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I could say that I have not solved these questions, but this would imply that such problems possess a solution.Rather, these questions beat in the dark like pulsars, celestial questions we see surveilling us in the night sky.
How then to represent what I have come to call sublime trauma, the absolute terror of colonialism that is too gargantuan to be represented, words whose monument deforms our mouths as we speak them, events too much almost to even bear glimpsing?
And what right or relationship do I possess to these horrors that happened to other people in another time?
I told this to a novelist friend, who said that he had experienced similar dreams. My dreams would proceed as they had previously, but halfway through, my father would need to leave, would begin to move out of his apartment (he has never lived in an apartment), would disappear around the corner, would forget about me, would have never have been there at all. I had come not in a dream, but in a time machine did I come to Al-Azhar Mosque when Napoleon shelled it and occupied it with his soldiers, Al-Azhar where he executed a few sheikhs, married an Egyptian Muslim wife as proof of his new and supposed faith (a woman he killed after he fled Egypt), and where the French army and its horses pissed and shat in its sanctified halls. This did not happen since I had not been there two hundred years ago.
In the beginning, he was devastated to see the one who he had lost. The narrative distorted itself to represent the abrupt rupture of grief. This did not happen, since I had imagined the architecture based on the Death Zone tower in .
In Ken Chen’s extraordinary essay, to enter the underworld is to enter catastrophe across spatial boundaries and temporal gaps.
To enter the underworld, in fact, is to re-inscribe the site of humanism, where the sacred is no longer delineated from the profane, and this thing Chen calls “fact” mutates into what cannot be said, but must be said, to echo M.Yet, this work necessarily has a global reach as it transcends the artifice of borders and nations; it also transgresses the temporal and the line between life and death.Where, asks Chen, in the catastrophic is knowledge located? How can poetry know differently and what conditions do we need in order to manifest that access?Every child looks up to their father as someone they can count upon to love them unconditionally and to protect them from all the adversities of life. When it comes to writing essays on father, it may not seem too tough a job, since there can be so many things to talk about daddy.But at times it can be difficult to put every feeling in words and express.And so in the beginning, I crept back and forth on all fours across the overpass of Styx. When I stroll around the underworld, I see everything that ever was—or at least everything that ever died.As in Bangkok, the Tartarus municipal authorities have paved asphalt over the rivers so the city can modernize and gentrify and sprawl. If Dante wrote of meeting Aristotle and Avicenna, Judas and Brutus, then did that mean I could meet C. I saw the beginning, the true beginning, the beginning of modern capitalism and the way of life of probably anyone reading this essay.And there was the Congo, where I saw the West come carrying bags of hands. I would think it would be more damning to say that, rather than sounding angry, I sound self-righteous in a clueless key.They had taken the hands from the people who lived there. Listing these horrors in such a casual way—it shames one to write it, shames one to read it.I wandered around the hutongs and favelas of the capital, a necropolis whose space I could navigate but whose temporality I found glitched. To put this another way, I have always wondered why ghosts look like the person they were when they died. ) To me, this implies that when you immigrate to the afterlife, you hold onto whatever temporality you possess when you die. I saw that the beginning had twin poles: in the New World, where the indigenous people fled the conquering hordes, strange men who would casually behead the people they encountered and set their hounds to tear the flesh of infants, and in the west coast of Africa, where there came a story that these traders of strange cargo must be cannibals, piling up as they did colossal mounds of bones, whitening in the sun.Think about when you experience a glitched image: the error interrupts the visual plane of the image like an instantaneous motion, but the glitch is what stops the video from continuing in time. I saw men in India strapping the bodies of insurrectionary sepoys to the mouths of cannons. If I sound as if I am angry, this is not quite the case, as I do not possess emotions commensurate to this scale.