An enigma of arrival
I left out English. In English i converse, in English i think and dream. It is not my voice - but it is also mine. Within English i am silenced. I speak of authenticity and yet i know i am not. I struggled with this. I struggled at the missingness when i speak. The absent presence of the colonial subject. Without the English i would never have had my children. Peter and i, never have met. I would not converse with all the friends i have. It defines who we are. And yet, it is not my language. I am painfully aware of the contradictions and the missing words that i do not speak. Like when i go to Chinatown. Or Geylang. Or Serangoon Road. The descriptions i give are wooden, stiff. They fail to enter beneath the skin. I am an outsider, the final veils will never be lifted, never be drawn. The only access i have is to myself - and there lacunae exist too. To never ever belong to myself. To never ever belong to the places i go to. The gaze of the observer. The muteness of the nomad, the orphan, the wanderer. The unacknowledged loss, the unmourned for death, the grief which we can never express. Betrayal at the most basic level.
Naval gazing.
I know it is. But it isn't at the same time. It is a real dilemma. To be told that all other languages that were yours were inferior. To have the one language that my mother could have respected die as we listened. To never converse with your grandmother because you couldn't understand her. To not know the sadness in that. To treat my heritage with contempt. My own private sin. My regret.
which is why perhaps i have retreated into the self.
I found the service in church the other day weird. To have such a startlingly Western ceremony conducted here which was so entirely Eastern was weird. What anachronisms we are.
I said to Lianne yesterday while we walked in the noontime heat of a deserted, cicacada drowsy hymnaled park i wish i could believe that this is what people want. This wonderful peace and wealth - traded autonomy for peace and wealth. I could not put the frustration i felt into words - it was too enormous and too petty. All i saw opening were pools and pools of lotuses - of nothingness in the lotuses. Of churlish dissatisfaction and then a deep sadness.
We are given to celebrating in Singapore. our heritage, City of Festivals, the rich tapestries. Perhaps what never goes articulated is the loss. the reality of that loss - and perhaps that is what i felt - feel. The ghost at the banquet. The silent funeral. We gloss over that, like tears at this point would be embarrassing, rude even. To speak of the grief would be bad mannered, so we shoulder the shadow and never ever mention it. We become angry instead – or crack a joke. We make fun of our poor English. Singlish. We embrace it and repudiate it at the same time. Of course Singlish is insufficient, but it is all we have. It is all we have been given.
I wonder about the harshness as well.
It is a harsh place, on the surface the pragmatism is blinding. after Ireland and the sweetness, the softheartedness and headedness... but no, even as i say that i know how untrue that is. All these qualities are found everywhere. What i am looking for? What do i seek? what do i long for? Just a place i could call my own - and i am told that i can find this anywhere. True and untrue.
There is an unhingedness, the liminal. Perhaps the losses were never meant to be articulated. Perhaps they should be left to their silences.
And another thing. It is getting difficult - i hesitate even when i say this for fear that it may undo itself - it is getting difficult to hate. To strike out to another, at another.
And another thing, i finally understood the story about the scorpion and the frog. that is when the striking out became difficult. Why does he do this, i asked myself - not of Peter, i must add. Why does he do this, i asked. Why is it necessary to behave in such a manner which benefits no one? Which even does harm to himself. And then, the image of the scorpion and the frog came to me. I never understood the story previously. It is in my nature. I will do you harm, even if it means jeopardising myself. Even if i promised i would not, because i could not help it. Then the helplessness, our helplessness struck me. And i was filled with... sadness - a personal sadness at my own inability at times to control myself and then an understanding at why people hurt each other. We do it because we can't help ourselves. And we tell ourselves we were right, we consciously chose to behave in such a manner - but in actual fact we were programmed. It is practically instinct.
What a long silly post this is. I apologise, but these thoughts buzz about in my head. As i run or as i am milked. They too must find a home.
After all this, what do i think about life here? This long stay has been a real holiday. A holiday from not just Northern Ireland, but being not Northern Irish. It has been about immersing myself once more in the familiar. About enjoying my parents, the children, being both again myself. It is about reunion and family. It has been tinged with worry and wondering about the future. It has been easy. But life isn’t here – because I made my choice about it. It is about being over there. But what I see now is that there and here are equally legitimate – one does not have a stronger hold over me than the other. That is the most honest way of putting it. There is no ‘rightness’, as it were. Not like the rightness nor satisfaction of a Rilke poem, or a painting by Van Gough. Perfection is only found in heaven, I was once told. Stop being such an idealist. Perhaps that’s the compromise, the crossroads, the juxtaposition between the individual and the community/society, that which we find around us. It is a dance – the search for the voice and the truth of our lives – somewhere in between we live – we create.
I told my mom today, I cannot imagine what it must be like to be a man. How reliant you must be on your consciousness. What do you mean, she said. I mean, I said, as I fed Ghin, I find such great satisfaction seeing Ghin – having created, birthed and now nurtured him. Him and Oisin are and will always be my greatest works of art. They are of my body – flesh, blood and bone. For men there is no such thing. There is no instinct that propels them forward. Everything is such a great effort. To not know that rightness… it is odd.
I looked at my stretchmarks today. The folds of skin that now hang loose over my belly. The tattoos of motherhood. The markings of the tribe of woman. The scaly shiny skin of the mermaid etched on my body. I am so proud of them. This is what I aspire to. This is what I will show off at the pool. I am not a girl, I am a woman and don’t try telling me to be embarrassed about it. Not these giantesses on buses that advertise ‘treat-ments’ and procedures. Not these grainy black and white pixellations that grin through airbrushed smiles at me. No. You are as unreal as Alice’s Red Queens. Ridiculusmus.
Naval gazing.
I know it is. But it isn't at the same time. It is a real dilemma. To be told that all other languages that were yours were inferior. To have the one language that my mother could have respected die as we listened. To never converse with your grandmother because you couldn't understand her. To not know the sadness in that. To treat my heritage with contempt. My own private sin. My regret.
which is why perhaps i have retreated into the self.
I found the service in church the other day weird. To have such a startlingly Western ceremony conducted here which was so entirely Eastern was weird. What anachronisms we are.
I said to Lianne yesterday while we walked in the noontime heat of a deserted, cicacada drowsy hymnaled park i wish i could believe that this is what people want. This wonderful peace and wealth - traded autonomy for peace and wealth. I could not put the frustration i felt into words - it was too enormous and too petty. All i saw opening were pools and pools of lotuses - of nothingness in the lotuses. Of churlish dissatisfaction and then a deep sadness.
We are given to celebrating in Singapore. our heritage, City of Festivals, the rich tapestries. Perhaps what never goes articulated is the loss. the reality of that loss - and perhaps that is what i felt - feel. The ghost at the banquet. The silent funeral. We gloss over that, like tears at this point would be embarrassing, rude even. To speak of the grief would be bad mannered, so we shoulder the shadow and never ever mention it. We become angry instead – or crack a joke. We make fun of our poor English. Singlish. We embrace it and repudiate it at the same time. Of course Singlish is insufficient, but it is all we have. It is all we have been given.
I wonder about the harshness as well.
It is a harsh place, on the surface the pragmatism is blinding. after Ireland and the sweetness, the softheartedness and headedness... but no, even as i say that i know how untrue that is. All these qualities are found everywhere. What i am looking for? What do i seek? what do i long for? Just a place i could call my own - and i am told that i can find this anywhere. True and untrue.
There is an unhingedness, the liminal. Perhaps the losses were never meant to be articulated. Perhaps they should be left to their silences.
And another thing. It is getting difficult - i hesitate even when i say this for fear that it may undo itself - it is getting difficult to hate. To strike out to another, at another.
And another thing, i finally understood the story about the scorpion and the frog. that is when the striking out became difficult. Why does he do this, i asked myself - not of Peter, i must add. Why does he do this, i asked. Why is it necessary to behave in such a manner which benefits no one? Which even does harm to himself. And then, the image of the scorpion and the frog came to me. I never understood the story previously. It is in my nature. I will do you harm, even if it means jeopardising myself. Even if i promised i would not, because i could not help it. Then the helplessness, our helplessness struck me. And i was filled with... sadness - a personal sadness at my own inability at times to control myself and then an understanding at why people hurt each other. We do it because we can't help ourselves. And we tell ourselves we were right, we consciously chose to behave in such a manner - but in actual fact we were programmed. It is practically instinct.
What a long silly post this is. I apologise, but these thoughts buzz about in my head. As i run or as i am milked. They too must find a home.
After all this, what do i think about life here? This long stay has been a real holiday. A holiday from not just Northern Ireland, but being not Northern Irish. It has been about immersing myself once more in the familiar. About enjoying my parents, the children, being both again myself. It is about reunion and family. It has been tinged with worry and wondering about the future. It has been easy. But life isn’t here – because I made my choice about it. It is about being over there. But what I see now is that there and here are equally legitimate – one does not have a stronger hold over me than the other. That is the most honest way of putting it. There is no ‘rightness’, as it were. Not like the rightness nor satisfaction of a Rilke poem, or a painting by Van Gough. Perfection is only found in heaven, I was once told. Stop being such an idealist. Perhaps that’s the compromise, the crossroads, the juxtaposition between the individual and the community/society, that which we find around us. It is a dance – the search for the voice and the truth of our lives – somewhere in between we live – we create.
I told my mom today, I cannot imagine what it must be like to be a man. How reliant you must be on your consciousness. What do you mean, she said. I mean, I said, as I fed Ghin, I find such great satisfaction seeing Ghin – having created, birthed and now nurtured him. Him and Oisin are and will always be my greatest works of art. They are of my body – flesh, blood and bone. For men there is no such thing. There is no instinct that propels them forward. Everything is such a great effort. To not know that rightness… it is odd.
I looked at my stretchmarks today. The folds of skin that now hang loose over my belly. The tattoos of motherhood. The markings of the tribe of woman. The scaly shiny skin of the mermaid etched on my body. I am so proud of them. This is what I aspire to. This is what I will show off at the pool. I am not a girl, I am a woman and don’t try telling me to be embarrassed about it. Not these giantesses on buses that advertise ‘treat-ments’ and procedures. Not these grainy black and white pixellations that grin through airbrushed smiles at me. No. You are as unreal as Alice’s Red Queens. Ridiculusmus.
