house of secrets, house of memories

Shinigami Twine - Painful Memories from Amy Goh on Vimeo.

There is a house that is buried deep within me like a seed; even though I am grown, I can feel it still germinating, its branches piercing the lining of my arteries, my heart. One day, it will pierce my flesh and I will become an extension of it, fated to sing its song for eternity.


I reach back. The memory’s dingy, a dark mushed creature in the back of my mind. I can feel its contours, shaped like an octopus; wet against my fingers, its tendrils winding around my hand, around my neck. Gently, I caress it; it is moist, damp with the weight of all the mornings of my life; dew-like, encrusted with sand from the corners of my eyes. I pry it gently away to examine its contents, peeling each crusted skin away from the center where its heart lies pulsing like the gentle soul-beat of a tiny starfish.

Back, back--  Where did it all begin? Perhaps, it was with the weight of secrets that, coalescing, formed a dark and brooding shroud, a shroud that saturated the deepest cellared corners of my childhood house. I remember clearly those corners, now a shadow of a shadow, layered by time; each minute, each year and decade piled on top of the next so this dank bedroom is dingy in my mind with the memory of all its accumulated ghosts. I am evacuating now, evacuating because all I have are the tools of my mind. Because memory is a dried capsized creature conjured on the self’s shores like an unexpected surprise. Because there is that need to evacuate, to come to terms. And so I breathe in, and gently pry--

Yes, the house. That house. My childhood home of darkened corners, damp with the smell of stale shadows in my memory. Shadow, because shadow is form rendered in grey, ill-seeming and imprinted gently on the plate of the mind. I remember myself at that time, wide-eyed, absorbing everything. My skin was a membrane that sucked feelings and emotions out of the air like an amphibian breathes water. I was utterly one with this marshland of a room, roaming its entrails as though in my element. Yet I was also sun-dazed, starstruck by the marvel of existence. That I was here, a kernel of a self within a body sitting upon this bed with fabric of blue so startling it imprinted its insides into the template of my being. I remember clearly how I did not see or feel so much as absorb the textures, shapes and colors of everything around me. People walked in as beings of light and dark, faint and ill-defined or bright and scorching. In this embryonic stage, my world swirled consistently between waking and dreaming, between darkness and light, so that when I closed my eyes I feared that the deep of dreams would drown me and I would never awake.

The obsession with words, with prayers, spells and invocations. To say is magical. Words had power. I had to measure each syllable, cut it close to my skin so I could feel it as part of myself. I became frugal with words, for to say was to be, was to conjure up a world of significance. I remember clearly now: enclosed in my silence, I wore it like a protective shroud. A faint belief arose, heavy with the imperative of life and death: words were finite vehicles. I only had a finite amount of them to use within my lifetime. They could not be wasted. And thus, I closed the door to speech and watched, absorbed, was.

Collapse )

(as mass of) dreams, fresh from the lid


house, winding paths; through forested gigantic ferried trees; a wall, brick; a gate,, wooden; garden--
Bluebeard, hiding within; to get through; 2 figures- a giant, a deformity (Mr…?)
Winding back and forth; a deal, suspended.

Leaping through a hill-cliff of ceramic corpses made out of fairground, paint-flaked elephants; to the house,
I am supposed to go to fetch something lost, misplaced, stolen

a supermarket in a huge, looming garage. shopping for food, my father-
having left everything precious- disk drive, wallet, ID- in a brown paper bag
in a basket, screaming to be stolen

Raid through city; shampoo that will deter flies; a family, raped by militants
narrow streets of sandstone cliffs

gardener, gate; he is the gatekeeper

narrow winding staircase; the deformed man looms at the corner; I avoid his guise, break into his
castle, fetch the lost item…

mali's sleepover her house
she takes my boaster and pillow. gone I wonder where they are I wake up to empty hospitality a stiff bed she enters
with a block of wood, a steel stove cookie dough frying ginger cookies by slamming some dough on top of cookies so it makes a layer. some kind of rice thing? she leaves
on top of a wall- scaling a grass hill to a window plane with curtains. calista helps me up. mali, wen hui and her are on top. at the top of the grass wall hill, window panes leading out to the open world gaping like a truth
losing my opus card, walleye, belongings on the next bar, noble to travel
Malisa's house full of clutter labyrinth rooms unstable ladders that swerve and shake in odd angles climbing up one it shudders I exit. the ladders can be used like a puzzle to cross the ceiling mazes of the house. I try it out- up a ladder, it falls fits to another level, like tetris, but with a life at stake
finally I say, "a sword always leads downwards even if you think you're ascending"
the sword ladder falls, divides an egyptian mummy on an empty stage revealing a phoenix jackal case. two birds- a screen; an illusion of movement her two aunts inside transformed into spirits holding a chicken , then blending into solids through the TV screen

finally :kitchen egg tart crusts jennifer's brothers. clustered sleepovers
(a poem)
smoke- tendrilled darkness, stasis in thought
an endless blank path gaping like a wound
wiring into the horizon swept dead upon the ground
between sea and sky an incipient snake
body slippery and like a hose around my fingertips
wound, manipulatable like a toy

tottering giant church stands at the pewter
massive grotesque body a face pulled long and heavy like jug he patrols
like a huge stain on the cross luring ladies his voice
chanting his blasphemed sermon
over the eyelids of ladies the vision
of eyeballs suspended- the cult of a fish
of Cthllu to makethem succumb

hill sunlight
hello kitty cookie jar game. a maze shooting akatamari to get the pieces into line
through a labyrinth

stadium lights mark detroit metal city climbing a tower of steel to the top
you defeat metal with steal, he says (an orphan boy) wasteland imposing I look over
at the top chandeliers- I swing onto the next one adnd the next, evenly escaping
ziploc bags and toaster ovens. Yanny pushes them over to me. it becomes a fun game we play to get closer
wristvabd kive

pony of the new.
shark swims by, of sand skin and velvet night eye. I touch it at the credits
running down rainy marsh hills with wind, searching for someone
at the beach on a hill cut off from the sea. the ground is littered with glass balls, glass eyes, marbles. a strange shell stone with glass window-eyes
and a floating goldfish beryl's little sister and mother is there
with him, warm against his shoulder. it's nice to have someone. he walks me to my hotel, to his apartment. awkward, clumsy, small touches.
john follows us

gigantic sleeping field
moonglass in eye
movies, a library
tripping across a star path light-footed
white tree

brown minotaur library book shelf
hut cart pulled by dogs. dog slips piggy backing a man to find it

school bus stops in the middle of nowhere. american roadtrip. a forsaken house-castle. stone rust red niss0tuooed' castle-chapel shrine
high ceilings, reaching to the sky, within a house
at the centre a child statue fountain with long, binding hair. his name: john Basko?
2 other rooms, both chapels. at their heart, statues of long winding hair bound in braids round stone bodies
the first: hands subtracted from body, freely moving
back to the bus, Brendan. something is wrong with him. he stretches thick and thin, his body bending like rubber
mrt train station; high ceilings, domed like a cathedral. camera in hand I try to take pictures
but people block, jostle, get in the way
Brendan: he is losing his sanity, forgetting the act of human speech. I hold him while he spasms, trying to jostle sanity into his body but
controlling his spasming body and willing it into sanity; he bends thin like rubber, flat as a piece of latex
screams, cries, formidable
the person in charge: I isolate her, tell her that we must lave
the bus leaves without us, its passengers laughing wildly (battle royale?) the hanse hase after us. I wake with a stand as the hands
rip me and I possess those hands…

natasha grappling limbs on floor body clumsy against mine
a room: blue, sunlight, wooden look-outs; balconies
sea glints sparkling over wood benches, sun-spots, cushions on the floor
clothes strewn around: evidence of a holidayer's presence. with laoshi and pao pao
Natasha, meeting her; our presences clash here and there
a game, I am late for our meeting?

with Heather in a cafe
the 2nd a tea room with darkish slate walls
carpeted wallpaper. embossed upon it are the words
from our first meeting. above, portraits with gold gilted frames. people. napoleon,kings, duchesses sparkle above us and risent greatness
"that is man," I say," he desires the seasons, even the world to bow befre him"
1st meeting:

a dream

house night running
only sand, dirt, grain and darkness at the bottom of reality/the sea-bed of dream;
I am formless, darkness, a formless being; fingers gone, there is nothing to grapple
out of dream  /horizons blur, like hazy mathematical lines
claustrophobic, in the womb of the world there is only dirt grain soil
the body of me/ me of the world; of beginnings, spiralling back to a
primordial terror -
/incarnating onto a TV screen full colour splat on a screen
a house,
streets dark running with the mud, from a land, government, something


It was so, so terrifying o_o. And sublime...
I felt like I touched something so beyond representation I was so very sure I was stuck in dreams.
The strange thing was that I knew it was a dream, and I couldn't get out.

(no subject)

black boars rushing through the mountain tops
grassy cliffs bent over height, stone ledged grassy with
hedges, hanging dangerously over threatening to
shake my soul asunder

hiking through the hills with a little boy companion and a group
we run, me with my bag and laptop; it's heavy, I think it to leave it
behind but it's too late
the stampede of black boars of mad red eye. one of them jostles me
man with German Shepherd rushes with them down the hill, the boar
turns into a bear, grabs at the dog's leg. he hits him with a stick
the boy tells me: watch carefully, and know the cruelty of the hunter
and hot he rips off the ear of his dog despite his having saved him
it will do you good to go down, too

I say no, I will walk back. I do not want to die out of over-acceleration.


last night's dream:

falling down stars
limbs clasped in a ball
unraveling like spider's web

the marvel-
bones unbroken,
joints fluxing and flexible, bouncing
like a rubber ball)

(no subject)

oct 11

fish head eating flesh that flakes oft the eyeballs like shells. I eat the flesh that gleams brown, striped and appealing to my eyes, but old ladies shove me, snatching the supple meat for themselves. I ask for the head, but the head protrudes like a helmet, slipping off the inner skull in a way that isn't right. the eyeballs are empty, free of virtuous humour.
the silver plate of fish is laid below a domed church of red, blue, and yellow tiles with stilted ceilings. arguing with my parents- I shun the doctrine, and am, by some silent rule, shunned to an unspeakable, obscure crowd. I stomp out in frustration with my brother and follow the black cat into the stone tower.
tower ascending into infinity. it is narrow and vertical, with a spiral of stone steps suspended in mid air winding up into a ceiling too high to be discerned. I follow Blacky up up up into the heavens, swinging on invisible trapeze-akin ropes in order to get higher faster. It is effortless; an easy suspension of gravity, an easily looked over feat. at the top, a rooftop of red tiles lurches over the landscape of Norway. chill, fresh air opens into the throat like the call of a trumpet. I breathe in softly.
riding bicycles attached to hot air balloons with two other deserters (?). we peddle hard into the skies, fleeing the church authorities who are so adamant on chasing us. holding hands, we fly higher into the upper regions of the atmosphere.
mid-way through, a demon of hairy beard and looming, grey presence approaches. I prod my companion to cycle faster into a thick, dense cloud. We peddle through up and above into the thinner atmosphere. At the top, a sign stating "all roads end here" greets us. we are forced to descend. weighed down by gravity, we fall over fields endless and far-reaching. by some strange coincidence, we land in the same church of red, blue and yellow tiles. however, it is empty now, deserted of all followers. we return home.

being cat now. I am guest, with a stranger who is adamant to please me and a more proper friend. I smile gleefully, steal the white-fleshed sushi, dip it in sauce grained with ginger and gobble it. I pout, stating it tastes just like the fish slices in Singapore and not like sushi at all. the process continues as I sample 2 other kinds of fish. I have adopted a trickster's skin wholly, and am constantly prancing about impatiently with a hunger and taste insatiable by any earthly means. the stranger resembles a reluctant human priest as he grouchily delivers me my birthright.

erm, other persons and things were involved, but I have forgotten them -_-
sorry for fragmented, badly written delivery. haven't written dreams out for some time and a part of me just battles against it out of sheer laziness.

dark dreams and in-betweens

disclaimer: implied incest. haaaah.
(of the Sandman-Hoffman sort and only apparent to the Freudian mind, so not really)

28th april '10

a theatre, shaded. screenings of a fallen nature, with
veiled shadows and translucent overlays
in-between breaks, I run away

an open screen gapes, leading to a waterfall
the theatre is a tour bus filled with the members of my father's
old company who used to go on tours that went on and on while little me
sat in the back seat bored to death, silent and sulking

at another stop, a jade fountain with a lion's mouth spits water at the edge
of a massive cleft of rock that looms gargantuan, a chip
of nature's might articulated in a giant's fist
it peeks over the right hand side of the dark enclosure of the cinema-bus like
a phenomenon of daylight. at a distance, people take pictures
I glance, but solidly state I've seen it all before; we had passed by this
place on a previous tour the previous year and I had taken the relevant pictures,
recorded the relevant facts…

musty wood, old house, hidden corners; decay of wood-scented
shadows invade my body. a kitchen, maybe, hidden
in the kernel of a memory of a house loved, but now
pulled over in cobwebs and curtains.

here, a brother-- shadows. he comforts me with words,
we recognize each other's blood bonds, that tender
thread connecting him to me. I feel almost to weep, but the tears
linger like phantoms, dry on my cheeks, wreathing my face
like a grey halo, unable to be conjured despite emotion

his hands grasp my back, and he speaks over my body
leans over me and- for a moment- I know-
shadows smudge, muddle
he grasps my hand, pulls it to his dark shadow that
leaps like an elephant's trunk. I say, stop- stop-

in the toilet, I'm wearing my old primary school uniform
a white plaited shirt and sleeveless blouse with a round collar
the blouse has the characters "north mountain" stitched in red- the name of my old school
dirt from the floor smudges my skirt brown and black. the stains won't

theatre enclosed, again. someone narrates a running commentary
in person. I don't recall if we ever watch anything, only
that it seems more of a starting point, a place for beginnings

-woven in-between, I travel on foot with father, brother or others
whose faces are absent. we wander among carnivals and parks, under daylight
in another universe.

? April '10
(that day Etienne sms-ed me in the library
and I returned to the graveyard)

cliffs gargantuan; a massive train that leaps
across stony rock under a sky heavy with rain
a thin railway that worms dangerously
like a serpent over this rocky landscape, precipitously,
on the edge, wheels rattling like rusty bells-

a tour through old schools, corridors. all is damp
dewy filled with grey raindrops that saturate the atmosphere,
the concrete staircases and stairways as old feet
tapper like smudged ghosts.
I lurk in this place, real, lodged in the kernel of a frantic memory
passing by-


It occurs to me if that Freud ever read my (recent) dreams, I would probably get sent into a
mental institution. I wonder if this is a good thing.

what I found off the path

A declamation:  I will write out these prognastications and tell you what I find at the end of the world, where all paths end- silence now, I am in the grey chasm

flash i
a street in New York, where all is spilling over with the pit-pat run-array of black-suited men rushing to the buildings and beyond. A clamour of grey horses- Arabians, of crazed eye and silver manes- rush across the path, their hoofs suspended in obeisance to an unknown entity. They bow with their eyes, each hair shivering in mute horror. In the strained daylight, no one sees them but me: they are phantoms. Phantoms of a ghost reality now turned archaic and ancient.

flash ii

a girl giant of mad hair spilling over a brick building that clasps her bosom in some obscene deformity. it surrounds her, starting where flesh ends. the colours are grey, crumbling concrete and rumbled brick debris. in between the dirt, little people run over silently, insignificantly, part of an empire forgotten, yet seemingly unaware of the significance of their non-existence.

flash iii
there is a rose at the end of the path which bleeds blue blood down thorny tangles. each torn grasps a piece of mind-flesh, each bramble embracing the intricate net of arteries and channels that comprise the head and reach down to the pulpy mass of the heart. the eyes that stare beyond are mad with an unseen fury, the hands trembling, the whole body a tremble of forgotten earthquakes stampeding across the mind's skull like a crowd of shivering grey horses. all this occurs because of this rose- the sickly rose which bleeds blue blood down pale flesh.

It rains. A grisly rain of reality. We get wet, soaked.
Truth melts on fingertips with each droplet. The sun tips upside-down, the horizon blurs
into a faded rainbow.

Silence, now. The end is near.

  • Current Music
    the noose