In the quiet hours of the morning, I entered High Muck a Muck and immediately felt a sense of grounding, as though the work itself was waiting to pull me inward. Almost instantly, the first poem appeared before me:
He, his eyes sparkle, brown finger with long
slim nail points to the green spot eight-spot
and he smiles gold teeth as he takes his
Lottery book out of an overcoat pocket
and slaps the worn pages on the cafe counter.
He laughs and his eyes glitter.
That moment hooked me. It was playful and gritty at the same time, gold teeth, a lottery book, the slap of worn pages on a counter. Chance and survival side by side. It made me think of the ways laughter and sparkle still surface in lives that are marked by hardship or uncertainty.
The project presented the body as a map, and I stopped to consider where to begin. The choice felt symbolic. I decided on the center, just above the clavicles, close to the throat, the place where voice emerges. The video that played there carried a meditative energy, with violin, chimes, and gongs weaving together into a humming sound. To me it felt like the vibration of vocal cords, the low hum that begins in the diaphragm and resonates out like the soul itself. The image sequence added another layer: an old man’s eye zooming in until it transformed into the eye of a baby. I lingered on that transition. The eyes, I’ve always believed, are the gateway to the soul. Watching that movement from age to innocence felt like a reminder that sometimes to truly see, we need to return to a child’s way of looking at the world, simple, unclouded, curious.
From the center of the body, I wandered downward and eventually drifted to the left, toward the water. Water always pulls me in, and here was no different. Along the coastline of the map, I found myself transported into a village scene. The first image that caught my attention was an airplane, fitting, maybe, since I’ve been longing for travel myself. A billboard stood out too, bluntly declaring: “H1B problems, Pivot to Canada.”Standing nearby was a man gripping a shovel, staring at the sign, and I couldn’t help but imagine what his story was. The poem accompanying him spoke of taxes, nails, and history: “That head taxes, just a rusty nail not the apple of John A’s greedy eye, but that brown nails been here forever. The real last spike is yet to be driven.”
That poem made me pause. The immigrant body described as a “nail,” used for labor, taxation, and building, but also a nail that has always been here, that endures. The “real last spike” waiting to be driven suggested an unfinished story, a history still in progress.
Nearby, another figure with binoculars drew me into a video, this one layered with unsettling sound. A heart thudded loudly in the background as radio stations flickered in and out, never landing on a stable frequency. The confusion was palpable: the longing for home clashing with the pull of a new land, the frustration of not finding belonging anywhere. The heartbeat seemed to echo regret, emptiness, and dislocation. I half-expected it to quicken into a panic as the video progressed, to capture the anxiety of being caught between worlds, but it never did. Instead, the sound stayed steady, which made me wonder if the numbness of displacement sometimes outweighs even the panic.
As the video shifted, a clock began ticking and crows, or maybe ravens, cried overhead. The sound carried a sense of impending doom, like time was running out and scavenger birds were circling. On the screen, a driver headed to the airport, watching planes take off. The action looped again and again: driving, parking, watching planes. The monotony of it made me think of how migration routines can become numbing, even when they hold such high stakes. By this point the soundtrack had become distorted and fragmented, a deconstructed version of traditional music, unsettling and disorienting. I couldn’t help but wonder why the heartbeat never returned, or why no one on the other end of the phone ever picked up. The absence felt loud.
Clicking on the airplane itself revealed another line: “a saffron room somewhere is easily understood but far away we imagine things are not so fixed.” That line sent me searching. Saffron robes, I discovered, represent spiritual commitment, a detachment from worldly desires, a pursuit of enlightenment. Connecting that to the airplane, especially one branded with China Airlines, was fascinating. The plane appeared to be leaving rather than arriving, which shifted the meaning for me. It suggested people choosing to return home rather than staying in the West, rejecting the pull of modernization and Western customs. To me it symbolized a refusal, a deliberate movement back to roots, a search for stability where things are fixed and familiar.
Back at False Creek, I noticed again the figures of the man with the shovel and the man in the suit, this time drained of color in contrast to the surrounding images. The lack of color made them seem ghostlike, as if their humanity had been stripped away. Another figure nearby, a parent with children, was accompanied by a striking line: “don’t mention yourself, especially when you show a family portrait.” That line cut deep. It reflected how often immigrants push themselves to the background, working relentlessly not for their own desires but for the survival of their families. Their individual identities fade as sacrifice takes over.
I eventually traveled to the Pacific Rim section, where the screen filled with words: “Made in Japan,” “Made in Hong Kong,” “Made in Thailand,” “Made in China.” These phrases crossed the screen like cargo moving across oceans, one after another, until they felt endless. I saw a leather bag stamped Made in Hong Kong, a globe faintly visible in the background, and then Made in China appeared as a watermark repeating across the screen. To me, these were footsteps, symbols of movement, trade, and labor. They reminded me of how so much of the Western world relies on goods and labor produced elsewhere, often cheaply, often invisibly. It spoke to the history of exploitation, indentured servitude, and near-slavery that many Asian migrants endured, tricked into working hard to build up industrialized economies in places like the U.S., the Caribbean, and Canada. The video carried that layered message: migration as both contribution and exploitation.
From there, I journeyed north into Canada, the map shaped like an arm, mountains and valleys forming veins. Starting from the fingertip, I read: “trust, ugly words to show how heavy beauty.” It felt like a reminder that even trust can be painful, weighed down by history, yet still necessary to move forward. Closer to the thumb, another poem urged: “pretend you are the yellow earth limitless perform your mother’s official function.”That line made me think about the Earth as a mother: nurturing, providing, teaching, and endlessly giving, even when unacknowledged.
The center of the hand revealed: “a lot of small pieces broken from a long stick promises.” Placed where pressure points lie, it made me think about the pressure of broken promises, promises fractured across generations of migrants. But the poem that struck me the most read: “to write your gravesite details here because your name is it.”
That line lingered with me. Many immigrants carry two names, a traditional one and a Western one, but what happens when neither is remembered, when assimilation erases both? To write one’s own gravesite details is to confront mortality and the possibility of being forgotten. Another poem layered onto this ache: “the family is not empty full of ancestors who won’t remember you.” It was heartbreaking to think of how traditions and memories slip further away with each generation, survival prioritized over remembrance.
Yet, despite all of this, the final poem I encountered shifted the tone. It read: “like a family are these trees abundant dense. It shows that immigrants are plentiful. Their roots were deep in a lot of places they nourish the Earth, they cultivate the land and they stand in the firm.”
That line closed the journey on a note of resilience. Yes, migration is marked by loss, sacrifice, and forgetting, but it is also marked by abundance and endurance. Immigrants root themselves deeply, nourish new lands, and stand firm against the weight of history.
When I finally left High Muck a Muck, I carried more questions than answers, but that felt right. The work doesn’t want to resolve, it wants you to travel, to reflect, to see the layers of migration as unfinished. For me, it was a reminder that migration is never one clean story. It is departures, arrivals, losses, sacrifices, roots, and resilience, all layered together. The body is a map, yes, but more than that, it is a vessel carrying memory, longing, and soul.
