Marble Canyon
The Colorado cuts a channel through the resistant 1.7 billion year old Vishnu Schist. There are no exit points as the river is squeezed into a series of turbulent Class III-IV rapids Marble Canyon, Staircase, Big Hummer, Funnel, Surprise, Skull, Bowling Alley, Sock-it-to-me, Last Chance.
After the turbulent experience of going against the flow (literally) on Little Dolores, Marble Canyon rapids was relatively uneventful as I learned to scout a line of least resistance through the rapids. The river narrowed as it turned right where a raft was waiting to pick up the kayakers.
But I had overcompensated after Little Dolores where I was being pushed right by the river, and was now too far left. I tried my best to cut through the current to get to the rocky shore where the raft was waiting. The other kayakers were packing up, people were waving me towards shore. I struggled with my remaining strength, I was not making any progress, it was a battle just to stay in the same spot against the power of the river, and my reserves were spent from my 9 attempts on the Little D. All I managed to do was to pivot the ducky facing downstream to facing upstream, as I was being pulled inexorably into Staircase rapid. I could not hear above the roaring river. I noticed the people on shore getting more frantic, gesticulating wildly, mouthing “Over here, come over here”
I did not have much adrenaline or strength left to fight the current. I decided I would rather face it head on, instead of avoiding the inevitable and get swept in backwards. I pushed in the opposite direction, turned the ducky around and shot downstream. The last thing I saw were the people on shore mouthing “What is he doing?”
Staircase rapids is a long continuous stretch of whitewater, a non-stop series of deep troughs. I raised myself as high as I could on the ducky to scout a line through them. Because I could not see very far, the line got broken. My senses were overwhelmed with rushing water and sound but I did not panic. My mind was clear; each time the line got broken, I tried to scout a new line through the waves. I remember thinking “I should have purchased insurance” before I went in the first trough.
There was a raft at the other end of Staircase waiting for the previous raft. They were shocked when they saw my ducky emerge from Staircase and scrambled to fish me out before the next rapid. I was spent and did the best I could to hold on as the raft bumped through the remaining rapids.
I had discovered another strength, learnt another life lesson, from the river that feeds the Grand Canyon. I need to find my line through the crests of mania and the troughs of depression. I can find the line through the crests of mania and the troughs of depression no matter how I’m thrown off.
In order to develop a methodology to validate structural relationships in online communities for my final year research thesis, I needed to measure interactions from mainstream and “non-mainstream” online chatrooms to ensure it was generalizable. When I found the Gay.com chatrooms and logged on, I discovered Eric was a regular in one of the chatrooms. Eric’s emails had ebbed when I returned to Singapore; I was still in love with him and waited for his emails that came further and further apart. And here he was, chatting up other guys and ignoring me and my private messages. For 2 years, I sat and watched and had my heart worn down nightly into deep gullies.
I also discovered the “underground” gay community in Singapore (homosexuality is a constitutional crime) and attended some of the meetings. I found them depressing – discussions would revolve around staying in the closet, following parents’ wishes to marry a woman and bear grandchildren, or best case scenario: marry a lesbian and both have lovers on the side. Since over 80% of Singapore’s population lived in state-leased housing, and only families were eligible for housing, there was no space for gay men to meet privately or openly, outside of cruising in the mangroves at midnight. A man I went on a few casual dinner “dates” with started stalking me even though we hardly knew one other: he would be waiting for me when I left for classes, other times he would be waiting on the train platform, when I looked out my window at night he would be across the road watching.
I do not remember how I fell into it, perhaps I was in the grip of mania, perhaps I was trying to explore my sexuality where no one knew me, perhaps I wanted a connection, however fleeting, to somewhere outside Singapore. Whatever it was I became one of those young men who offered solace to sweet, sad, sadistic expatriate men who kept in touch by secret pager codes and pay phones. I would distill and synthesize those men and experiences 15 years later into an experimental film A-MOOR.
I was a clandestine courtesan. They sought me out for companionship to discuss art, music, science, politics, philosophy, travel, any topic except sports. I had only ever been with Eric so I was not experienced in the bed department but I quickly learned the permutations of white men’s fetish for the (gay) Asian body. Many of them did not want me for that anyway (which was both a compliment and a diss), and when they did, I experienced no pleasure.
He fancied himself a courtesan,
a magnet to married men;
troubled men, men in crisis;
seeking refuge in a fling or affair.Over a drink or a meal he proffers
earnest ear and sympathetic smile
and tries to keep them entertained
with his talents and wit and education;
his knowledge of all things, and conversationLater he nurses their wounded pride,
always politely moaning on cue;
remembering to claw their backs when he comes
and calling out their names when they doOn occasion he ventures into threesomes
with couples looking to recapture something;
vehicle for mutual frustrations,
conduit for bitter fantasiesEver dwindling list of those who remain.
Consumed by sadness he crosses
names who moved on, moved away;
men who passed on, passed away.
Touched by the briefest of encountersSometimes he resolves to change,
Sacred Whore (Psychedelic Dreams)
leave this empty and melancholy
to make something of his life;
if only it weren’t for the cheap necessity
and the vicissitudes of daily living.
When faced with bare cupboards in winter,
he thinks of handing out leaflets inscribed
… “can be had for dinner”
I was different from the others, they told me. I did not cling and whine for them to take me away with them. I empathized with those others; It is not easy to get away without money, the right credentials or connections. But I was determined to make it on my own, somehow. Their cutting compliment that eroded some sense of self being the one that is easy to fuck and leave. Their gratitude was spent on CDs and music scores which had to be imported, music was my outlet, my lifeline to sanity. On my manic moods, I would splurge and spend hundreds of dollars on a music buying spree. I had an impressive music collection.
Once I was a headland proudly jutting out to sea. Society and circumstances undercut a fragile bridge to the mainland that has since collapsed. Now I am a solitary sea stack, pounded by waves and bird shit.
