"Eh I want you to empty your vessels ah!" someone shouts in the background. "Eh you all better pee ah!"

"Eh! Pee the hair! Pee the hair!" another person yells.

"Eh no showering! No showering!" shouts someone as one of the victims switches on the shower.

In the clip, three pairs of boys are seen entering the cubicle and taking turns to pee. It is unclear exactly how many people were involved.

Joshua Lee, https://mothership.sg/2021/03/ngee-ann-poly-hazing-pee/

1.

Blood is thicker than water, but there are other fluids in this story too. A mix of them suffuses the permeable fibres of our skins. We are awash in it, engulfed in it. Biological signals travel through the mesh: all manner of steroids and polypeptide chains. We are constantly ingesting. Constantly ejaculating. Hormones inch along our nostrils and tongues, gesticulating towards chemical futures. Liquefied, the result is utter informational chaos. We are all talking at once and in such great volumes that it makes us close. What possibilities, to think of friendships, loves, petty rivalries and solidarities, composed and admixed into these strange currents, leaks and eddies?

2.

In this story we are awash in toxic sludge. They have left us to rot in the great pits below the city where all manner of e-waste collects (printer cartridges, cracked smartphone batteries dripping raw lithium crystals, decommissioned hard drives full of screenshots of young girls' instagrams). The fibres of our uniforms permit the selective adsorption of heavy metal ions. We touch and sniff and fuck each other raw through the thick black strands of congealed mercury and lanthanum, silicon and praseodymium, all dark and spiky and wet. The tendrils extend past our gills into our chests. Here, I am known to my brothers by the way my hair slicks back.

3.

When you make these connections known in materiality the shapes of things become clear. The body of Tammy NYP bitcrushed into an array of cell-phone MOSFETs is so many units of silicon, so many units of germanium, so many of gold. A MOSFET is made by the consensual deposition of chemical substances upon another. One of those substances is ammonia gas. The fermentation of urine by bacteria produces a solution of ammonia. Dehydrated, it makes a substitute for gunpowder. I am trying to trace here a genealogy of gold.

4.

We lick each other's spit off the flat blade of a folding knife. After a point, there was no differentiating our liquids. We are squatting in the jungle in this story. We are eating out of ragged metal-foil bags. Elsewhere, someone pees into a pile of leaves. Our scent is commuted between one another by butterflies, which extract the salt from our liquids with their curved proboscides. I look into my brothers' eyes and all artificial divisions collapse, there is a gross relating-to one another, we are coming-into-one. Tomorrow, the same knife will draw blood.

5.

In Donna Haraway's essay "Awash in Urine: DES and Premarin® in Multispecies Response-ability", the eccentric cyberfeminist reads the rivulets of hormonal complicity between humans, pregnant Canadian horses and spayed female dogs as the flexing of an empathetic muscle: we drown ourselves in these rivers to better flush ourselves with guilt. In this is born an understanding out of kindness. And then there is a masculinity run rife with penetrative thought, concerned with understanding how the fluid goes in: swirl the bottle and watch the whirlpool form, shotgun a hole at the bottom of a Chang, shake your dick onto the face of a freshman, push the hapless boy into the hot-water-tank…

6.

In one of my dreams I am melting on a pyre. My fat roasts in the open air and enters everybody's eyes and lips, and the gathered crowd is forced to encounter the substantiality of their own punishment: the body is made part of everything else. I ascribe this symbolism to a self-flagellatory need for punishment. Complicity can only be answered with retribution. The shape of the essay is one that melts all things into their constituent parts, makes them paradoxically more whole than where we've left them. In one of the stories in which I am wearing a uniform, someone pours gasoline onto a campfire and the draft of hot air makes me smell everybody's sweat. Everybody's in here with me, I tell myself. Everybody's here.

7.

In the last of these stories we are frogs breathing in drain-water. The water is cool and fresh with mud and salt. Our skins meet in airtight seals, exchanging information as easily as we exchange breath: a fine wind blows today, guppies are in season, it will be time to dig burrows for the mating rituals soon. Each body presses—but does not impress—upon the other. In this great internet of slippery stuff the waste of so many living breathing things intermixes with the shape of all things and there is a warm current that flows between our legs and it is clear that today, of all days, there is reciprocity and love in the present moment, and there will be plenty to feast on and share. It is enough to perch on the drain-banks and cry. It is enough to just be.