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TRANSCENDENCE “Every Place at Once,” by Crystal Abidin “Remote Control,” by Linda Besner “Seeing Stars,” by Alex Ronan “Advanced Search,” by Franceska Rouzard As a kid bored on a car ride or a teen stoned in afternoon class I imagined zones of psychic communion, immaterial common rooms where everyone I knew lived a second life. These spaces are now mundane, although, if anything, the internet proves that mundanity is an illusion and that everything is shot through with magic, or whatever you want to call it. Online doesn’t feel new at all. It feels like the home version of a concept that used to be esoteric. Online is a layer of reality, a dimension of life. It doesn’t solve or replace any great mysteries, but it turns them under the light. If the spark of an individual is the part of you that decides, your self will outlast you online, as an artifact, or a program. You can leave it there. —Alexandra Molotkow TRANSCENDENCE EVERYEVERY PLACEPLACE ATAT ONCEONCE Where do the dead go when tangible, singing onscreen. by CRYSTAL ABIDIN There she is, my sister, in two places at once. they die? No one in the congregation seems to flinch. As neatly as they filed into the pews, am sitting at a memorial service in a church everyone stands up and sings along tutti. But snug in the east end of Singapore. The master it doesn’t take long for the white-lit screens of Iof ceremony goes up to the pulpit. He tells us smartphones to emerge from the sea of heads. that we will begin with a time of worship. “These “Recording a recording of the deceased lead- were some of her favorite songs,” he says. A ing a congregation onscreen as a substitute for screen rolls down. The lights dim. A video plays. her failure to lead the same congregation at her She appears, strumming a mellow song on own funeral,” my inner anthropologist mused guitar on that very stage just a few Sundays ago. internally between heavy sobs and gasps for air. She was only 23. There she is, cold and silent, “How meta.” lying in the coffin. There she is, warm and On the first night, I was too distraught to MIGHT OTHERWISE DIANE BE FORGOTTEN BY THE SERIES TIME SPENT THAT I FROM BRUGES COURTESY OF THE ARTIST 2013. INK JET PRINT, MEYER. HAND SEWN ARCHIVAL 2 tend to the hundreds of guests who attended. al world of text to re-enter the heavy sobs of 3-D Nestled in the corner of the main hall, my safe life. Through my mental fog, I hear the pastor space, I blocked out the rest of the service and opening the floor for anyone who would like scrolled through my sister’s Facebook page. to share a few words. An adult from the church As expected, dozens and dozens of her goes up. An adult relative goes up. An adult friends who had heard the news were posting teacher goes up. They worm their way through tributes on her wall. There was the usual confes- the crowd, retrieve the handheld microphone sional prose, heartfelt poetry, and well-wishes from the pastor, and share solemn wisdom to an embellished with crying emoji and sad Pusheen. There were also streams and streams of throwback photographs lining her page. “This was the last time we We are here, alone and met,” one caption read. “Remember when we with each other and with came here to chill and jam? I miss you.” my sister, where digital “This is the only group photo I have of all of us togeth- footprints boast of our er.” Pauses. Places. Peoples. affective ties. You are there Captions. Capsules. Checkpoints. in the hall where she lies. Digital artifacts are new vehicles through which we We are here where she lives can grieve. Digital traces bear witness of our proximity to the deceased. Digital capsules are encouraging us to convert mundane memories into effu- sive memorials. Digital, digital, digital. Do they unwilling audience. It’s not like any of us want to have wi-fi in heaven? be here. Incessantly refreshing my sister’s Facebook I drift between Facebook and the church page, I watch as these young 20-somethings col- sanctuary, waiting for time to wile away so all of laboratively build a repository of grief and mem- this would go away. After a lull, the pastor calls ories around her. But to whom are they speaking, for any “young people” who would like to come I wondered. To the public? To each other? To up to speak. He notes the absence of “young themselves? To my sister? people” in these soliloquies. Their outpourings seem directed to every- Really? The adults don’t see it, but we are one yet no one in particular, personal in nature here—in confessional prose, heartfelt poetry, yet publicly on display. Perhaps they see my well-wishes embellished with a crying emoji and sister’s Facebook wall as a placeholder for her a sad Pusheen, and emotively captioned photo- consciousness? Perhaps they are romanticizing a graphs. We are here. You are there in your seats posthumous her? among anonymous others, attempting to breed There she is, my sister, in three places at collective effervescence while verbally establish- once. ing your social ties to the deceased in three lines I retreat from the intangible two-dimension- or less. We are here in our playground, alone and 3 with each other and with my sister, where digi- expended her agony, and processed her grief in tal footprints boast of our affective ties. You are full. Everyone at their own pace, perhaps. Why there in the hall where she lies. We are here on grieve in the fast lane when one can have self-ser- the internet where she lives. You are there. We vice grieving in your pocket? are here. Moving through the dining hall, I passed the notice boards bearing photographs of the church youth. I take a cursory glance and spot my sister’s face. I wonder if Facebook is merely digital scrapbooks. Or if the recent resurgence of scrapbooks are merely analog Facebooks. On the second night, I pull myself together to be fully pres- ent in the moment, to give my sister her great good send-off. Before I wondered why anyone would the service begins, I see a 50-something-year-old watch a funeral on replay. Everyone lady in the dining hall. I hear her playing a video at their own pace, perhaps. Why recording of the me- morial service from the grieve in the fast lane while self- night before. She was precious to my sister. service grieving’s in your pocket? There are tears in her eyes but a smile on her face. “I didn’t manage to absorb anything yester- day,” she tells me. “But now that I have time I can truly experience the Do people even print photos anymore? I guess moment.” some do. “Are you going to keep the video?” I ask. There she is, my sister, in five places at once. “Yeah. I will watch it every time I miss your It is 10 minutes until the service begins. I sister. Or when I need strength. Now I realize return to my spot and brace myself for another how important all these videos are.” long night. “That one is her sister,” a lady utters. There she is, my sister, in four places at once. A young man leaves her side and walks up to As I walked away, I wondered why anyone me. He hands me a letter. He says he is sorry. He would want to watch a funeral on replay. Why shuffles to the front to grab a seat. collect such a somber and morbid moment? Paper. Ink. Handwritten. How artisanal. Why relive the grief over and over? Except, the He writes that he settled for a letter because lady seemed … happy. She archived the last few he couldn’t yet bring himself to post on my moments of my sister in the box and on screen, sister’s Facebook wall. My eyes dart across the and now she has my sister in her hand, at the lined page. “It would feel too permanent”… “I click of phone button. couldn’t think fast enough”… “I wanted to be I pictured the lady seated at the foot of her more personal”… “I still don’t have the right bed with tissues in hand, watching the video words to say”… “Just wanna express my condo- night by night until she has exhausted her tears, lences”… 4 An analog Facebook post in my hands? He their text messages. My heart explodes with joy. seemed to suggest that himself. The digital anthropologist in me is proud. The service begins, and I feel like dying all There she is, my sister, in six places at once. over again. I think about all the things my sister would say about the aesthetic of the ceremony. She would hate these flowers. She would love her shoes. She would hate her makeup. She would love the song list. She would hate to see us mourn. And then I did it. I subtweeted my sister’s It is the morning of the cremation. This is it. memorial service in a WhatsApp group. I invited I return to the group chat asking for strength. her closest friends from various walks of life to Her friends flood my phone with group photo- the group chat and subtweeted her funeral.

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