‘Where the River is Shaped Like Words and the Words are Shaped Like Blades’
— Joyce Chong
I stuck my fingers in the blades of an old fan the other day. The wounds are not so much cuts as ruptures. Blunt-force openings. You’d think I’d have known better.
Take a trip back to your hometown and indulge the nostalgia of semi-truths and stories that have been told and re-told and passed around a multitude of times. Today I have something between truth and fiction, something like exploring old memories, except they're not quite yours and they’re not quite memories.
This is the town where I grew up. It’s hard to tell a story with no hero.
Huey explores ideas of fiction, the impulse to reinforce reality and truths with structure, to sew in a backbone of linearity and narrative architecture. Sense is what we make of the things that have happened to us. Sense as something not innate, but impulsive and recurring. Maybe what separates happenstance from the intentioned, the things that were meant to be, is ourselves.
The problem is you think it’s building to something, this narrative. The problem is, you think it's a narrative.