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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

Tag Archives: Comus (1634)


I fell asleep at midnight but my heartbeat was too loud, like the symptomatic pause before the actual collision. The strangest dreams are the ones that have all the literal meaning and I figure it out immediately because I’ve somehow lost the space to be subconsciously aware and pardoned in advance because of the lack of clarity. But I’m completely lucid, so there’s an error. The most problematic yet is relativity


“Everything is pardoned in advance therefore cynically permitted”, according to Page 4. But I’m completely lucid you see or at least I’d really like to think so, I think I know what I’m doing. I wish I were more appreciative of Murakami’s novel because it is profoundly honest in a mildly sensualist sort of way but I found his exploration into alterity disturbingly axiomatic (in language, symbol…) Then again, to me the entire novel is indiscreet, not in a bad way, I’m just not used to it. After Winterson, Vonnegut, Kundera and Lewis Carroll, and now Pirsig (whom I’ve learnt metaphysics through practical organization of papers so far), I’m more inclined to becoming simultaneously less and more transparent at the same time. Murakami’s more linear, almost like a throwback to reality although I don’t appreciate it as much as I would like to. Two things that stuck with me though, is Laika (however paltry her appearance but I think that is the point) and the incident in the ferris-wheel at night. The gravity of sensory-perception could not be more heightened then, for me. Still, I’m not too sure if he’s a favourite, perhaps in a different way.


Stendhal, Chapter 39, Page 131 : “It is, therefore, most important to control the imagination in…” Objectively, I keep myself occupied inside before I realize that the cold is getting to my hands and feet but it might help me fall asleep tonight, like a car indefinitely in reverse

What hath night to do with sleep?
Night hath better sweets to prove,
Venus now wakes, and wak’ns Love
Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,
In a light fantastick round

If not Milton, let there be none.


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I’m reminded of it everyday, when I smell the rain, the damp earth, the maltreated grass; when I wake up from the concomitant, quasi-realistic parallel that I hope you are aware of too. My boots are under my bed, abandoned and unwashed from the shame of Hong Kong. They said it was an experience of a lifetime and perhaps it was, in front of that many people, whichever gods as witnesses. All the memorabilia have been put away in a nondescript box, because one should never remember nightmares. (Or am I supposed to remind myself) In the end, what I truly remember only becomes a convolution of desires and disappointment. I am sorry. “I am Jack’s broken heart.”

Sometimes I almost feel the gravity of this situation manifesting itself in a different time and place, and I always wonder if it is possible to devolve, to transgress further than I already have. I know I will sleep tonight, eventually. Because there’s Milton, “How sweetly did he(they) float upon the wings/ Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night”, no ill-memory can touch me tonight. It reminds me of what I once wrote,

This is Erebus’s Flight.

[Edit: June 10, 2008]

The acceleration of the fall into the deep end of the beginning has never been swifter until yesterday. The nightmares are coming back, faster than I can run away from or against. The spaces between Space (or space between Spaces) are becoming (and almost is) one dark, psychosomatic nebular of hopelessness and yet I cannot possibly articulate it such that you, on the other end of Erewhon, can feel even a fraction of this impending gravity. The more I try, the less familiar I become to myself, and to everyone. I was finishing up The Prophet this morning, and maybe I can take comfort in his response to the Orphalese scholar, “For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.” I am only good at/for ambiguity. It didn’t leave me with an absolute revelation, but it sufficed for now and perhaps there will be something else different when I look back on today, on the past four months. I particularly like the final chapters of Prophet, it reminds me of so many things that I’ve tried to self-medicate through reading. Until I find another (am certain that I will), nothing yet comes close.

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