I tell my child?
Perhaps, I can only talk about stories I inherited from strangers. The ugly ducklings and the prodigal sons. But there are always a time and place for these episodes to be repeated. However, it is really the stories we can never retrieve that makes it worthwhile to live, that we may, in the act of remembering and forgetting, understand and discover the double discovery that there is an occasion for words to be heard and spoken, and another occasion for that struggle to be as it is There can also be an occasion when no words can be heard and spoken. And yes, you can say it is a kind of impossibility. A kind of inconclusive experience. A very different thing actually.
A present and a past, with a future that disrupts them; a real and an imaginary, with a body that entangles them. We must come face to face with them, that in the detailed reminiscence of our past gifts, we miss the reward of a tragic presence that always already loses its past. Our poverty may eventually prove to be the one reason that makes us innocent for trying too hard to remember and to dream. Then again, I am giving too much credit for our depravity. As we continue to wake and dream, to wait, we manage to come to a point that man's illusion can no longer be ignored. So much unhappiness, so many dreams! And between the great rift between reality and dream is really just the animated body, affirming your presence. Or, as one hates to put it - affirming our violence.
Instead, just pay attention to the rustle of any imperceptible speech; e.g. the voice of a father you cannot see while horizontal. And in the vertical state of a rational being, we find the axis of our entire existence, as creatures really just made to enjoy the rudiments of everyday life and love. To just imagine without need of physical materialization. To hear and to speak the language of invisible God.
in other words, imagine love. that we have all forgotten.
dream, read, and dream
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