Susurrus

"She would have liked to tell him that behind Communism, Fascism, behind all occupations and invasions lurks a more basic, pervasive evil and that the image of that evil was a parade of people marching by with raised fists and shouting identical syllables in unison." (3.5)

"kitsch is the absolute denial of shit, in both the literal and the figurative sense of the word; kitsch excludes everything from its purview which is essentially unacceptable in human existence." (6.5)

"kitsch is a folding screen set up to curtain off death." (6.10)

"As soon as kitsch is recognised for the lie it is, it moves into the context of non-kitsch. thus losing its authoritarian power and becomes as touching as any other human weakness. For none among us is superhuman enough to escape kitsch completely. No matter how we scorn it, kitsch is an integral part of the human condition." (6.12)

"Kitsch is the stopover between being and oblivion." (6.29)

From The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

***

So it is after everything that I decide to write. Before, the media circus made every word unbearable, and now, the silence bids me again. The cell is drowsily hot in the afternoon, which makes it impossible to read without sweating on my books (I have to make them last, it is only by the kindness of others that I can read now). I have pen and paper (they said I could study if I wanted to, and I will, to pass the time). Even after my confession, no one is quite sure why I did it. So again my writing is revelatory.

Some people think I am a monster. I feel the same way sometimes. But not other times. Especially not when I did it: just before I did it, rush of pure horror rising at the sight of him; when I did it, the giddy confirmation of acceleration; and when he fell, the absolute exhilaration of the exorcist. Even as he was falling I saw his face change, from a Dorian gray to human pink, before he hit the ground. When they found the body it was completely human - shattered, exposed and gaping, nothing to hide. I saved him, really. And damned myself. With the echoing thud the demons quietly left, their work done, and I slumped to the fourth-storey floor, absolved, tired, surrendered. You know the rest. The arrest, the trial, the confusion, the mournful eyes of everyone who ever thought they knew me.

I don't resent prison life. It articulates so plainly what I have always suspected: the blankness of existence, the vanity of purpose, the dissolution of all that is soluble under time. You see, within these walls, I am safe and free. No urgent pull and push and shove, no deadlines, no angels or demons. And when night turns the darkness is welcoming.

Shhhhh they said. I am a child again. The crowd is murmuring, I am in a circus. The acrobats swing so wildly. I clutch my small piece of bread. One of them whooshes past me, his or her eye a familiar glint. I hold up my arm and he/she grabs it, and off I go, up against the tent, darting from the spotlight, then there is no tent and I am in the night sky, two incinerator towers glowing in the distance...

Falling. Terminal velocity. The wind says, Shhhh, a lullaby. I say okay. I fall slowly asleep, it is a long fall. Blink, it is hot afternoon. I am in a marching band, I am in a marching band. Left right left right aching legs lockstep spin spider-sweat crawling down forehead I am in a marching band. Thread mill. Breathless nausea brown skin skinny leg think of something else five more minutes. Imagine sweet taste of cold water drip drop stop check bang. Warm brass on my arm, impossibly heavier. I close my eyes, tropical sun behind the lids, womb light, I think of something else.

By the gods, she is beautiful. Sweet Atalanta, perfect balance, Greek sun on olive skin, glistening oil running down her thigh. I am a nameless youth running in her footrace, sure to die before his time. Even now I hear her steps behind me, tap tap tap with an echo of sand. I am out of breath, lungs pulsating painfully, the horizon a blur, blood expanding in my skull, don't stop, don't stop. But I am too slow. She gracefully sidesteps me, delivering my death sentence with an arrogant arch of brow. Too much. I collapse, my battered legs a useless dead weight, my breath haggard, the ants will eat me. Formic acid. Lactic acid. The ants will carry me off, bit by bit. My vision clears, focusing on a roadside daisy. Oh how beautiful you are, sweet daisy, now that I am to die. How beautiful I have never seen you before -

Red sea. Night sky again. I have sung all your songs, this is home, where I belong, stand up for sing- I have sung all your songs. Sudden alarming colours exploding again and again, the roar of the crowd, the false thunder, the false lightning, smoke in the air, choke. I want a real thunderstorm. We are Singaporeans? The kitsch of inelegance. Soviet Kitsch? You are my sweetest downfall. Sex lib kitsch? I don't recognise you with your clothes on. Hipster kitsch? Redundant. You kitsch me not. I swing again,

into her kitchen. Crawling into her oven, there is space for two. I kiss her wrist. I whisper, This is the only way. I cannot save you. I can only accompany you into where you want to go. Together the gas slows our blood...

Castle. Overlooking a Scandinavian forest, full of dark creatures with myths attached. Always dusk. I wander the ruins, wet dew and damp floor underneath my ghost feet, the night is coming, I must return. Stone protects me. I shower in the wide white room, tracing flower arabesque. I read in the library, large fireplace, tall winsome shelves, old wood holding up old fibre, my own garden. At night the candle, the four poster bed, the cliff winds combing my hair. This night is eternal. When I realise this I run away, into the waiting forest, and new and beautiful dangers.

My father's finger bones, foul flesh still clinging, twisted away by me. What is this dagger I see before me? It is already in my hand. It is already in my chest. O psychopomp Muses, I'm not yet 27. Take away the pain. It hurts. It hurts very much. Hush, child, shhh. I am bleeding. No, you are only dreaming. Hush now. Sleep. Dream again.

The slow rocking of the boat wakes me. I am blind, such is the weight of coins on my eyes. I cannot tell who ferries me, his name escapes my memory. Still I must try. The bump of the boat against the cold shore. He lifts the coins off, and I stare into his blue-gray eyes. This is my chance. I jump into them - the last sound I hear is the clink of coins on deck, his surprised breath -

"So. You are back again," she says.

"Yes. I am back. Again?" I say.

She is not smiling but it is as though she smiled. Then she turns to the window and her lips move, but I cannot tell what she is saying because the winds outside are very strong, and the sand brushes against the glass, with the sound of the sea. The land here never changes, always changes, and like the forest, always dusk. Why do I remember everything now? Now I understand what she is saying. She is saying exactly the same thing when I first left:

"There is a quest. There is a story to be told. So although us children of oblivion do not care to live, I must do a terrible thing unto you. You will go into the land of the living, and live, and lie, and feel pain. And when you return we will welcome you, the proverbial son, the mad bard, the zero fool, your suffering having no consequence here. Will you stay or will you go? There is a story to be told."

I consider her words. Are they an invitation to stay, an order to go, a prophecy, or a memory? Will I wake up in my cell, reeling from a bizarre dream, or will the winds here exfoliate my memories of falling boy, white walls, prison food, mother's eye, sweat-stained books? Will my guards wake to find me missing, leaving behind only a trail of sand, and my small piece of bread?She turns back to look at me expectantly. I listen to the winds for a while and then I answer her.