Qian-Ye Lin

The Return of Water: Holes and Flesh

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“She would take on their punctuation. She waits to service this. Theirs. Punctuation. She would become, herself, demarcations. Absorb it. Spill it. Seize upon the punctuation. Last art. Give her. Her. The relay, voice. Assign. Hand it. Deliver it. Deliver.”
— Theresa Hak Kyung Cha

A perceptual dream dressed in deceitful meticulousness, born out of an attempt to rid my anatomy of the self-imposed perceptual and linguistic expectations of this western colonial landscape. The fantasy is to re-enter an intuitive connection to the body which is confined by, yet finds release in, language.

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A constant base that sits behind, lower down, with a consistent quantity and intensity of vibration coming out of every angle of this hemisphere. Diffused by the constant, I am always able to foresee where it is going next; it is a rhythm that my flesh has registered, swallowed and now itself produces.

Situating on the upper right corner is something a little more lucid and tart, short, shallow, agile. It flicks the right side of my forehead with a fabric that is transparent and soft looking but is really a little gritty and harsh against the skin. Lower down to the middle of the right is the screech, always looking oblivious to the ambience and rhythmic pace of the others, but at the same time having absorbed their motion in its behaviours in what sounds random and free with no structures to allow reverberation.

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It is also nice sometimes to step out of the marble and embrace the intensity of letting this caress come into relatively close physical proximity to my scalp. I am surprised to come into contact with something with such breadth without fretting. This is something to be proud of; a momentous moment. I want to craft myself a trophy and throw it into a horizonless direction - the place I would see if I stand up tall and fix my gaze forward.

From this point on I only spring forth, as gravity no longer has a grip on me. Finding a bit of flat stillness in the terrifying, and finding a bit of even. Joy. Allowing... wish.will.want.whim. And hunger. Then taking my own hand and pointing it forward. Letting go and watching it not drop back into its original position. And I would be surprised by the fact that I still have the strength to reach.

There is no longer the need to be scared when there is no more utterance. Voices have no place here. They would come out only as bubbles, and with the reach of a finger. PFFFF, they would bust.

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