There are several ways to start writing. A liberal dose of caffeine, emotional turmoil, a gun pointed to one’s head, mon amour, IPPT in the morning, NaNoWriMo, and so on. There has been no time, this year, to write, to myself, to others, to feel the keyboard and to know that this is me. Writing, among all the recent forms of expression that I am involved in – photography, dabbling in music, engineering the possibility of art – is equally exacting and forgiving. I write here, but also in many other places, for many different reasons. The flow of text across the screen has become a guilty, secret pleasure, because there are priorities and complications, and it is time for me to stand and be counted, to not let the complexities of this human, social, limited life constrain me.
Freedom, liberation, my first time.
It is hard to write literally – one remembers faster than one can type, or scribble in a stilted, unfamiliar script – because memories that are recent and fresh are multi-faceted, rich in sensory information, input, context, meaning, ideas. Our best memories are reinforced by our recounting them; writing is one way. 2, 3 years, spent letting memories pass me by, living dual lives in so many ways, speaking and thinking obliquely and never quite saying what I mean, or meaning what I say.
So, for the first time, I write literally, here, for such a long time. Blogging itself has very little intrinsic value, ever since I started in 2002, it has never been more than a tool for me to write, present, parse and reexamine ideas, memories, thoughts. At times it became the only way I could express myself, but even then, behind several layers of obfuscation. But writing, I think, transcends meaning and location, context. It first presents itself as the conduit, but ultimately it becomes the very essence of who we are; words on a page or screen melding with our transient experiences to become a foundation and bedrock of our identity
Yesterday, at Kinokuniya, I bought Renaissance Singapore, or rather, R did. Partially because there is a part of me that must at time wallow in a universe of ideas chased all the way to their denouement, partly because I am going to the National Education Branch next year (I am already listed on the directory), and partly because second to writing, or its equal, is reading – seeing the world through the eyes of another, watching as my mind shifts and change with every line, experience, thought.
Somewhere at the back of my mind as I browsed I saw the other books sitting on every desk I use, bedside tables, the backseat of my car, all in various states of decay. There is now time for this, of course; I am leaving, in a couple of weeks, and traveling back to London, to read, walk, dream and sit with. And today, the IPPT settled for the year, last night, an opening of the vocal cords, and my head reels, now, as the associations bubble up. The Raoul sale, my favourite sweater lost, death and destruction in Pakistan, 377A, duties, obligations, fears and ideas, photography, transitions, various snippets and pages and the feeling of having lectured 5 times this week, and how I am so much in love and starting to emerge into the light.
Yes, my first time.