EASTEAST_ @ Science Museum
The sensation of tangled and wet hair serves as a poignant reminder of our struggle to break free from the mess that has become our lives. In the same way that we can feel lost and adrift in the emptiness of the ocean floor, we can also feel lost in the emptiness of our own minds, searching for something to hold onto and give us direction.
down4u @ Ritsuki Fujisaki Gallery
All along the shower floor, there’s hair. Long sinewy lines point towards the drain, where the hairs resolve in clumps over the tiny black holes. It always bothers me a little, that I can’t see where all this water goes—even more so now that the strands have formed a makeshift web over the drain. Yesterday, I saw a dreamcatcher dangling from a tree. It turned softly in the wind as a shriek erupts from the drain.
What happens to something when it becomes wet? Maybe the truth about wetness is love. I suspect that, at the core of the emotional structure which constitutes wetness, there is a process of self-division that ends in unification. At the microscopic level, I think it resembles cellular folding. It is both steady and resigned at once. The fractaling repeats until it begins to resemble a trembling, silent urgency.
Again it’s the “running” dream. I recognize the latency in my body immediately. It’s the vectorial vortex where I am continually pained by knowledge that I can move faster than this. I ooze my way through hallway after hallway, each lined with doors that are all slightly open. But I do know that behind the doors, each intentionally varied in coloration and material, there is an interconnected matrix of tunnels. Chutes for delivery. It’s likely they were built to expedite the exchange of medical supplies—is this a hospital? Without having to go inside the rooms, I know from where I am that I can’t pass through these tunnels. They’re too small. But something else can. I think it’s the malicious presence, or the reason I am “running”. Something echoes inside of these tunnels, but I don’t know yet what this dream stage is asking me to reveal about myself before I can progress further.
Because it frightens me, I become more likely to notice. Because it frightens me, we have now established a connection. Fear demands me to notice, sticking to me, like wet hair to a face. Horror is a kind of intimacy. I think I saw something, but did I imagine that? It’s not the imagination that frightens, I don’t think. What truly drives fear into my body is the possibility for my imagination to amass physical weight. There is the low gurgle of water rising in a bath somewhere nearby. My body has not made contact with any water in quite some time.
text by wade dao
only only makes sense if there’s nothing else @ darkZone
It makes sense that when the new language arrives, we’ll soak the old language in it. We’ll wring the damp rags and write down what’s wrung. It won’t be the new language, but for the time being, it will help us feel closer to color. Before the color is turned to dye, it will leak in a pool. Before it leaks in a pool, it will be mixed in a conversation. Before the conversation is reanimated in person, it’ll happen over the phone. Before the call terminates, we will have substituted the words for one another. We will have strung these words into our palms, like strands into a head. This will occur in the relative absence of one another, but for the time being, we will have our telegraphy.
I dream alone. The dream houses a heart. The heart houses a truth. The house feels like a game. The game feels like hide-and-seek. An argument, by the bridge. The bridge is not here, just later on, longer down the road.
Just north of Haiti, there’s an island named Tortuga. In Pirates of the Carribean, somebody—Jack, maybe—describes it as a place you can’t find unless you’ve been there before. Nobody else seems to remember this line from the movie. The pirates were right. I remember for the rest of my life.
It’s architectural, always. The interior space of imagination. This room is also me. Smaller details. Units within the larger unit. A room with drawers; a drawer with cabinets. It makes sense that I already know what’s inside them. They should stay closed. Danger again. Up, maybe, the staircase. It worked. It worked last time. Do I need to go where the doors are, because that’s where the table is? I need to sit at it, with the other two that are stuck there. If I don’t, I’m stuck in this room. I remember that I already know the words. I can still climb, I think—now I’m climbing. Because I’m climbing I forget the staircase. Outside. Of course! Mere moments ago, I was saving the cats. They were stuck in the two-story house. I’ll go back. I know trouble is on the way. I remember where I am; I sense the rules. I realize they’re the same.
Relief. So that’s why I’m here.
The only way out is to make sure all the cats are in the basket, where I can see them. I’ve got two out of three. I saw the last one just now, by the stairs, when I was climbing. That was before I knew the rules. If the silent man returns before I get the last cat, that’s the end of everything. The third cat has to be black, because I can see the tabby and the siamese. I need to find the room before I’m found. Moving quickly, I circle past the center of the story.
text by rohan mills
dream knowledge, no, ledge, noh, no knowledge @ mcg21xoxo
