Published in
by 泥人 laiyanPROJECTS and Studio Bibliothèque
July, 2008
A cat, with nine lives, would probably be killed by its curiosity. Everyday it takes risks. It climbs up trees to catch singing birds. It soaks its feet in the pool to touch swimming fish. It goes up the roof to grab the tempting moon. If I have a before-life, I must have been a cat.
Crowds of bodies on the hectic street are walking through the traffic lights, marching with their mechanical faces, working with planned routines. They seem unconscious. Among the concrete buildings, there is one overwhelming quality that withdraws me from the coldness and boredom, guides me to explore the secret of life, and influences my perspectives, which I express through the language of art. It is curiosity — to satisfy it preoccupies me. It is curiosity that brings me to the meaning of life and death. It is curiosity for knowledge, people and self.
The land of endless knowledge is a paradox. To a great extent, I gain my knowledge by satisfying my curiosity. For instance, when I want to write a poem, I read. I find automatic poetry. I go through the works of poets. Realising the poets work with the subconscious and surrealism, I read Sigmund Freud. Before long, I am on to The Doors of Perception, The Psychedelic Experience and knowledge about drugs. On and on, there is an endless learning, understanding and very likely, a suffering that cannot be stopped within my capability. This is a gain to my life. Still, it is knowledge that controls me. It means I forget to work until I cannot struggle anymore. Shortly I would confess my sin of not being productive and be numbed by the fruitful satisfaction of my curiosity for knowledge, allowing time to pass by and introduce her loyal friend – death.
Strictly speaking, I am guilty of invading other people’s private life. Strangers fascinate me. Public weblogging about personal lives and social networking websites have made the concepts of public and private life obscure. Everyone can surveil another for socialisation, personal interest or any creative purpose. The background, the circle, the encounter and the views on me and of the ones I admired always intrigue me. Spending immeasurable time peeping at strangers’ lives, I gather different perspectives and knowledge from their thoughts and experiences for my own use. My addiction to my curiosity of other people is satisfied temporarily, but soon I want more.
The curiosity about myself is surprisingly insignificant. None of my emotions, expressions, decisions or habits have been carefully studied by me. Without doubt, I can observe that the value I attach to the outside world is excessively more than that about myself. Maybe it is because the diversity of the world allows infinite possibilities. It is uncertain if an artist’s consciousness of the society and his or her self-awareness are interrelated. Personal advancement is, however, certainly hindered by self-ignorance and the lack of reflection.
Automatic poetry is poetry created using surrealist method that the content being written does not come from the conscious thoughts of the writer.
