I saw this article posted on Facebook this morning about Miley Cyrus’ London concert.

I have been feeling a little memory worm wriggling in the depths of my fuzzy brain each time I see a photo or video of Miley Cyrus (good gracious yes! but no! why am I even looking?). I understand intellectually how someone like her can elicit such adoration from a certain sector of human society, but no, I am not a fan. Why, then, am I even staring at the mugshots and filling myself with kaleidoscopic, poly-chromatic, multi-textural horror each and every time? Because of that memory worm. This is not about Miley Cyrus at all, though she was merely the trigger, it is about that memory worm.


Screencapture from BLEEDING CESSPOOLS by Dawn-joy Leong 2010.

And this morning, I had an eureka moment. I have identified the wriggles.Miley Cyrus – physical appearance, the expression (or lack thereof) in her eyes, and her (to me, pathetic) over the top overtly crude sexual references and parodies, i.e. the complete package as seen in media – reminds me of a certain real-life character, who I named Poison Ivy. I met this caricature many years ago in Hong Kong. She called herself various names, one of which indicated a pleasurable taste, and no doubt she was to specific categories of humans, but ‘delicious’ she certainly was not to me. Impossible to erase from my memory was the time she turned up at my door in the middle of the night, drunk and high on some kind of narcotics, giggling loudly and babbling insanely about sex and her prowess, and yes, the swearing, oh so much swearing. She would grab me and hold me captive to her terrifyingly loud boastings of sexual prowess, and lurid details of various acts of coitus (and other antics) with her very firmly if not happily married lover (a well known HK music composer, performer and ironically a ‘guru’ of modern music who is held in high esteem), replete with physical gestures and yes, of course, swearing and more swearing, ala Miley Cyrus. Definitely a case of lalochezia, methinks?

This person traumatised and terrified me so much that I developed severe anxiety each time I stepped outside my home (her lover lived a few floors below) and I would scan the spaces for that hideous apparition, so that I could avoid her. I was nervous to be anywhere – ferry, bus, restaurants, supermarket – because she seemed to permeate every dark, dank, foul smelling crevice.

There. Someday, I will write a book, as a grand exercise in exorcism, and all the gory grisly details shall be revealed. For now, the wriggly creature in my brain has been identified. Memory worm unearthed and twitching its last bilious dance in its a heap of rank rotting ordure.


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