NNHD Dislocation

a column by the five committee members of 女那禾多 NuNaHeDuo DISLOCATION



You always remember your friends, depending on from which point you are looking, east, west, across the North Atlantic or North Pacific, and regardless of distance in time or space, all the same you remember them, fetching back their faces, voices, and personas belonged to those absent years; the time when you left your city, a time when you’d just gone through your own life crisis, a time when life began foreign and anew here; horse races went on and night clubs stayed open back there; you remember them in memories stored in your brain lobes, home-made videos, images kept in compact discs and hard disk drives; in locked rooms as if, over the years, the doors have not been opened. Fine, because the condition goes both ways, time missing is time suspended, nothing changed, like editing movies in the old days, cut and paste, splicing the precise moment and gluing it back in place. But the next second, seeing you face to face, those memories collapse, years melting away, and in less than an eye blink, twenty years vaporized, faces of our youthful past have waned, counting years in grooves and lines, in twilight, in pale ink.

                                          The Second Life of Objects


A pouring rain of mental soil

fill the passing memories of a distant love;


white silhouettes decline the dancing dark

 but pave a flight to His sublime light.


(On Sharon Lee's 'Cresent Void', 2019)