c'est A.

one song_

Asile Wong — Wed, 08 May 2013 16:09:03 +0000

dear you,

a rather short post before i head back to work. i had been rather occupied with things at the university and i must apologize for not having found enough time to write. i felt the urge to write this rainy evening despite forgetting my umbrella, and i guess this will have to do for now.

between you and i, i cannot help but to feel a tad dislocated from the environment around me these days. i don’t quite understand why, but it feels almost as though my shadow has assumed the role of the bricoleur, constantly constructing and remaking its very presence. i don’t assume that it would be easy for you to fathom this notion, but it appears to borrow the roles of what is already ‘taken’ these days, rather than to construct new ones. i don’t recall one moment having the need to document each little moment at the archives of my mind. the best bet would be that it has something to do with events that are unfolding in-front of me, and the preconceived ideas brooding inside this mind. or possibly not? well i guess time would eventually tell.

then maybe it is true, that one can never walk through the storm with his eyes wide open all the time. cryptic as i may, i apologize.

notes from the perforated pages.

Asile Wong — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 13:13:51 +0000

at one point or another, you cite the chance for an interlude, to step away from the daunting thoughts that are beginning to roost at the back of your concentration like a parasitic contagion, feeding off your very actions and assessments. the notion would be just as apt as pacing out from a musty room just before engaging in an intense debate over somewhat ‘serious’ business. ‘just for some fresh air’ you surmise yourself with this thought, and then you would begin to map it all out with a clear and distinctive mind. it is not so much of the fear and the uncertainties which may in time present themselves, but more of the excitement and the exhilaration that is rupturing from the inside, this was how you perceived the trails and tasks set before you.

as the world moves forward leaving some behind, you begin to observe with genuine admiration for those whose life unfolds before them like a stagnant tide. you look around and made sure that you are moving forward too, but begin to ponder if you had made substantial plans like them. occasionally you would pause at awe in the beauty of the tranquil stagnant tides that surround you, are they moving forward? an uncertainty looms in the air. feeling a little despondent, you can only observe them like a flower, for having strode along the lines of the laissez-faire attitude, you realize that you can never harvest your passions from the common spring. you begin to feel the melancholic air fill your lungs as you whiff in the first air of spring, thinking of closing your eyes for a minute to envisage yourself as them. for there’s no harm in a little daydream right? but as soon as you close them, rationality floods the pitch black canvas before you in unimaginable hues, forcing you to consider them like a grain of sand caught in the eye. your thoughts has influenced your words, and these words initiated your actions, and these very actions drove your habits, and the habits polished your character, and your character.. is becoming your destiny.

you begin to look at plans attempting to grasp that stagnant tide, but to no avail as you envision the etymological roots of the word ‘plan’ has its perspectives on the idea of drawing a sketch on a plane, derived from the latin word ‘planum’ and its notion lies obscurely on a two-dimensional stratum. you begin to cast back on how our lives revolve around the 4-dimensonal plane, and that progress to you is of as a cyclic model and not a linear one. have you gotten it wrong? you stop all doubts for it is crucial not to diminish the other two dimensions. time in particular is of your interest, for it does not lend itself to warnings or explanations and it simply is, when taken moment by moments, you would eventually come to realize that someone very important is also looking at the stars for answers together with you.

the sniper’s log_

Asile Wong — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 11:48:58 +0000

(canova plaster cast gallery extension, carlo scarpa.)

080413_

(when mortals sleep; unpublished fiction)

question: what is wrong with this world?

response: everybody pays attention to pictures of things. nobody pays attention to things themselves.

what a beautiful composition of rhythm, light and materials. i am in love with carlo scarpa’s works.

- how should the precise composition of materials illustrate the vitruvian values – firmitas, utilities, venustas?

- solidity, utility, beauty. through a series of conscientious rhythmic compositions, design becomes like notes off a music sheet, neither abstract nor figurative, but rather finding its soul embodied in space and events

- we begin to witness contemporary canons of design evoking a strong air of nostalgia and collectibility, perhaps if one could ‘pick the shells’ and continue to feed off this phenomenological observation together with its construction of principles, meet a neo-discourse, that bridging space, time, architecture, material, rhythm and language into a single voluminous acquisition that is quasi-endless in nature?

- the very depths of observing architectural phenomena may very well enable us to apply our quantitative data with spot precision into this contemporary age.

- resist fashionable architecture; push the aesthetic tolerance, show a true section by rejecting desirable boundaries.

- things mature with time, stay curious and walk.

‘above all, do not lose your desire to walk. everyday i walk myself into a state of well-being & walk away from every illness. i have walked myself into my best thoughts, & i know of no thoughts so burdensome that one cannot walk away from.’ – søren kierkegaard

i wouldn’t want to be part of an ‘ikea’ society.

what good is a mind if not to resist and question.

notes from the perforated pages.

Asile Wong — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 01:21:36 +0000

(vertigo, alfred hitcock.)

dear you,

there is this particular feeling that has been roosting inside me for a while now. as much as i would try to avoid this feeling altogether, it approaches me by reflex, like a flock of birds swooping through an open window. its odd and wrenching effect involves no pain or unpleasantness, the feeling momentarily leaves me to be physically wrung out at times. in half-light, none of these seem real to me. from time to time, i would slow down and attempt grasp the reality of acquiring this feeling, fearing that it would end and everything would disappear altogether.

it seems that the world is moving shed on its own without me being aware of it. do i have my eyes closed? or am i looking at something special these days? something that is richer than anything that i have ever visited, in the several little rooms i’ve possessed inside of me over the years? i found myself to be a prisoner of my meditation these days, sharing one’s inconsolable melancholy, as i witness before me what is happening and filled the void with an overwhelming sense of powerlessness.

the value of our lives are not measured by how we win, but perhaps by how we lose. it could be that i have fought too many losing battles to be safe, and all i could only ever realise in time to come, is that eventually, i must accept the cruelties of some of them and go down to defeat.

untitled.

Asile Wong — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 16:31:51 +0000

but the eyes are blind.. one must look with the heart..

.

Asile Wong — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 09:18:13 +0000

(milan fashion week. thesartoralist.)

here’s what I think, mr. wind-up bird,” said may kasahara. “everybody’s born with some different thing at the core of their existence. and that thing, whatever it is, becomes like a heat source that runs each person from the inside. i have one too, of course. like everybody else. but sometimes it gets out of hand. it swells or shrinks inside me, and it shakes me up. what i’d really like to do is find a way to communicate that feeling to another person. but I can’t seem to do it. they just don’t get it. of course, the problem could be that i’m not explaining it very well, but i think it’s because they’re not listening very well. they pretend to be listening, but they’re not, really.

a note about lightness & dreams.

Asile Wong — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 14:37:55 +0000

(trogir, croatia. henri cartier-bresson)

dear you,

writing from time to time has reminded me that i am not a transplant in the different cities i call home. though i often find myself poised and questioning what exactly do i seek in these places i inhabit, i do get this sort of relief that it is only anthropomorphic to feel this way. what remains constant apart from change, is that i have never stopped questioning this absence, or how you would describe it; being a dreamer.

with that many words unspoken, it does at times make me seem to be a difficult person to understand. with the bricks life occasionally throw at us, we sometimes build walls, not so much as to cage ourselves in, or perhaps shelter us from the harsh realities of life, but instead to see if anyone cares enough to attempt to break down these walls to just say hi or something. probably less dramatic, but hey you get the idea.

these days, i find myself agreeing with your proposition. i recall the times you would pontificate on the concept of cognitive loss; we all are born into this world not by choice but by fate, and with a void. when one begins with losing something so precious, despite not being able to find it immediately, it is important to not feel disheartened, but instead, to understand that we all have a missing piece in this puzzle. take comfort in the believe that someday, when we eventually grow older, tread further, and reconcile with that tug deep down when we recover this piece.

as your words finally begin to set in (after all these years), i sense a lightness in me. this feeling presents itself on a daily basis, and it is rather uplifting to be left feeling this way. it is of significance for one to be light like a bird and not so much as a feather, for there is a unique synthesis between the intellect and the emotion in the composition of lightness itself. to me, without dreams and the lightness of which it presents, i suspect that life in general, would be plagued with pestilence at its most distinctive dexterity. one would be left to pursue life in absolute monotony, at best seeking comforts in the materiality of the things, which would eventually melt into air. with the lightness of which dreams presents, life would not narrow expressions into sheer abstracts and figures, instead it would connect the visible threads with the invisible ones. perhaps this would add more ‘value’ into living.

despite having a vast collection of adjectives, the world works in strange ways that we cannot explain in words. as much as i would dislike to agree with it, sometimes things do happen without a reason at all. as i present myself with a vast array of options in life, the quasi-endless nature of some of these options, has at times forced me to go against the current, constantly wearing me down. perhaps it is time to stop fighting the current once in a while, and maybe drift along its path and enjoy the course.

eventually there will be a time when decisions are to be made, but i think i am ready as long as this feeling stays with me.

stillness.

Asile Wong — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 02:03:04 +0000

the xx, live.

one stands silently still and watch as the world goes by around him. engulfed in pure ecstasy, it is not difficult to imagine what, where, how & why when silence strike with precise clarity. how often would one draw silence from the unspoken and just feel contented being drawn together? it would be a waste if one refuses to accept this and breaks the silence. it takes a lifetime to understand that this silence is very rare indeed.

the xx – angels

i’ve discovered that, silence, is something that you can actually hear. if you listen closely.

to what end.

Asile Wong — Sun, 31 Mar 2013 14:39:37 +0000

(galerie des glaces, palace of versailles)

sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. you change direction but the sandstorm chases you. you turn again, but the storm adjusts. over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. why? because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. this storm is you. something inside of you. so all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. there’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. that’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

and you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. no matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. people will bleed there, and you will bleed too. hot, red blood. you’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

and once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. you won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. but one thing is certain. when you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. that’s what this storm’s all about.

h. murakami

.

Asile Wong — Sun, 31 Mar 2013 02:44:54 +0000