dry.
| Waiting to dry. |
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may.
| Today, I have 132 mosquito-passports in total, including a UN laissez-passee one. Around this time last year, the idea of collecting as many passports as possible was merely a running joke between me and my friends. I would tell them that my being in Australia was my first step into collecting as many permanent residency visas as possible. They knew that I wanted to be a world citizen since I was little.
About two years ago now, I met Will in an immigration office. I’ve lost my passport, and he got his working visa washed in his pants. For a few days we were the constant clients of immigration’s endless (they did this really skillful stunt called typing a whole report with a single finger) interrogation. I discovered that Will, admiredly (and at his age, he’s especially inspiring), still flew around the world consulting governments on drafting their new law and regulations. And so our discussions continued outside the wonders of the immigration office. Will told me that my intent reminded him of Garry Davis. That’s when I started thinking more about this project. At around the same time, I started rethinking a small project I’ve done for the post-exhibition catalog of Globos Sonda. That’s where the mosquitoes came from. And now I find myself here in Amsterdam, finishing up my 132 passports. |
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It was a long journey in a quite short period. I’ve since learned many interesting facts not less bewildering than the TPP (Tongan Protected Person) passport (Imelda Marcos had one) and about artists like Hasan M. Elahi. |
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On my way to Amsterdam, I traced the covers in Singapore during a two-hour transit, and also in the airplane. When we arrived in Amsterdam, some of the airport workers were on strike, and so the luggage took quite a while to come out. I sat down and continued doing my passports. The act entertained myself, nobody else seemed to care, and I didn’t really care if they did. I thought it’s simply hilarious to do such thing with an urgency of an elementary school student doing all the homeworks that she chose to forget doing at home (the story of my childhood). It was as though I had to finish making my passports before I land, to present them to the immigration officer at the border. But these are not real passports, Ms Wulia. This project keeps me laughing. • Now I have only a few more to go, comparably. But I haven’t met anyone from St Vincent and the Grenadines, for example, and no matter how familiar the country’s name is (I’ve always felt I’ve heard a band by that name), I have no idea how their passports look like. So I think from now on it’s simply gonna be tough. |
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(Re)Collection of Togetherness is an ongoing project exploring the conflicting tendencies between chance and nationalism, between natural and man-made systems, and between the recognition of self and the constructs of identity. |
dysrhythmia.
Welcome, o sweet jetlag. Sway, tickety toe, with my melatonin; play it hell to the longest days in the verge of summer, come. Goodbye, bitter insomnia, your flawless day for nights; such a boon for the stars twinkle tricking my eyes to tally.
Should I sleep or should I not? Should I never stir?
fallen.
When you have fallen, you bring along with you that feeling of falling at the back of your mind. You can feel all the minuscule details of your muscles trying to defy gravity while it’s pulling you onto scratching your fine skin against the concrete pavement.
All your life, when you pass that certain point under that bridge, you will remember. You ride with the knowledge that you have fallen, and that you might fall again. You wonder what he’s doing at this time on his side of the world. You wonder, simply, what he looks like now. You wonder whether he had let his hair grow. You wonder whether he still smells as nice as pheromone, you wonder whether he’s wondering about you. All the wonder and amazement of believing that you have passed that certain point, under that bridge, and that you have fallen. With him, and another, and yet another and another him.
When you have fallen, you carry the wounds with you. Long after they heal, you will still remember how you fell. It is then that you wonder why.
But there is simply no answer.
mosquito in april.
My my. I’ve just seen a mosquito here, in April. I hope she will come again and bring her friends, saying “come and let’s suck Tintin’s blood and spread it around the world.” I wish Australian customs hasn’t seized my mosquito racket.
parmesan rice crackers.
This one is even quicker than quickie.
Put plain rice crackers on a plate. Put shredded parmesan cheese on top of them. Microwave on high for 1 minute. Tada. Add pepper to taste. Caper and eat with caper.
quickie.
This is usually ready in 20 minutes.
Put rice in a pot, with enough water. You can measure how much water is enough by putting your index finger on top of the rice (pointing to the rice). The water should reach one digit of your index finger. Bring to boil (set your alarm to 5 minutes).
Cut garlic and broccoli while heating the wok with a bit of oil. After putting garlic and broccoli into the wok, cut shallot and champignons, put them aside, and sprinkle some salt into the wok. Stir garlic and broccoli in the wok. Take ground meat out of the fridge.
When alarm goes off, the water in the rice pot should have been boiling. Cover the rice pot, turn heat to small, and set alarm for 15 minutes.
When the garlic’s a bit brown, put the ground meat into the wok. Mix. Add a bit salt again, a bit of sugar, a bit of cinnamon, a bit of ground nutmeg, stir and cover.
Whistle.
Open cover, taste. The longer you cover, the nicer the taste. If it doesn’t taste nice, put some more of salt/sugar/cinnamon. Ground nutmeg perhaps, but not always. Stir and cover.
Sing, “A, lice, in Won, derland. How, do you go, to Won, derland. Tah, dadah dah, tah dah, tah dah, tah dah, tah dah, tah dah.”
Pee quickly.
Look at the alarm - when it’s approaching the 10th minute, open cover, put in champignons. Stir, cover a bit. Open cover, put in shallots. Sprinkle some pepper. Stir, cover.
Turn heat under wok to small. Prepare table.
Sing, “Aaaaa, happy merry unbirthday, to me, (to you?) to me, (to you?) a happy merry unbirthday, to me (to who?), to me (to you!).” Better do this while preparing the table.
Alarm goes off again. Turn fire under rice pot to ‘biggest’ and wait a bit, then turn off. Rice is fluffily ready. Turn off heat for the wok.
Eat.
*
Next, cheese fondue. I love cheese fondue.
nuts.
I am nuts. I am nuts. Bla bla nuts and I am nuts.
*
Ah wie gut dass nie Mann weiss,
dass ich ryth-mus gi-ta-rist bin.
*
What if everything in your life is decided by other people? Like, forever? Like how you feel, and how you want to feel, and how you think you should feel? That must be nuts.
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I’m not nuts. I’m not nuts. Blah not nuts and I’m not nuts.
Recently I was asked to write a 50-word bio. It was quite an interesting exercise. Here's what comes out from there:
"Artist and filmmaker Tintin Wulia was born in Bali, brought up in a music school, and trained as architect and composer in Indonesia and the USA. Her works have been screened, broadcasted, exhibited, and collected internationally. At present she is doing her Fine Art research at RMIT University, Melbourne, Australia."
Now. That could have been all cooked up. How could you tell?