grasslands

One's ambitions

2007-03-08T10:50:00.000+08:00

I did a little jump while reading Vonnegut's Bagombo Snuff Box, Uncollected Short Fiction to the last piece, entitled 'Code to My Career as a Writer for Periodicals'.

It brought me to my senses and realisations.

Can I say that my spatial awareness is consciously high?

Vonnegut writes about what it is like to be a native Middle Westerner. He mentions something that strikes me:

To grow up in such a city, as I did, was to find such cultural institutions as ordinary as police stations or firehouses. So it was reasonable for a young person to daydream of becoming some sort of artist or intellectual, if not a policeman of fireman. So I did. So did many like me.

If you were to stroll along the main roads and observe many of the 'billboards' or huge posters that plaster the board next to bus-stops, you would realise that NTU is advertising its faculty, in time for publicity for the university admission. (The polytechnics and ITEs were doing it a month or more back, but that's another story.)

The cynic in me made me laugh when I saw the poster of the Humanities school at NTU. It says you can be an intellectual (in a bold, serious font) if you join their school for the Humanities.

The more I pondered, the more I realised what a huge contrast little Edward is experiencing compared to Vonnegut who grew up in Indianapolis in 1922; the more I wanted to laugh at myself for dreaming to be a great writer in Hougang New Town.

As I set about having my breakfast, getting used to a schedule I've arranged for myself in my neighbourhood, I discover that realities are built differently here. With the history of being once a sleepy kampung area, it is quite natural that old mindsets and ambitions are deeply rooted.

My intention is not be deprave anybody of his or her dignity, but more importantly, is to convey the idea that one is 'very okay' if a young boy finishes school, armed with a higher education than his parents (and his ancestors), goes to look for work. The elusive dream of becoming rich is strongly conveyed through the consistent and dogged play of lottery.

For this, I usually do not disclose to anyone, especially to someone who questions my intention and purpose of this life, that I wish to be a writer. "For someone who loves reading, it is only natural to emulate." As a young child in a neighbourhood, I learnt quickly that adults only ask of your ambitions so they could have a conversation starter, turning to impose their beliefs and stereotypes on you, and most of the time, concluding that I'm likely to be as good as they are, or a bigger loser than they already are. (Of course, we do meet angels along the way.) For this game of wheel of fortune, I like to play along with the adults and reveal to them all sorts of occupations I've come across as a person less than ten years of age: I happily proclaim that I wish to be a chef, a postman or a policeman. My mother, even till today, still reminds me that I used to tell her that I wanted to be a doctor. It is difficult to explain to her that with my Arts background and the rigidity/inflexibility of the local education system that it is an uphill task to be able to switch to a Science background that will allow me to enrol in say, Medicine school. Perhaps I could try now, to explain to her that I could still be Doctor Lim, but not in medicine and in a different field of study. (That might take another five years, to enlighten her, not just to take on a course of study.)

Do I feel weighted down by this seemingly lack of ambition in my home town?

*

And, I do wish to know whether Mister Vonnegut felt pressured to enlist in a profession that lives up to his home town of Indianapolis.

Pretending

2007-03-07T23:34:00.000+08:00

Sometimes I feel like I'm foraging in the jungle for an escape route out of the greenery, or at least, to find the river so I'll have a water source and hopefully as a guide to find the way out. It's been like that, switching on and off like my table lamp, for the past few weeks. It's not exactly tiring, but I get weary of people, of faces and of the body expressions of individuals and groupies.

It is like coming out of prison, and then attempting to find your bearings in a rapidly-changing environment.

I'll be free from national slavery this weekend, but I constantly feel that the shackles are tighter, and the claws are sharper. Digesting Sophocles' Oedipus drew me closer to the realisation that there might be a supreme power, a (mister) God, and Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilyich made me consider about how my life would look like should I be death, in my coffin. One of the main reason why I picked up that book was because I wanted to understand where Kurosawa was coming from as he did Ikiru (translated to 'Living') in 1952, in black and white film. Death does not only have to be in physically and of bodily presence, it can manifest in a special form of stoppage (that does not necessarily accept the termination of life).

Death, in a way of expression, can be found in many of the living, breathing human beings on earth, walking on land. I would like to question where their souls can be found at, but I must learn to understand that the answer does not lie with whom I am questioning, instead, I have to answer my own question.

As I walk out to the open sky, I carry within me the understanding that I'm walking, inching closer to death. I do not question it, but neither have I accepted the Grim Reaper's call.

2007-02-27T10:38:00.000+08:00

I stopped writing this year partly because I was heavily distracted.

I still am, of course.

*

You're in a car ride. A fairly comfortable car ride, with the nuances of everyday-car travel; the air-con, the leather seats with the same smell, your favourite radio station is buzzing in the background, and you're definitely not being driven through a cemetery or caught in heavy traffic.

But you need to get to somewhere, a destination. I do not speculate whether it is important, but it's certainly urgent. As a young, perhaps brash, surely impatient young man, I want to be able to get to that destination right now. Immediately, right now, 'no-sir-ee', I do not want any delay.

Of course it's not possible, because plain logic requires that you travel, and because you need to travel, there is a journey.

Impatience breeds like a gremlin (or mogwai) exposed to water - not lights, because light kills them - within you, and I find myself cursing, even if it happens only in certain areas of my grey matter residing in my head. How do you deal with it? School taught me to tackle the problem head-on, to find solutions using my creative thinking-life skills, and viola, there is no such problem without a solution. Of course, nobody ever mentioned about the Middle East conflict.

I do not know for sure whether churches, temples, or mosques teach their people of worship that one cannot deal with the problem in such a manner for every obstacle in their way. You pray yes, but perhaps if might be worth dealing with the circumstance by 'absorbing' it and accepting everything about it in its way. To some, this might be called the passive solution, and to others, this is a no brainer: there are problems you can solve and there are problems you cannot solve. Those you can, solve it, get on with it, and for those you cannot, live with it, and move on.

*

It is pretty much an accepted piece of law in physics that for a force exerted, an equal amount of force comes back in return. It means, in layman terms, that when one punches a lamp-post with full force, the lamp-post 'punches' right back at him with equal strength, which explains why one feels an intensity of pain when one does so. Natural forces, very much so in tune with the concept of karma.

When you give, can I safely assert that you expect something in return? We stink of revengeful thoughts in our minds, yet only a select few consider the possible repercussions in giving that sucker punch. I have been always intrigued by the motivating force of Mother Teresa, and John Paul II singed to a similar tune, answering his own question with, "... she found it in prayer and in the silent contemplation of Jesus Christ, his Holy Face, his Sacred Heart". Mother Teresa has mentioned this herself:

"Something very beautiful... not one has died without receiving the special ticket for St. Peter, as we call it. We call baptism 'a ticket for St. Peter.' We ask the person, do you want a blessing by which your sins will be forgiven and you receive God? They have never refused. So 29,000 have died in that one house [in Kalighat] from the time we began in 1952."

In accepting death, do we then accept everything wholly and peacefully?
(For the ignorants, Mother Teresa is not Indian. She's Albanian, born in Macedonia. She left for Calcutta in the late 1940s, and years of the harsh sun in India must have made her darker significantly.)

Am currently reading Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilyich, and I suppose it will yield some answers and more questions.

2007-01-12T22:23:00.000+08:00

(In case you missed out on the advertising they've been carrying out in the media, here's it once more- the MOSAIC Music Fest '07. I'm awfully keen on the 7.30pm show on 17th March with Rachael Yamagata, because her voice's amazing and this might be my best chance to take advantage of the concession for the $88 priced seat paid at $60, which two years approaching, I've not used it before. Another to-do before I ORD involves getting a membership at S'pore Film Society.)

I recently completed my first read of a piece of novel by Mister John Irving. Honestly, someone I've been putting off reading for a long while, simply because his novels, or rather the ones I own, do not have appealing covers. Hotel New Hampshire. Fortunately for myself, it was an engaging read worthy of a movie production. It does, strangely, brings me back to my first novel with Jack Kerouac, The Town and the City (actually, pretty much so nobody's first book of Kerouac, since most Kerouac lovers started off with On The Road, something I've still not read, Big Sur or Dharma Bums).

I do not feel strangled today, and I only feel so tonight on my way home because I must had been feeling oppressed all along (which dates a while back , I reckon). It is comforting to know there are various ingenious and surprising solutions which pop up every now and then in this complicating era. The geek in me and you would understand this simple comic strip (a new comic site I discovered and bookmarked with glee), which explains why Pearls Before Swine never fail to cheer me up. Two things to do before the sun gets too hot: have the opportunity to communicate to Bill Watterson and Stephan Pastis how much they've kept me away from the sleek, comfortable, air-conditioned psychology-therapy room because of what they convey with their form of expression.

Kerouac wrote a simple line in Big Sur that caught my eye and has flagged at my train of thought a couple of times now, so I thought I should share them:

"Cliches are truism and all truism are true" [found in Chapter 7]

It is a line that appears in parenthesis, so it probably wasn't that important; he was just rambling on, that stream of consciousness style of writing.

Fast forward to what Mister Douglas Coupland writes in Shampoo Planet:

"In periods of rapid personal change, we pass through life as though we are spellcast. We speak in sentences that end before finishing. We sleep heavily because we need to ask so many questions as we dream alone. We bump into otheres and feel bashful at recognizing souls so similar to ourselves." [page 171]

The more ambitious among us seeketh to be humble and noble. Can I eat my humble pie and declare to myself that perhaps I am not up to the task of assisting in someone else's life, and that it is one noble act to step back firmly and completely, because letting go allows that particular someone to grow, and to achieve?

In Irving's Hotel New Hampshire, Lily Berry decides to label her attempt to write as 'trying to grow'.

I'm trying to grow too.

もおいちど、おねがいします.

2006-12-29T22:55:00.000+08:00

もおいちど、おねがいします.

It is strange to conjecture, from one's hands, that passing a year has made one wiser. Because experience does not necessarily bring about change to one's life, nor can it possible dent some damage in the history of one's life.

'Because I've walked this stretch of road before, it means I will be able to walk this road of stretch of road again without difficulty, and soon, I can even run on this stretch of road.'

Children take things to a new perspective because they are not arrogant, because they are not stubborn. We say children are great discoverers and explorers, and we are inadequate to assist them in their journey. I am holding dearly my belief that there is a metaphorical leap of faith (many such leaps exists in our pitiful life) when we ascend (or descend) from childhood to teenage, and to adolescent. You can see, if you observe carefully, that every individual encompasses such values, beliefs and habits picked up from young. Many such, shatter in pieces when the leaps of faith is done, but some survive. In many adolescents, I see the jagged juxtaposition of the old and the new, and the inability to soothe and piece the jigsaws together. The inability to do so, will kill many.

'Because I am young, because I believe I know everything I wish to learn, therefore I can swagger and behave like a young prince or princess.'

Many, forget to step down from the thrones of being a temporary prince or princess. The throne is not lost, neither is it taken away. Their kingdom, is the one taken away from them. For a while, they muddle around and try to test the waters. A split decision has to be made: should they abandon the throne and join another kingdom as a commoner, or should they continue to remain on the throne, status quo. Again, many linger over the decision made, or cease to come to a decision. The result is a lost kingdom, a kingdom created from their own debris.

*

Welcome back, if you've been reading my blog. Edward has never been away, merely just exploring.

National Novel Writing Month

2006-11-04T12:19:00.000+08:00

What is NaNoWriMo?

National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30. ... Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

To answers, from questions.

Which is exactly what I've been keeping myself busy with in the first week of November. Hopefully my train doesn't run out of fuel - it shouldn't - and come my twentieth birthday, I ought to have a semblance of something I can call my personal own novel.

Can be tough with the amount of possible plagiarising. Still.

the boys i mean are not refined

2006-10-29T20:45:00.000+08:00

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross in her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
they boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

they boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

e.e. cummings

What caught my mind

2006-10-22T13:03:00.000+08:00

What I've gotten from here:

And for Halloween,

2006-09-01T20:55:00.000+08:00

My old secondary school classmate, whom I bummed into in the neighbourhood was surprised when he found out I was way at the bottom of the foodchain at work (national slavery), and was not like him, one step higher than the bottom of the foodchain. I told him I didn't prefer the responsibilities and extra duties I'll have to play had I been as a similar positiion as him.
He mentioned in his part cynical-serious voice that we should be taking on extra responsibilities as we grow older, and it was good lessons learnt had I been in his position.

I think that comment restored back in me part my identity, about what makes Edward tick, and to borrow from our national tourism board, 'uniquely Edward'.
I don't think I shun away from responsibilities. I'd like to think I've got a pragmatic heart, that I was born and brought up with values emphasising on pragmatism -by the Gar'ment and my own Dad - and being practical. However, I'm lucky that I had a 'non-intrusive' Dad; not exactly liberal, he was very strict on certain values (meant for another day's storytelling), but he did leave me to my own devices, and was fairly open-minded and tried to support me whenever I had a new endeavour or interest. That made-gave me a very idealistic mind, which I'm very thankful for today.
Perhaps I didn't grow up being idealistic. Maybe it was because I was innocent, simple-minded (as opposed to being street smart) and an oft-used word on me, naive. But whether I had liked it or not, I also had to go thorugh the rigours of life; I like to see mine as being upgraded from a working-class background to that of a middle-class (screw those who say they're middle class when they stay in condominums and private homes), so I wasn't that sheltered from the harsh realities. I could have been at times, not being exposed, but then, what do you say about people who are growing up in a really sheltered environment?

I might be pessimistic at times, but I do dislike being so, or being cynical. Edward's new thinking is that life's too short to complain, rant and whine about how unfair life is. If one gets too caught up with it, you end up being part of it, part of rolling snowball, and then summer comes along.

Repeated musings

2006-09-01T18:46:00.000+08:00

After taking a peek read at my old writings on my journal book, I've realised how much I missed Milan Kundera's writings, because it seems as if my style of writing (about love) is a copycat of his.

But even copycats need a break at times.
What restores my sanity and makes Edward Edward, besides the overwhelming collection of music in my iTunes has been mainly two pieces of work:
Stephan Pastis' comic strip Pearls Before Swine, and contributions to McSweeney's Internet Tendency.

There has been a lot more moments for the past week - than the number of foreign talent (only those with diplomas degress are considered so, sorry) we have and are getting in our island - that I felt that my words, written-typed-or-floating-in-my-head were insufficient to where the mind was heading to, in terms of places. And I don't mean just my dream world, because I probably can write another book on that.

I've been living in bliss, as in I no longer have to torture myself and my poor butt on vehicles with poor suspensions and seats that attempt to gnaw at whatever is left on your butt. My pretty silly face has been restored to its former glory, and I cease my complaints. My ActionSampler lomo photos turned out better than I could have wished for, but of course, herein lies the trouble; I'm too lazy to scan them in.
I've adopted a new mantra for myself and to hinder my procastination: if something that needs to be done can be done is less than two minutes, do it right away! Get it out of the way.

But I want to have more than two minutes to appreciate the cows and the boughs. In the hurry of completing a major event in my work commitment, I forget to plan after the life-after. I find myself getting caught in a mess of manure , and I say exactly that because one of my superior painted this really bizzare image in my mind: on teamwork and integrity, I had imagined a group of lemming-like people all on the sides of this giant toliet bowl. One falls in, into the toliet bowl, into the sewage of human. The rest, in an attempt to save him, fall into it, in a chain of bodies. With brown stuff on their foreheads and knees, they contemplate and try to haul themselves out of the toliet bowl.
It's an image best presented if it was on a piece of paper as a drawing or comic strip, but that is if I could draw better than stick figures with no distinct genders. It won't work.

I've resolved not to take money too seriously, therefore, on the morning of the day after tomorrow, I will be on my HBB flat's corridor, throwing out change and money of my entire possession. That will happen, only if I did live in Roald Dahl's world (read the Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar).

I have absolutely zero patience, despite having to squeeze patience out of me at work like what the old folks used to do to rocks. The courts have decided on my punishment: to witness a dying kitten, with broken legs and probably spine, reject my supposedly kind gesture of pseudo-milk (read: soya bean drink from a can). I've had a sneak preview: I had to wait for water to boil. I was allowed to throw in more fire starters, but it got me hotter and madder than the mess tin used to boil the water. The leak on the plot of the upcoming, hotly-anticipated sequel to the first picture? I will be forced to witness someone get crushed -metaphorically- by the steamroller, and in the end state, my heart will be broken -literally- and out of sync with my grey matter.

Cookie monster needs the best kept lor-mee secret. The magical Ipoh hor-fun. The habitual special from Soup Spoon. And un-moderated tea. Comfort food and drinks.

Japanese dramas and Sir Elton

2006-08-28T13:31:00.000+08:00

I haven't had much time to write for the last couple of weeks, so I'm just going to drone here and see where it gets me.

A very long time ago -at least I see it as quite some time back- when the cable TV in my country didn't have more than a hundred channels. Way back when I could still say that I was glued to the television programmes, where I was multi-tasking between surfing the web, checking my email and trying to study for tomorrow's little school tests. (I can't-don't do that anymore now.)

I was seriously hooked onto this Japanese drama serial, and I must add it's the only Japanese drama serial I've ever watched on a regular basis (if you exclude Pokemon). It only had twelve episodes (and there are no plans to have another season-sequel or prequel, whatsoever), but in accordance to my obsessive-compulsive disorder, things got to the point whereby I could sing the theme song by heart, in Japanese, without refering to any sort of lyrics. For the parties interested on what show got me so crazy, it's Mokodono!, translated loosely to "My Husband".

I was sorting out my iTunes, again, like the obsessive-compulsive Edward, making sure that each complete album had a nice album cover. And then I decided that my library has really gone too massive for my liking (and my friends' liking) -it stands at 17.6 days long, 33.62GB currently- so I decided to check out what I forgotten about listening after adding to my library. So I came to that theme song I was talking about. Hitoribocchi No Haburashi, by Tomoya Nagase, who's in the group Tokio (or is now an ex-member if I'm not mistaken), and who also plays the main lead in that drama.
Only today, with the help of YouTube and DailyMotion, am I not only able to watch old episodes of Mukodono, but it has also enlightened me, finally (!), what exactly I was singing at that time. It's about toothbrushes, which you can add 'how blooming corny', but you might want to watch the episodes to get a better idea of why toothbrushes.
It's very nice bringing back old memories. Alright, I'll admit I had the hots for the female lead, Yuko Takeuchi at that time. But you see, my vision is great, because she's doing pretty well still, today, in her acting. Now I realise too what it could be that drew me to this Japanese movie, Ima Ai ni Yukimasu, or known locally and internationally as 'Be With You', a 2004 release.

And I haven't even started about how YouTube has made me aware of Elton John's younger, pre-surgery voice. I clicked on a link to this 70s video of Sir Elton performing 'Goodbye Yellow Brickroad' with the Muppets; and his voice was so crystal clear and beautiful, even if you considered him a young upstart. I went into, again my obsessive-compulsive disorder acting up here, comparing his voices, scouring for the old videos (before 1989, when he had his surgery) and listening to the newer videos. He sounds distinctively different, and it made my head twirl because I had fell in love with this digusting old man and his deeper voice, and was never aware or bothered about a younger Elton John.
I kind of see it in this way: had Elton John been less flamboyant, grew up in the American countryside and towns, he would have been something like of a John Denver; another favourite artist of mine, even if his music makes me depressed at times. Add effiminate and more flamboyant to Elton John, and you perhaps would get my other big music idol, Boy George. I've successfully tuned in and watched both Elton John and Boy George (plus Culture Club's) videos now, and their sincerity in singing draws in my soul. It'll be hard to find better performer-singer-musician-songwriter than the two of them.

I've noticed I have more favourite female singers than male ones, and my favourite authors lean towards my own gender than the opposite sex. Food for thought.
My much awaited complete Optic Nerve mini-comics ("32 Stories") by Adrian Tomine has finally arrived from the U, S and A. Please ask me about it - I'll be more than happy to rave and tell you more than you need to know about modern, indie-ish, American comics. I was never attracted to the stereotypes of American comics: your Marvel, Batman, Superman, X-Men type of stuff. What I'm taking in is significantly different. Ask, and I'll be happy to show you what's so different with Tomine.

2006-08-06T20:55:00.000+08:00

The leading reasons as to why I haven't been blogging has probably got to do with eBay addiction (I think I'm still mildly hooked onto it) and my new found comfort in picking up the lousy ballpoint pen to write in my writing pads. Of course, my latest/current obsession involves comparing prices of books sold at Kinokuniya and on eBay; I probably can give you a close, rough guide on how much you'll have to fork out for a particular book that appears on my booklist, where would it be cheaper. And I briefly flirted with the idea of setting up a small quaint bookstore to compete with BooksActually.
But having done adequate homework, I can safely say book prices are pretty competitively priced and you usually don't get more than a five dollars difference between retailers, online and at the real marketplace. That explains why Borders, Kinokuniya, MPH and Times (I've heard of Carefour joining in the fun) gives out discounts almost all the time - every other month or so - because that's one edge they get over one another. Borders used to have this very smart marketing ploy, which offered you in discount of a month's validity, if you bought in one of their discounted weekends. It does try to cultivate the loyalness in customers, which is what Kino has done with their privilege cards.

I know I sound pretty scary when I get obsessed over certain things; I've been quite obsessed to get the best bargain out of any book I get, or those my friends decide to get.
(Right now, I'm pretty glad I got a good price on my friend's request to get Louis-Ferdinand Celine's Journey to the End of the Night, and my own keeness on reading Adrian Tomine's 32 Stories: The Complete Optic Nerve Mini-Comics)

Something struck me reading (after printing it out) Jhumpa Lahiri's Once In a Lifetime, and the perspective was something rather new to me, so it did make me try to write my own, with her style. I haven't given it a title, because I haven't gotten down to editing the piece. So here's the raw piece:

dated 15th July 2006 (or scroll down to the entry titled so.)

I know it has no conclusion: my excuses are that I respect Kafka's works way much, and I was just writing with the flow. It will come, I'm sure.
It would be very nice indeed if anybody who makes the effort to read my short scribe address a short comment or so.

dated 15th July 2006

2006-08-06T20:38:00.000+08:00

I was trying to flirt with ideas about something to write on, when I decided my water-darmaged cardboard box of letters and keepsake items was a good place to begin with.

Yours' the only person's letters which I keep separate, in a previously used-for FerroRoche chocolates. Perhaps it is a sign that your letters are precious to me, more precious than the rest of the letters given to me by the other people. ("All the latters in the big cardboard box are equally precious, but yours are more precious than the rest.")

I think I have at least two letters written by you for the occasion of Valentines' Day. Not that the content was anything lovely-dovely. I appreciated the lines you wrote declaring that you appreciated me, no matter how corny and ridiculous it may sound now, because I guess hindsight about such things has always been corny.

One of the statements I will always remember you made about me (or perhaps, due to my memory slipup, you might never had said this, but nevertheless;) is that you saw something in me and decided to go on talking to me. Now that I do a bit of analysing on that, it might just make you a God, if taken broadly; because I felt that you believed in me, bothered to listen to me (or at least, you did a fantastic job making me believe so) and allowed me to be comfortable with myself.

If I ever think about an example of a good date, my mind will not fail to recall memories of our initial dates together. I was apprehensive because it was my first date: I probably had doressed up too formally, while you struck me as someone who was more comfortable with yourself compared to my comfort level with myself; you were dressed more causually. A couple of 'freezed images' fly across my mind: us, having just boarded the double-decker bus to town from our interchange - you had made me wait half hour or so that I thought I was being stood up, and mobiles were not very widespread among the young then. So, I could take my first good look at you after we rushed up the bus, which coincidentally came as you walked up to the bus berth. I asked you like what a good, polite boy would do, whether it was okay to sit next toy you on the same bus seat. You giggled and gave me a quick 'no, I don't mind' answer, so our conversation started. And I remember after the first five minutes (and at periodic times during our numberous dates) that because we were having a running, interesing conversation, this must be a great date, and that made me smile even wider.

For a fifteen year old boy, it was the closest I've ever been with someone else besides my mother, physically. You had already watched the movie before, but didn't mind watching it again because you said it was a great movie. Even before the movie started, I was worried about what to say about the movie when you would ask me about it at the end; I eventually found a word to describe the movie; I told you proudly that I thought it was a very ' colourful' movie.

Very sick.

2006-07-23T19:44:00.000+08:00

You know the winds of change have arrived when there's a sickening piece of air that lingers at the front of your grey brain matter, and that it clouds everything that is inside your mind.
Like the sick, burnt feeling I felt frequently whenever I felt ill when I was young.

*

"Short note to the present Edward,

My salutations. Allow me to assure you that you are not burnt out; you are merely attempting to do everything you can to save the world from your evil nemesis/alter-ego, Mister Edvard. Your emotions are not exactly in tuned because perhaps you have lost all the little humanity left in you.
Because you might really be diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, I could theoretically throw you a fish and let you choke on the bones. But since you are prone to choking, my sidekick cat has suggested that allowing you to gag for air without external causes could prove to be a better evil plan.
I look forward to writing your obituary.

Yours most respectfully,
Mister Edvard.

*

Some ramblings always help.

2006-07-10T16:16:00.000+08:00

My father, coming back home with my mother from the neighbourhood (they went to pack lunch for me), discovered a group of boys trying to play with fire, at my block's ground floor. In his words, "they were trying to burn my flat down".

The boys hurriedly walked away when my folks were near them.
My dad decided to confront them.
They ran.
My father, whom I think has looks that could knock off as a potential terrorist/communist, gave chase, across the road.

He returned home only after I had finished my lunch and drink.
He didn't managed to catch the group of pesky boys, but at least he tried to. He launched into a tirade of how the Catholic school's standard has dropped throughout the years. Afterall, he's an old boy of another Catholic school which is the brother school to the one whose reputation is at stake and plummeting.

I sneak in a little smile, much aware of whom of my folks I picked up my sense of social awareness and action. Then I cringed, thinking of how my Dad, born in the fifties (and is also in his fifties) would react if I were to reveal and tell him stories about the IJ girls I befriend when I volunteer.

He actually made his way to the school (a stone's throw away from my house) after failing to make contact with the fire-bearing boys, so much wanting to see and talk to the discipline master, but was denied entry into the school grounds by the security man when he refused to surrender his identification card - required to enter. Afterall, this is the same cheeky father who filmed a couple kissing and doing intimate things at the ground floor of the block just behind our kitchen window. With his IT-savvyness, he proceeded to record and transfer the video tape to .mpg/.avi format on the computer, burnt it into a VCD and sent it through mail to the (other) neighbourhood school; without a return address of course.
(The last time my Mum and I saw the same couple in our neighbourhood was many months back, and they weren't in their school uniforms anymore. I presume they've graduated from school and gone on to study in perhaps the polytechnics.)

*
There's a need to tolerate my folks' nagging presence (my Mum's, especially) whenever I'm home for the weekends. But I've discovered the 'old-world charm' in them. My Dad has had several crazy actions, or actions untypical of him, ever since - I think - he finally got a wireless point in his room and started surfing the internet leisurely. I know there's a generation gap when I hear from them that tsunamis might happen anytime in Bangkok, and therefore, they effectively rule out a short vacation there.

"The state of Johor is dangerous because you might be robbed!", so they're also giving the place a miss.
They're still visiting the traditional places like Genting, Malacca and Penang.
Perhaps I'm pretty ignorant about catering to tourism for the fifty-and-above age group. I try to imagine and dream that in my folks' mind, "America's a very far away place where things are almost entirely incompatible with what happens in my world, and we'll never want to travel there."

But I know it wouldn't be too tough to coax the two of them to places like Japan (my Mum dreams of going there), China and our ancestoral land, Taiwan (again!) and perhaps Australia-NZ (again!), if money was not an issue. I suggested East Malaysia for a change; afterall, my maternal grandmother was from the Borneo territories, but my Dad has reservations about flying across the 'vast South China Sea'.

I still remember last week, my Mum's excitement over her best friend's daughter having a wedding in either Holland or Qatar (I admit my failure in being able to understand places' names in my mother tongue), somewhere even her wildest dreams are unable to imagine.

*
I am awfully glad that I finally got people excited about the idea of staging a production, by the youths, at the end of this year. I dropped two places where I'll be overjoyed if we would be able to host the performance there - Drama Centre at the National Library and the Guinness Theatre at the Substation - and they seemed happy to tag along with that idea.
It's been too-long-a-time ever since I plunged myself into a BIG project, and I've always wanted to do an ambitious one to follow up on the hardword-filled Puppet Show production for children.
I don't remember doing anything memorable for the previous year, so I'm determined to head out this year with a big bang.

In the grey confines of my brain matter: it'll be a coming-of-age story, infused with amateur acting, singing and dancing. The soul, the camaraderie and the passion to story-tell will be the focus, the highlight. With backstage and lighting crew members.

2006-07-05T20:02:00.000+08:00

Drumming up publicity for BooksActually // POETRY du BLANC session no. 7

Salut ! salut !

POETRY du BLANC open-microphone sessions strive to celebrate poetry /
prose / words at its organic state -- delivered in speech, in comfort.

Please, recite !
a prose, a poem, a letter, a page, a paragraph, a sentence, a word.
Please, picnic !
cross-legged on wooden floors, surrounded by walls of literature in a
cozy little bookstore.

Do bring along your own mat, cushion or newspaper.
Tea and snacks may be purchased at the bookstore.

We would love for you to come join us for
POETRY du BLANC session no. 7
happening at
BooksActually / 125A Telok Ayer Street
on 8.jul.2006
at 2.p.m.
and enjoy poetry and words
in all its rhythmic, lyrical glory.

Au revoir!

//
Walking directions for little dears:
Tanjong Pagar MRT / Exit G
March straight ahead, along Telok Ayer Street till you pass Al-Abrar
Mosque and Thian Hock Keng Temple. The bookstore is located on the
2nd level of the shophouse opposite Telok Ayer Green Park.

Love,
BooksActually

// 125A Telok Ayer Street
Singapore 068594
// +65 6221 1170

Because today was Family Day, at Fort Canning.

2006-07-02T20:08:00.000+08:00

Shots from the ongoing of the Art Competition (theme was 'Family Day').

(Missing group photo of my whole youth gang)
Five years, Long Service Award.

The magical Primary One girl with a name I'm still unable to spell (who has done outstanding research on ants and is an ant-lover herself), but I can pronounce now! And her younger brother, who tried to escape from the photo-taking; name's Jeff, much simpler to spell.

Some more shots on my flickr stream. My ActionSampler photos won't be developed, after quite a while, I forsee.

Estranged

2006-07-01T23:42:00.000+08:00

My tired hand wrote this:

Addendum: I just found out they're (ie. Big Brother) building an overhead bridge over one of my favourite stretch of roads, near my residence. This means pollution to my scenary. I need to take my photos because it will soon be all history.

An answer to why MJ loves children/kids.

2006-06-24T15:03:00.000+08:00

Mister God must have sent me a rebuke for what I said in my post last week, because this week's meeting-session with the youths were postponed. Instead, they needed help to handle the children to Bukit Chandu for the morning and noon.

The Primary Two boy with the Greek name first pointed out to me how the tinted glass (for the top windows of the bus) made everything look old, "as old as my great-grandmother and father's times"; he was refering to the sepia-toned images looking through the tinted glass.
When I pointed out that the Hougang estate is probably twenty to thirty years old, he proceeded to remark a million times how old is it; because he was born in nineteen ninty eight (or therebouts). He then launched into intense debate as to whether Kovan's Heartland Mall was bigger than Hougang Mall, citing that the latter had more stories than the former, when I mentioned that the former was squeezy and full of people. He decided to to bring in Compasspoint, which I noted to him was probably the largest among the three shopping malls. He concluded his debate by saying how confused he was with all that thinking. The Greek emperor had his fears too; when the bus went into the CTE underground tunnel, he bawled about how afraid he was, how he was going to faint, and he wished we didn't have to use such tunnels. Only after much asking that I discover he was worried about ghosts.

Another tiny girl of Primary One age whose name I had trouble spelling and pronoucing: She reminded me of a much younger Jacqueline Chan Mui Mui, with the two ponytails (but without the air of arrogance), and I found out she had her pet topics as well. After I casually remarked that there was an ant on my hand, she excitedly told me how she liked ants. My attempt to educate her that ants do bite, especially with kids like her, was fiercely rebutted by the fact that only red ants bite, and that black ants do not. I could not catch the part about brown ants, but I did hear her and sense her disappointment about not being able to find black ants in her house. She told me about two ants she used to have, and when I quizzed her about what their nicknames were, she said matter-of-factly that they were dead, killed by her younger brother, with the required hand gestures. She also revealed to me that she has a pet cricket, which I think is awfully cool of her.
Obviously, I was quite disappointed not to have taken a photo with her because she had to rush off for tuition. On a Saturday afternoon, and she's only in Primary One.

And I was happily pleased to discover that one of my youth had gone to Starbucks for an interview, and will try Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf next, after my enthusiastic suggestion.

2006-06-18T16:04:00.000+08:00

(I'm struggling to find an impactful and apt title for this post.)

SPH did us all a big favour by focusing on youths and their activities lately.

I feel compelled to write-type this out; much more stronger response that I had with Senator Mitch McConnell and his stance with Burma/Myanmar stated in the TIME article 'Counterattack'.

I have a plea to everybody who had an instinctual, natural response to the incidents reported in the papers lately about bullying. Whether it was last week's episode about JC bullies - which some of them have reformed and are repentant - or is it about the latest handphone video scandal to hit our island; where a group of ah lians decided to bully, bash and humilate a fellow young girl.

I read, see a a lot of coffeeshop talk, analytical deductions and emotional responses to the videos: (And let's not forget about the not-so-long-ago handphone video scandal that involved young people.)

"Let them spend time behind bars and reflect on their ghastly deeds!"
"I was totally sickened by the whole ordeal. This is sadistic. The police should just put the mug shots of any of these girls on the TV and papers and ask the public for help. The young girl will never make a report for fear or being beaten up by the gang."
"Our youths are really beyong control. Society really needs to be tougher on the youth."
"You know why they are out of control? Because there are NO PARENTS to control them. They are lonely, bored and devoid of love and guidance in thier most critical growing teen years. So they hang out with their peers. Then one bad apple affects another, and another, and then bad things happen."

I'm holding myself back from being apalled by the kind of smart responses in the forums.
I'm rationally channelling my energies to a more worthwhile cause: asking, persuading, telling with a smile and 'please', armchair critics and forum watchers to walk their talk, to stand up and make a difference. I know that last piece sounded old, cliche, boring.
It's easy to begin a debate, especially after such a shocking video is out, to whether youths in S'pore are good or bad. First comes the comparisons. Then comes the call to denounce any judgement. Then comes the questions as to whether our schools, social workers, parents and assorted people are doing enough to help these people. Then there are voices as to whether we are exaggerating and overreacting to situations. They can come in that order, or in any order. But such debates always cover such topics.

I say do something. I urge you to do something about it. Something I never thought of doing to begin with, but I stumbled upon the journey, and I refuse to leave them, regardless.

Do what? Volunteer at your neighbourhood organisation, with a programme that deals with youths.
I've done that for at least three years running. My complaint is that people, or potential volunteers never like dealing with youths. The children are more adorable and energetic, most of all, they're cute with a capital 'C'. Working with old folks, the disabled, the less abled, the less fortunate yields you tangible results within a short time frame.

If you're still reading what I'm writing-typing and convinced by the fact that there's a big need for volunteers at organisations working with youths, then you must know that working with youths is intangible, for the rewards cannot be seen most of the time, and to see any results takes a long time coming.

There is no mistake that should we (the place where I volunteer at) have more volunteers, we would be able to better reach out to more troubled teens, and to do more meaningful work. How do I put this in a descriptive manner? if you start volunteer at a youth programme, there is no room for cussing these delinquents, for dissing them, for calling them ah bengs and ah lians. Reality is tougher; you have to befriend them, you have to try all means and ways to exert a positive influence on them, you have to listen to them even if they're spewing expletives and vulgarities that could make you blush. Educated, thinking people would have realised the causes and factors behind that results in such a troubled youth. Now you are the changing agent in their lives, if you're willing to try.

It might be a lot easier to sit behind the monitor screen, type out a few solutions you think Big Brother of our nation should enforce on our youths today. But 'easy' is over-rated. Feel your heart, and check with yourself whether you were young once, experienced teen angst (or you still think you're young, and am stubborn at any attempt to label some of your anger as teen woe). That will form your motivation to help these group of people (what my buddy would jokingly label them as 'delinquents, juveniles'); my motivation to befriend youths started from there.

If I've managed to surprise myself and convice you, a fellow blog reader, then I'd like to throw in such help.
Our Gar'ment has actually came up with a very help, self-match, search engine that lists the possible organisation that requires help. You can limit results to only organisations near your residence or work area, and even to particular days and time you are capable of forking out time for. It's done by the good men and women at National Council of Social Service; advance search.

If you're feeling talkative, and thinking of giving your two cents worth, drop me an email or leave comments. My youth club/programmes has a dearth of volunteers, or rather, political-correctly, is in great need of people who are willing to sacrifice their Saturdays (I hear imaginary gasps already). Give me some hope. Do something you want to do, besides collecting those mandatory community service hours (which my organisation would gladly give).

"i" Post.

2006-06-17T00:17:00.000+08:00

I keep telling myself how ironic it is that I'm reading Hesse's Siddhartha and using a very pretty (in my opinion) lady's photo as a bookmark.

I am as moody as any old cow in the plains of England/Great Britian at the moment.

I made a smart playlist in iTunes; three actually. The one with all my favourite female singers, I named 'Grrl Power!'. The one with my favourite bands/groups, I thought of 'Chopsticks.' as a decent name. The male singers, often neglected, is called 'Same Side.'
I need music, at least for the time being. Carole King's voice soothes me.

I feel as if the period of optimistic pessimisism has ended, and the era of pessimistic optimism has begun. By definition, I ought to be labelled an optimistic pessmist-optimist.

*

I had the opportunity to head down for an air weapons trials for my unit, and behold, I found two primary schoolmates there. I've never spoken to either when I was a young kid, and neither could I recognise them till much effort.
I declared to the 'people above' that I was in my secondary school team for air pistol, which is completely factful. Upon closer reflection, I realised I started late - training only begun three months after I was in secondary school - and I promptly left the air rifle club after a certain Mister Liang (who deserves the upmost respect) retired. Which couldn't be towards the end of my secondary two year, because by then, I was fiddling with micromouses in nerd club. So strictly speaking, I had at the very most, a year's training, with a lot of play time being part of it. I fondly remember the school giving each of us in the team who went for the competition ten dollars as allowance, which us boys decided to splurge on the latest pirated computer games.
So that's a short story(it could have been longer) for my totally pathetic score for the air pistol trial shoot on a good Thursday morning; any morning spent outside camp is a good morning to me. I do not wish to comtemplate what will happen if I actually get chosen for the air pistol team.

Besides realising the existence of two primary school mates, it was nostalgic being back in air weapon range. The last one I was at has already closed down; there was no air-con and you had to manually wind back and unwind to move your range card. I still remember playful cats being in the fire zone for that open-air range at Bendemeer Road.
I had a good wake-up call about how I've been "all-over-the-shop/all-over-the-place" lately, about how I was trying to be a Jack-of-all-Trades and ending up being a-Master-of-None.

I will have to return to my drawing board, I reckon. (Which really is my virtual desktop with virutal sticky notes.) I'm quite a freak when it comes to organising and planning.

Personal response to S'pore's Elusive Identity Quest

2006-06-12T11:14:00.000+08:00

About five years back or so, when Goh was still Prime Minister, he brought up the idea of two distinct groups of Singaporeans in the annual National Day rally; the comsopolitan and the heartlander. The tags (like 'stayers' and 'quitters') have stuck, and used frequently by the local media.

Back then, I was less street-smart/worldly-wise and I was enthralled by these new labels threw upon us, by the PM, no less. I quizzed my close friend in school which tag would he aspired to be - even before I asked him, I had already fell in love with the idea of myself being comsopolitan (without fully understanding its definitions) - and he immediately answered that he'll stay a true-blue heartlander.

Identity. I am unsure whether Edward's psyche is also the psyche of Singaporeans: if I were to strictly classify myself, I am likely to fall under the category of heartlanders aspiring to be comsopolitans. I've been criticised my close friends for being too CME (stands for Civis and Moral Education) and that I'll probably make an ideal CME teacher, but that's just part of the point. Reflecting, I'm probably carrying too much of the burden of following the ways of the Big Brother; I must be the obedient android in a Philip K. Dick fantasy world. I listen, obey - perhaps too much for my own good - to the state and its mouths. "We need more comsopolitans", he mentioned. "I'll strive to be one", I answered the call.

In striving to be a cosmopolitan, I've picked up an ugly habit of despising heartlanders (evidently seen in my distaste in having to make a trip to my neighbourhood shopping mall to run some errands), and more frightening, rejecting everything that has the heartlander tag. In doing so, in turn, I embrace everything that says 'I'm comsopolitan', both its charms and perils.
Recently (as in the past few years), I got aware that in rejecting everything heartland, I'm rejecting my own roots, and more frightening, my own identity. If I do not wish to have the heartlander tag on my sleeve, then who am I really - I'm quite a nobody if I'm not a heartlander, right? I grew up in the most heartland of all places in the country (they named a mall after that), went to the neighbourhood schools that were all within walking distances from where I lived, and I've never been to supposedly cosmopolitan cities like New York.

My nickname of being Mister CME guy. In seeking education in neighbourhood schools I was pretty comfortable with in the beginning, I was unsettled (largely by reports from the media and naysayings) by the thought of being left out of opportunities in learning - this means the world to me, and is still a bugbear with me even today - because I studied at a neighbourhood school, because I was labelled a simpleton -heartlander. I had my own frustrations and little revolts against such a system I rubbished as elitist and the bane of meritocracy. And then I realised I was a Rat striving to be part of the elitist group, and because I failed miserably to do so, it became a story of sour grapes.

This is the living contradiction in me, which has mellowed in me as I age and inch towards death. In the systems and goings of this air-conditioned nation (if I may be allowed to take that term from Cherian George, whom I respect his writings greatly), because it is such a well-run, tightly-run ship (of course, leaks and trapdoors are still present), I fear that I will forever be slaving away in the boiler room, chucking coal. When the ship is sinking, chances are I'll be among the first to drown and hold no hope in surviving (imagine Titanic). Because of the former, I'm equally heisitant, insecure about being able to make my way up the ladders because any deviation from the norm is generally unacceptable; slip up and second chances are hard to come. Of course, Big Brother does want us to believe that with meritocracy, anybody who works hard enough can leave the boiler room and even be part of the crew that keeps the ship running.

It is exactly because I wish to be part of the crew and captains that I am losing faith, fast, about the enormity of task I have at hand. I've always felt that Big Brother holds no good, decent answer to the question of what happens to people with less merit (meritocracy depends much on relativity, comparing); "We'll try out best to help them", says them. But when the flood waters arrive, they are still the ones to drown first. The management might get wet, but you should never discount the fact that they hold the key to the lifevests and escape boats should the ship really begin to sink.

I'm digressing, but discussions about identity in Singapore always seem to digress, at least in my view. I wish to write and comment, because I feel that this is my way of expressing and also, my own little tool in carving an identity for my homeland. Only recently I have begun to contemplate about the almost inevitable fact of having to leave this country to pursue my dreams and aspirations. I do not think the common excuse of this land 'being too small to do anything' is accurate enough in today's modern times. I would be exaggerating to say that my country has abandoned me because of my ideals; alienation and neglect would be more right in describing. Call me a naive heartlander, but I (still) have the confidence of being able to survive should I leave this island elsewhere. Call me dumb and silly, but I stake more pride in having failed trying to 'live, work and play' (to borrow the official term) in another city, then actually being a failure in my own country, the land of my birth.
This probably stems from years of propaganda and mistaken values teaching, but failing in Singapore, the country of your citizenship, is the much worse scenario in mind, as compared to freezing my arse off in some street in Europe or America. That line of thought is a direct, vicious result from having lost total faith and belief that our air-conditioned nation has the capability AND heart to take care of its own people; the people who were born here and did national service (this lack of regard for its bumiputras has probably got to do with the point about Singapore being a land of immigrants throughtout its history). Jack Neo, the "heartland director" once mentioned, (or included it in one of his films) that in Singapore, you're a first-class citizen, the first wife. Should you migrate and seek citizenship in another country, you'll always be a second, or even third wife. His point is entirely valid, but I've noticed a worrying trend in my country: you're valued more if you're a foreign talent, and the best is for a Singaporean to return to Singapore as foreign talent; meaning to say, an ex-Singaporean deciding to resettle back in his homeland, after years spent abroad. This might not be official policy and status (yet!), but I greatly suspect it to be an unofficial preference: ex-Singaporeans planning to return. This is a big point in my mental list of 'Why should I migrate and leave Singapore'.

In pursuing excellence, I feel that I'm encourging and propagating the idea of elitism. Therefore I have a tendency to be harsh and slam the elite of the society, and to resent them - the classic case of sour grapes, because I fail to get the fruits of labour. What will happen if I find myself being part of the elite one day? Would I change the system and reduce, abolish elitism and thus killing my own position and status, or will I never be part of the system, always the noisy outsider, the fox, the provocative maverick? This case is similar for the tags of heartlanders and cosmopolitans; I harbour guilt in leaving behind and rejecting my own description of a heartlander, but yet, I am unable to resist the pursuit of becoming a cosmopolitan.

Myself, being inwardly the Mister CME guy, still holds a glimmer of hope for the much promised and used terminology by Big Brother: 'strive for a win-win situation'.
(The day will arrive when I stand in front of the outdoor courtroom of Mother Nature (others like to call it the gates of Heaven with an angel), and when there is judgement.)

Coachella.

2006-06-01T20:37:00.000+08:00

I have an ambitious dream.
To organise a similar activity to that of the Coachella Valley Music Festival. The only local event I've been to that comes close (but excruciating far way) was Broadcast. I think I really need to attend a music festival that has Imogen Heap, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, James Blunt, Mogwai, The Magic Numbers and Franz Ferdinand.
But it won't be any time soon I reckon.

My latest obession these days is following the exchange rate for, specifically, the US dollar and the British pound.

Memes.

2006-05-30T20:19:00.000+08:00

Picked this up at serendipity!

List down 12 blogs that you visit regularly:

3 blogs because you love their writing
some fancy piece
dsng.net
the rather mad jac

3 blogs because they make you think/seek information
...thrills, spills & flatliners
mr wang bakes good karma
andrew sullivan: the daily dish

3 blogs because they make you laugh
quirks
there is method in it
pearls before swine - my other favourite comic strip. it's a zoo, i swear.

3 blogs because of their pictures
the artist and his model
bounce back to life - they make me laugh; that unmistakenly s'porean flavour.
vegan lunch box - because i'm such a sucker for kid food.

And tag 3 blogs
walking without rhymth
two faced
mambo rhapsody

Listening, eating.

2006-05-28T18:58:00.000+08:00

This post was made for the sole purpose of announcing that Jolie Holland has a new album, entitled Springtime Can Kill You.

I think she's going to be the next female singer I'll be going crazy about. Yesterday was back to Carole King's classics. The day before was Tina Arena. And once every weekend, I seem to have a craving for Imogen Heap's Speak for Yourself. A month ago or so, it was all about Dionne Warwick.
I'll be looking to Last.fm and Pandora for some more music guidance - Amazon peeps told me about this particular Jolie Holland.

*
On a side note, I've been terribly excited during weekend. Re-arranging my room, partly done. Books-chasing. Market research on wallets. Could be a side effect after spending (jail) time in the Island of Doom. Talking about side effect, does anyone know a good doctor who believes much in dreams and nightmares? Your folks, relatives, neighbours, friends, or any combination of any of the combination.
I've been seriously having nightmares and the strangest dreams lately. Could be an omen (six, six, two, zero, six), could be a sign, could be stress.

On an equally strange note, the people emailing and the people I've been in contact with on eBay have nicknames that are gotten from names of food, or make references to food. I was at the Food Fest/Fair this afternoon and it was a distinctively S'porean event, flavour, taste. One promoter remarked that the new drink product was BOTH tea and coffee (think: kiasu-ism). Another grown man had food particles all over his mouth, like what Roald Dahl would describe (think: famine, kiasee-ism). I've never seen so many people eating, talking, walking and eating at the same time, in the same arena. And as a fellow S'porean myself, I was tempted to plunge into the sales tagged on food in the exhibition hall. Somehow, I think they (the food fest organisers and participating companies) should do this on a weekly basis, along some big street in S'pore -perhaps in Chinatown, or anywhere in Marina South- and maybe, just maybe, it'll bring back the crowds of yestertimes (before we were labelled a first-world country). If only the taxi drivers will to validate and acknowledge such a possibility.

Chuck Palahniuk's Haunted for permanent exchange.

In a rush.

2006-05-23T21:12:00.000+08:00

I'm home, but only for a very short while. Undeniably in a rush.

Wanted to share this, which BooksActually sent to Leon, who kindly forwarded it to me. (Strangely, I'm not on BooksActually mailing list)

[copied-and-pasted-from-email]

Lovely people !
You shouldn't miss this.
Darlene Lin, a NY-based portrait photographer, is this month's Objectifs artist-in-residence. Come down to her solo exhibition-cum-installation at Basheer Books Gallery, for a taste of how she views people who live, work and play in
Singapore. Portraits were taken at BooksActually earlier in the month.
//
SINGAPORE PORTRAITS
(an exhibition by Darlene T. Lin)
Exhibition: May 24 - May 27
Thursday - Saturday / 10am - 8pm
Sun / 10am - 5pm
Basheer Graphic Books Gallery
Blk 231 Bain Street #04-19 Bras Basah Complex
Love,
the BooksActually kids
P.S: Extra love to those who came for the
photo-session.
--
BooksActually

// 125A Telok Ayer Street Singapore 068594
// +65 6221 1170

Guess I'll be at Basheer's come this Friday-or-Saturday.
*

On a side note, eBay is seriously competitive.
And I'm trying to decide (with bids closing in six hours' time) whether to get Pynchon's Vineland in hardcover, Kafka's America in softcover, BOTH, or NONE at all. I need some guidance.

China, India and me.

2006-05-21T20:07:00.001+08:00

Random musing: I think I finally realised why I was hesitant to join the Dance Team when I was in JC. I must have a slight phobia towards being in funny costumes.
*
I've re-discovered the world of eBay. The last time I bidded for anything, all Edward got was a pseudo (read: fake) Adidas backpack which I was so embarassed about. I'm hoping this time round I do not get manufactured in China goods that break right after I take them out of the packaging, or books that are in worser conditions that some of the ones I've seen at Knowledge.

I've also managed to surprise myself by picking up my pretty blue ballpoint pen and actually writing fiction in my writing pad, bought from the humble Popular store at my neighbourhood mall. I do not know what pushed me; it could have been the booze, the coffee/tea/caffine, or it could be Indran himself. Not that he personally encouraged or instigated me in anyway to start writing.

I've begun on making concrete plans in my first step towards world domination. Of course, world domination requires a hefty sum of money which I could actually digress, divert and decide to save the people and poverty in Africa. (Or I could leave it to a small group of people whoose names have the coincidence of beginnning with the alphabet 'B'.)
What I never thought I could think of, but I happened: I was considering taking credit from a certain bank or random individuals whose numbers happen to be in cell phone, so as to make an 'investment'(in the strictest sense of that word). A loan, especially from the banks (loansharks included), is potentially life-threatening, and I could really find myself in the same situation as a prominent Doctor (in psychology) who likes wearing gigantic spectacles.

Because memories are only left of these.

2006-05-19T00:16:00.000+08:00

I realised I owned myself and the people who were part of my growing years a big something because I held on to these photos selfishly.
(click to read my curt commentary)

I can't bear to start on the photos of the new era.
I decided to do all this because we're supposedly gathering this Sunday.
But I've grown so (so) certain that they'll be people who will be missing from the meeting.
Staring, flipping through the assorted photos taken at such times, I couldn't help shed imaginary tears.

My visual stimulations.

2006-05-14T18:04:00.000+08:00

Ever since I discovered the world of Borders and Kinokuniya, I've abandoned libraries for good. The one in my neighbourhood, built in a mall no less (one of my fears include getting my way around that mall; my ill-fated luck to have this mall as the one nearest to my home) - I see it as a disrespect to books - has always given me a very bad impression. Lousy selection of available books.
Until lately, I've had to undergo disgust and humiliation to visit my neighbourhood library. Because I have decided to be professional even to manage my finance and make sure my cash flow do not suffer any leakages, I've had to sacrifice my weekly trips to the second-hand bookstore at Bras Brasah, Knowledge. (I humbly believe the owners welcome me and are pleased with my frequent purchases at their place; they give me discounts, however little, almost all the time.)

So I was hunting for a book to keep me accompany for the week. I hate to have a book that I suffer to read on, so I racked my brains out trying to find the one. Angela Carter would be a fantastic loan, but unfortunately, the horrible NEIGHBOURHOOD library does not have any Carter's manificent books. I found the Endo novel I had wanted to read, in brand-new, totally pristine condition - I wished they had wrapped it up. I found Rushdie's Fury; intriguing plotline, his works never bore me, but I was heisitant because it was only available in hardcover. Gees. I settled on James Joyce's Dubliners, but it was a close match with John Banville's The Sea.
I've got to give credit when it's due: they actually have certain decent books that I would have loved to read, but I dropped it due to the length (about three hundred pages or above). I gasped in surprise when I saw Kerouac's On The Road, the classic version, which was in total disrespect, placed in the wrong bookshelf - I came across it when I was looking for Milan Kundera's novels - why is "KER" placed in the same shelf as "KUN"? I also managed to find Ken Kesey's One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, Zoe Heller, Zadie Smith and even Timothy Findley - Pearle had recommended this Canadian writer, but I didn't get it since they only had his last novel, none of his short stories.
I save my biggest laugh for last. I decided that Virginia Woolf's writings might do me so good and went down the aisle. I hardly go after 'R' or 'S' because I do not know much authors with a last name after that. Hear, hear. I couldn't get to Virginia Woolf's works because a bunch of half grown men decided that nobody would want to read English Fiction writers with a last name of 'W','X', 'Y', or 'Z', and that it was a very comfortable place to read their Chinese, swordswashing graphic novels. I have no knife to grind with these people, so I decided to leave them alone - I couldn't see any Woolf's works from afar, and I was wearing my glasses.

I also learnt that there's a Kimerbly Kafka, who's a relative of Franz Kafka. On my walk home, I thought no matter how much I adore Murakami works, I wouldn't be able to find a style that's like his - maybe on the pictures and the big screens. Kundera, perhaps. But with Kafka, I found out that even before I knew who was he and started reading about him and his writings, I had already bore resemblance to his style of writing.
Whenever I wrote back in school, known as compositions (which was later known as 'essays' as well as I entered upper secondary), my teacher would make remarks on the side with the leaky red pen about how my sentences were too long, that she couldn't understand my expression and what/where I'm trying to get to with my long sentences, and the lowdown about how important paragraphing is. I was happy to have discovered the semi-colon (ranks above finding out how commas work) and there was a while I almost abused it with how many semi-colons I used. Right now, I think I'm in the brackets/parenthesis phase, where I'm still squishing and squeezing everything between two periods.
So just imagine how much pride, joy and happiness I had when I found out Franz Kafka, a recognised writer in literature, could write for lines and lines for just ONE sentence. I must have let out a squeal when I counted the average number of pages just ONE paragraph can go up to is about three pages long. I shall attempt to carry on this legacy, despite head-shaking (with comments like "Edward! You cannot do this! It's too long." and leaky red pen ink marks on my essays and writings.

*

Edward never buys magazines, save for his subscription to TIME and National Geographic. I bought one of the dated Hong Kong magazines today at a newstand, because I couldn't resist the fact that the issue was featuring all stuff British. Having flipped through the MILK mag when my bunkmate bought one issue, I simply loved the amount of photos on all things fashion. And besides, it cost three bucks, which according to the newstand uncle who asked me to "Go look at all those English newspapers and magazines!", is relatively cheap.
I have this feeling that this piece of magazine, is not just all eye-candy. It might just prove to be one of the two salvations in my life that will deter, prevent, and perhaps even improve (unimaginable, yes!) the detoriation of my command of the Chinese language (or Mandrain). The other remains to be the ever-reducing percentage of Chinese music and singers I listen to. Which -by conincidence or a deliberate act of Mother Nature- I've noticed, that the handful of Chinese singers whose songs I respect and enjoy have gone out of business/"retired", broke up (referring to groups) and just decided to stop singing. They, naturally, do not belong to the mainstream Chinese poop (oops. I meant 'pop') music out in the scene right now. Drop me an email, and I'll be happy to explain and enlighten you about the music and characters behind the Chinese music that I listen to.

Crafting.

2006-05-14T13:48:00.002+08:00

What exactly I've been busy with, besides the music, for the past few days.

Crafting. 'nuff said.

Hit Me Baby One More Time

2006-05-07T21:18:00.000+08:00

Breaking news: James Gomez has been arrested on Sunday for "allegedly threatening the country's election officials" - "Singapore opposition politician arrested for allegedly threatening election officials"

Now, now. If I ever get arrested (and this blog ceases to update), it might just be for blogging about the elections and local politics.

Hear, hear:

Singapore says no climate of fear in city-state
Reuters
Singapore, May 27, 2005

Singapore's home affairs minister Wong Kan Seng said in a newspaper interview that citizens in the city-state have spoken up at public forums without reprisals and commentaries critical of government policies have also appeared in newspapers.

"What is the consequence of saying something that is challenged? Is the consequence being locked up in jail, disappearing in the middle of the night and you don't come back?" Wong was quoted as saying in Singapore's Straits Times.

The Speculative, purely

2006-05-06T20:18:00.000+08:00

I do enjoy a wild game of prediction and guess. Here's my throw of the dice:

Aljunied GRC will go to Workers' Party, with the slimest margin that could make George Bush smile (and Al Gore cringe). I do predict fiasco over vote-counting in this, and that its results will be released as one of the latest - keeping everybody waiting on this hotly contested GRC.
Ang Mo Kio GRC shouldn't keep anyone waiting - Workers Party candidates get back their deposit just, by clinching just past the required 20% mark.
East Coast GRC will be WP's heaviest defeat, taking less than 20%. Low will put it as a good lesson learnt.
Jalan Besar GRC, no surprise either. SDA should garner slightly less than 40%.
Pasir Ris-Punggol GRC will be another heavy defeat for SDA, with about only 35% of the votes.
Sembawang GRC will spring a small surprise, with the SDP going strong at close to 40% of the votes. Cheers and further motivation for SDP and Dr Chee.
Tampines GRC. (My hardest question so far.) SDA candidates should be able to get back their deposits safely, with 35% of the votes.

Now, for the SMCs.
PAP's Teo will crush SDP's Ling soundly in Bukit Panjang, with a possibility of the latter getting less than 25% of the votes.
I forsee the closest fight in Choa Chu Kang, a winning margin of 500 votes or less.
WP's Low takes back Hougang quite convincingly compared to the last elections, winning 60% of the votes.
Joo Chiat, MacPherson, Nee Soon Central and Nee Soon East are all PAP victories, add or minus 5% of the national average. (I'm pretty unfamilar with all these SMCs.)
Potong Pasir will be among the first results to be released, with a defeat for incumbent Chiam. He will be offered NCMP for being the "best loser". He contemplates retiring from politics. The truimph of PAP's Seetoh is not a pretty sight.
Yio Chu Kang goes to PAP's Seng, but with SDA's Yip clinching close to 40% of the votes.

Scoreline stands at six seats for the opposition (all WP's), or seven if Steve Chia wins, with the rest all going back to PAP. Sylvia declares it as one small step for the opposition, one big step for democracy in Singapore.
*

Ten o'clock, guys. I'll be keeping watch.

Poison Apple

2006-05-04T20:48:00.000+08:00

I'm in such a foul mood right now - the wrong mixture of emotions: bitterness, disappointment, the deafeaning lack of justice (or the cruelty of injustice), and leftover bits of pure anger.

I've been trying to keep my temper down by mentally imagining Blake's A Poison Tree and picturing all the hatred and evilness in me being contained in this poison apple. I hope it holds out. I need a break, again. After this Friday.

In case anyone's been curious on what I've been fixated on for the week since last weekend, it's been:

avidly and closely following the party rallies and election coverage (both newspapers and blogs) and speculating outcomes with myself,
reading and loving every sentence of Carter's The Magic Toyshop.

I so hardly do short blog posts.

The long weekend ended.

2006-04-17T20:25:00.000+08:00

My parents are almost always watching Chinese martial arts drama serials (or what I call them, ancient drama serials), so I gather they must appreciate and prefer them quite a fair bit. I can't exactly stand them (despite Hong Kong, China and Taiwan's broadcasters trying their best to incoporate the latest Computer Generated Graphics (CGI) and their version of re-telling some of the oldest stories in Chinese history). Then I realised I've got at least five counts of black and white movies about the medieval times to pre-war periods of Japan.
Naturally I ought to feel embarassed about such blasphemy to my own race (Chinese ARE different from the Japanese, let the older generation of Chinese in China explain that to you), but then I can always swipe it off the table top like swiping off water droplets; by confusing the other party by mentioning I'm not entirely Chinese but more of Straits-born, because my mother is Peranakan and my maternal grandmother came from Borneo. And that Singapore looks too much to the West, so I'm doing my fair bit to retain my Asian values and appreciation for everything Asian.

I've been dazzled by Hopper's Nighthawks for a very time, and boy I was pleasantly surprised while watching an episode from That 70s Show, season one, they had a little 'tribute'/portrayal of it. The website doesn't do enough justice to such a fantastic piece of work. Not to say I'll put up a replica of it up my wall proudly if I can ever get my hands on one.

So I've been playing all the while this long weekend:

Shopping with Jason and Wei Chern. 'nuff said.
Books at Books Sale, Singapore Expo. Absolutely madness. Followed by that 'The Branded Sale', selling branded clothes at cheap prizes. How could I, a Singaporean resist?
I was just so in-explainably happy, cloud nine, when we made our way to Changi Airport. I just adore that place, away from the crazy crowds of town, and being among all these people from all the globe. Next up: hunting for that renovated Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf outlet, and then taking photos/staring at planes taking off.
I caught Singapore Gaga and Tan Pin Pin found an admirer of her works in me, promptly after I finished listening to mrbrown's (old) podcast which featured her and Magaret Leng Tan. So many unsung heroes, all in the forty minute documentary.
OpenStage at Timbre. My first time there, and I really enjoyed myself. I hope they sprue up the flea. Some amazing photos here, but I was more for there for band Lunarin. Looking forward to May 20th, when the next OpenStage will happen.
Catching up with Amy and Gwen.
Church-going on Easter, the same one, one year on. I'm quietly pleased with myself.
Finding myself in a LAN shop full of kids and computer for the third time. Had a blast with Chris, since it was his treat.
My much delayed roll of film has finally been developed. But owning to slow scanning from the film scanner - I need to save money mah! That's why I only paid for the films - I only have a few half decent photos to show. (That reminds that my flickr needs some major re-organising.)

Stream of consciousness

2006-04-16T23:20:00.000+08:00

I wish there was a form of expression that could constantly keep up with my mind and thoughts. When I start typing, I get too conscious of the format, the line breaks and the effects. When I write, my hand gets tired because I haven't been writing at long stretches, and I end up writing too much nonsense. Something that would wires up to my brain, and transmit everything I'm thinking through down on paper or screen (saved in a file).

I've just realised that this long weekend I've having has been relentlessly filled up, at least until now.

My hands doing the typing just can't keep up with the barrage of information that's ongoing in my head right now, and when I recall, everything slows down and ceases. How the heck am I going to be sharing if I can't even remember what I've set out to talk about in the first time? This can be quite infuriating.

I like to think that my life gets 'shuffled' once in a once; that's why I re-arrange certain things in my life, based on current whim and favour. Like how I was thinking of organising my Flickr photos once again into (once again) renamed sets. About how keen I'm about seeing my second roll of film taken by my shiny ActionSampler lomo. Which I've brought almost everywhere to, but I always fail to acquire an opportunity for its lenses to come into play.

(I lost my train of thoughts again.)

(I manage to catch up with this train.)

I was in church for this morning's session, and then mysteriously, the Cranberries' Linger came into my mind and couldn't help singing it in my heart. Maybe it was yesterday's performance of Lunarin that brought back the sounds and music of Cranberries back into my mind. That song will never fail to bring back images of various memories; of two Cranberries' fans (who introduced me to their music) who went to their concert in S'pore, where one declared her favourite song to be this, and of holding on to someone invariably despite being infinitely impatient. 'Linger' is such a powerful word with strong evocation of emotions and images, like 'provocation'.

It's time for some writing, and some personal sharing, methinks.

Further political ramblings

2006-04-10T20:01:00.000+08:00

I couldn't help but tweak my mind into motion after ST did such an extensive coverage of the prospective candidates in the various GRCs in the upcoming elections, not to mention the soundbites.
An certain Mister Au of Yawning Bread fame, has got me standing and applauding for his many insights into local issues, be it on homosexuality or the upcoming elections. Then you have Mister Seah of Littlespeck. Not to mention the little tidbits all over from the local bloggers like Mister Wang and Zuco's.
(I feel inferior no matter how I start writing/typing because of all these fantastically well-done articles by the above-mentioned.)

To start things off, we always need do a little people-bashing. I have one particular in mind, and to the good of Sembawang GRC, he's stepping down; which I'm particularly sure it's due to his ineptness rather than "giving way to new talent".
But that means my previously speculated point about Sembawang GRC being a weak GRC no longer holds. Mister Khaw shouldn't be running into any major difficulties, given his track record. Neither does the opposition have a strong hold/support in the area, so there wouldn't be much a fight.

Senior Minister Goh has again come up with a very tricky, slippery even I might add, plan to obtain concrete votes in Hougang:

They raised a very interesting point. They said, supposing this place supports Eric Low, not just 50 percent but strongly - 60 percent and above - and the constituency is not won back by the PAP, why should they be punished? I think it's a fair question. If they give support - by strong support I mean 65 percent and above - I think they deserve to be considered for some funds under the CPIPC - the ministry of National Development's improvement fund. So I told them, if we get strong support over here, we 'll look into meeting some of their needs.

I must have very strong reactions to this piece of remark made by SM Goh. To start off, it's infuriating to suggest that only strong support for the PAP (not WP or any opposition party) will yield you and your constituent the right to apply, or in his words, "to be considered" for CPIPC. I stop short to say this is blasphemy. Because the funds come from the nation's taxpayers. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that a smart opposition candidate can fully utilise this particular point to upset public sentiment and making sure it translates to actual votes.
Tricky because, should SM Goh convince the people of Realty Park estate (note: a residential estate in Hougang) and of the polling district (recap: a handful of polling district make up a constituent), this definitely can turn the results and allow PAP to win back the Hougang ward. It works particularly well in small wards like Hougang and Potong Pasir because the margin between victory and defeat is extremely slim; if I didn't recall wrongly, Mister Chiam won by less than a thousand votes in the last GE. Take this further and it'll remind you of Al Gore's electoral defeat in the 2000 Presidential Race - he won Bush on votes, but lost out due to the electoral votes. By further dissecting Hougang ward into polling districts, securing a huge majority (in his words, 65 percent and above) can mean, mathematically, giving Mister Eric Low a slim edge in the overall/total, and therefore piping Mister Low Thia Kiang to the position of MP in Hougang. It wouldn't take a political scientist to be conscious of the 'unfair!' complaint in such a scenario, because Mister Low Thia Kiang, enjoying majority support in almost all the polling districts of Hougang, loses just by a little, because you know have a "rouge district" who voted overwhelmingly in support of PAP (who might be 'drunk' under possible rewards of voting for them).

I do have tendency to blab about Hougang ward since I dare say I know the ground as well as the two Mister Lows, having lived here all my life, and having a Dad who has lived almost all his life in Hougang as well. So the Cheng San GRC fiasco (Mister Lee Yock Suan is stepping down! What a surprise.) and the battle for Aljunied GRC is no surprise to me, having see the 'Holy Trinity' of MM Lee, SM Goh and PM Lee descent upon my humble neighbourhood in the last elections.
SM Goh is truthful saying that it's tougher for Mister Eric Low in Hougang, because sentiment in favour and public support for PAP is not exactly high; I can't speak in comparison to Potong Pasir since I'm not exactly familiar with the ground there. Mister Low Thia Kiang is not exactly your ideal interviewee for the media, as one can see, he hardly finds himself on the pages of ST or any other form of media - party Chairman Miss Sylvia Lim has been more of the public face for WP. But he's exceptionally good at treading the ground (I've seen him around quite a number of times, low-key and quiet, without fanfare.) and communicating with the public. I laughed when I read his remark about where else in S'pore can you have free breakfast and shark's fin every now and then.

Somehow I feel what's been lacking in reports about the upcoming elections is the changing demographics - the voters themselves. S'poreans (of voting elegibilty) are a strange bunch who say one and vote another. I can't recall where I picked the article up (perhaps Yawning Bread?) about how the habit of "voting is secret" came in play and has been quite misinterpreted. The statement "voting is secret" is mentioned a million times once GE is announced, because quite some time back in our history, the opposition slammed the practice of handling in your IC number before you were allowed to vote, and the serials in the vote papers pointed to this theory whereby the government knows exactly who you voted for - something my Dad still swears by today. The statement was introduced to inform the public about their vote being secret, but it's now become an excuse used by S'poreans, and an excellent example of the fear of the political in Singapore.
I personally find it disturbing, because there's no real way to determine sentiment on the ground (unlike in the States, where people proudly proclaim on car stickers and doors whether they're Republican or Democrat). It was disappointing to me when I realised how exit polls are prohibited in S'pore as well. May I humbly suggest that exit polls be allowed so at least there could be a little bit of speculation (healthy ones, not those of Taiwanese-proportion) could go on - another step to curbing political apathy in S'pore and reducing the culture of fear.

Reading Yawning Bread's articles has brought up a healthy (in my opinion), alternative viewpoint to the government-mouthpiece ST that makes intellectual sense, and not simply PAP-bashing articles you get on some pro-opposition websites/blogs. (I simply cannot stand coffeeshop talk of the lowest denominations, where any word that ends with "ly" is replaced with "lee", so words like "family" is spelt as "famiLEE" - it is just downright immature.)
Personally, I've always been very excited about how the homosexual community will cast their votes (should they be able/get to), keeping in mind the recent shutdown of the Feelin' Good part at Ministry of Sound. Not to mention the many clumsy statements (read as well) made by the government to show that they're not homophobic; I've been cringing at some of the answers the new PAP candidates gave when asked about homosexuality and related.
However, presuming that this community is the minority-minority (as perceived by the government and officials), their votes should not heavily sway results. It is with this question that I'm keen to analyse results after GE, while keeping in mind that there seems to be no particular area, polling district, constituent that have an unusual majority of the gay community residing in.

And I haven't even gotten to how elitism and Hougang links up, and the rumour about George Soros shaking things up if he pays up for JB Jeyaretnam's bankruptcy.

Stuff my nightmares are made of.

2006-04-08T09:30:00.000+08:00

I think I must have been quite under the bugger called stress lately.
I had already woken myself up with my alarm set at eight, then unknowningly went back to sleep (okay, this happens to everybody). And then I had a horrific nightmare, which I was saved from by an irritating phone call.

My old nightmares were never really like that. Perhaps it suggests I need to better manage my time.

In the dream: I was in a 'suburban shopping centre' - think Parkway and White Sands - and trying to find this particular place within (let's call it 'CoffeeTalk'), because Mum was to be found there and I was supposed to meet up with her. I take a very long time in the dream to even make it to the correct (it was at the ground floor, and I started at the fourth) floor, and the obstacles faced in between is like a modern reminscent of a Kafka novel. The phrase 'kan cheong' exactly describes my feelings during the whole ordeal (which I cannot find any better word), and this comes in increasing waves of such kan cheong-ness, which explains why it became a nightmare.
This epitomes my inner self at times: the fear of not being able to find a particular place/person. This is no mere expectation-ambition, rubber-band snapping theory/cause-effect, but contains the deeper underlying of disappointment-mixed-with-futility because I know almost exactly what I'm looking for. Double that with the omnipresent presence of Time in my case, and I'm almost on my way to hysteria.
It is quite a switch that this morning's nightmare is not longer fixed on people but on places; my older similar nightmares were intent on presenting me with the scenario of searching for this particular person (usually ficticious and only residing in my subconscious), being chased/pursued by people, or both. My latter part of my nightmare involved getting to this particular place outside the shopping mall - a park - while being fully conscious of Time running out and being afraid of consquences should I be late. As if this scenario doesn't horrify me enough already, the nightmare has thrown in another surprise concurrently: as I'm walking and searching for the place, I receive like ten messages on my mobile, reminded of the fact that I'm absent from an important birthday event of someone's. I struggle to reply back to any one of the messages, because my mind is already bombarded with too many thoughts and woes.

The last part of the last sentence could describe what I've been going through recently. And I squarely put the blame on reading Kundera's The Book of Laughter and Forgetting (I finished it last night).

Movies and Tickets.

2006-04-04T20:28:00.000+08:00

Shows I've shortlisted to watch at the 19th Singapore International Film Festival:

12 Thursday, Kiss Me Not On The Eyes
Lido 1, 9.15pm
15 Saturday, Avetik
Prince 2, 11am
15 Saturday, Glamourous Life Of Sachiko Hanai (R21)
Prince 2, 7pm
18 Tuesday, Cosplayer/Question (R21)
Alliance Francaise, 7pm
18 Tuesday, Perpetual Motion
Prince 2, 9.15pm
20 Thursday, Innocent (R21)
Alliance Francaise, 9.15pm
21 Friday, New Malaysian Shorts
Alliance Francaise, 7pm
21 Friday, 8.1/All Souls
Alliance Francaise, 9.15pm
22 Saturday, A Ballad For My Son
Alliance Francaise, 11am
22 Saturday, Blue Cha Cha
Prince 2, 2pm
22 Saturday, KAFA Animations
Alliance Francaise, 2pm
22 Saturday, It's Only Talk
Prince 2, 4.15pm
23 Sunday, Love Story
Prince 2, 2pm
24 Monday, Art of Flirting
National Museum, 7pm
25 Tuesday, Taking Father Home
Alliance Francaise, 7pm
26 Wednesday, Boutique
Lido 3, 9.15pm
26 Wednesday, Out Of Place
National Museuem, 9.15pm
27 Thursday, Last Communist
Alliance Francaise, 9.15pm
29 Saturday, Noriko's Dinner Table
Prince 2, 4.15pm
29 Saturday, So Much Rice
Alliance Francaise, 4.15pm
29 Saturday, 4:30
Lido 1, 7pm

It's crazy to suggest that I'll be able to make it for any of the weekdays' shows (barring Friday evening), never mind about some movies with showtimes that clash. With the remaining eight shows should I decide to go ahead and order the tickets, it will cost me close to a hundred bucks. Which is theoretically ideal payment for the hundred dollars my employers would have generously given to come First May.
But alas, man cannot live on movies alone.

That would mean I'll need to find some kind of compromise. My supposedly side job, illegal not to mention, would include virtual cleaning & resources management. My kind Dad has suggested that I help fellow users of the computers to do simple cleaning up for them, at an affordable fee of fifteen bucks everytime. I immediately calculated that should I be able to raise fees to twenty dollars for every session of "Erradicate LAG, SPAM and SPYWARE from your computer now!", I should be able to earn back roughly the amount I spent on eleven tees at the last Threadless sale. This is definitely food for munching. However, I also remembered how I failed miserably at attempting to charge anybody a fee for fixing/repairing/finding porn on people's computer because (1) they were friends, (2) they were my mother's/friend's friends, (3) they were too nice to me, (4) I found porn on their computer, or all of the above.

A donation to my PayPal account would be very much appreciated. Then I'll be able to spend more on online shopping. And complain about how dire my financial status is. See how vicious the cycle is.

Oh yes. Poetry du blang. This saturday.

Stereotypes, rolling!

2006-04-03T20:55:00.000+08:00

Something that derived from my conversation on MSN with ~~Shu~~ HeWhoShallNotBeNamed, after I mentioned that I was antisocial and rebutted me with the fact that I was at a party last weekend. What follows is some genius work bent on having fun with stereotypes. (But they're all completely factful. Yes. The truth, nothing but the truth.)

Category/Pahti || Party.
Atmosphere: Smoke-filled. Vulgarities/expletives/sex topics are part and parcel. It's okay. ||
Family-friendly table. Cards and mahjong are encouraged/tolerated. The television must be switched on and blaringly loud - Da Chang Jin is showing. The only smoke I could smell was from the candles below the buffet layouts. Or from the occupants in the next house. Nor could I find ashtrays or ciggie butts.
Drinks: Alcohol, the norm. ||
Fruit punch. Coke (lime flavoured). 100-Plus. Champagne. In that order. And the champagne was proudly alcohol-free, so that the excuse "(1)allergy, (2) never drink before, (3) got curfew/restriction" does not have to be used.)
People: "Artsy/Media/Music type people" ||
Science-faculty students/ex-students dominates. I'm one of the two people from the Arts side.
Timing: The intoxication/fun begins at eleven. ||
It's eleven. They need to leave because (1) "I have work tomorrow", (2) "I want to avoid the midnight taxi surcharge", (3) "Leave together, lorr!" and (4) "Got curfew."
Place/Venue: Some at-least-half-decent place like Cafe Cosmo. ||
Aloha Loyang. "Downtown East."
Purpose: iPod deejaying. ||
Just plain awkward playing-catching-up. "Since everyone knows everyone, it's hardly socialising. It's reminscing." - Wasn't true for me, but they were pretty accepting of me.

Ignore all possible references to possible pahtis or parties. They're coincidental. Really.

Walking and Dad.

2006-04-03T20:04:00.000+08:00

The only reason why I haven't been blogging much is that my mind has been behaving like an anti-social freak lately. And of course, he likes to blame the fact that he doesn't own a laser-engraved iBook (or any slim, sleek-looking notebook), and therefore, is unable to blog outside, in cafes, shopping centres or trains.

With the forced leave I have to take today and tomorrow, I thought I had better left my time pursing something I ought to be doing. Which explains my field day at walking around with my favourite white-green metallic spectacles. Where I treaded on foot in places like Fuji-Xero Building and International Plaza at Anson Road, The Adelphi (which resembled like a brighter, cleaner Serangoon Shopping Centre, or Far East without the people -oldmake shopping malls in other words), Penisular, Shaw Towers and Arab Street-Beach Road. I must really enjoy walking around that much; but I'm still disappointed I couldn't my much sought-after Commes des Garcons Guerilla Store at Haji Lane.

So I'm in the slight-excitement-process of repairing/servicing my Dad's old school Nikon F301 SLR camera. I realised photographers/people-who-enjoy-photography are always excited by the cameras, and they are pretty welcoming.
In between/during the hunt for servicing, I must have got to know more snapshots of my Dad's life. That F301 is older than me to begin with. My dad was no pushover in the fine art of photography since he rubbed shoulders with KF Seetoh - back when he was a photographer with the ST, now known as the Makansutra guy - this I had known earlier. What I didn't know was that he received a consolation prize in some Minota-organsied competition for taking this bespectacled lady at Batu Caves. No joke. That woman's my mother. And I'm pretty sure there's more than meets the eye when he revealed to me that he was involved in photo taking at a motocross event. Incredible. Considering how messy motorcross can get (you). And I was surprised that he was an avid bowler (of bowling balls and pins) in his younger days.
I think my Dad likes to drop these little hints and signals, and it happens quite frequently whenever he drives me back to camp. At least I can partly blame my Dad for my fascination with certain-things-Japanese.

Of political speculation

2006-04-01T15:51:00.000+08:00

(Delayed post, yes. I've been procastinating all things.)

Was waiting for lunch, leafing through today's ST, realised a pattern/trend/similarity among certain positions and promotions, and so I decided to play the fun game of speculation:

(Because I used shorthand, I laughed when I wrote MOS in short for 'Minister of State'. S'pore's a very happening place. Our leaders go Zouk once in a while, and our sportsmen and women drop by Ministry of Sound as well.)

I did a simple listing of the posts held by the thirteen ministers (out of nineteen) in Cabinet; I excluded the big guns: PM Lee, MM Lee, SM Goh, S. Jayakumar and Teo Chee Hean. I haven't been able to neatly categorise my wild speculations.

Raymond Lim, at fortysix, currently holding Minister in PM's Office and second Minister for Finance and Foreign Affairs (that's quite a handful of hats-wearing). He does have a similar background (studying by old postions and promotions) to Lee Boon Yang, for they once held Minister in PM's Office and was Minister of State for Trade & Industry. There might just be a possibility that Raymond Lim will take over Lee Boon Yang as Minister for Information, Communications & Arts (should the office still stand), or I suspect he would be promoted to Minister for Foreign Affairs (George Yeo flying to higher posts). I do doubt he'll take over PM Lee as Minster for Finance, so he would probably continue to hold his current hat of second Minster for Finance.

Lim Swee Say, at fiftyone, might just take over Lim Boon Heng's role as Secretary General at NTUC (presuming the latter has another post to claim). If you fancy him to be a reasonable force to reckon with, I'll say he might just be promoted to Minister for Communications and IT (or a similar office), because we shouldn't forget he was Minister for State in Communications and IT - this might overlap with Lee Boon Yang's current position as Minister for Information, Communications & Arts (I know, this can get quite confusing).

Khaw Boon Wan, fiftythree, for all his work and effort handling the SARS crisis and the NKF saga, will now head Sembawang GRC (I've always seen this as a weak PAP GRC, with ex-DPM Tony Tan's retirement and no strong anchor minister, but this changes things, not to mention there's a dearth of opposition activity there). I have a gut feeling that he'll take over Wong Kan Seng as Minister for Home Affairs (since the latter is now DPM). I reckon he'll be one of the big three to look out for, together with Tharman and George Yeo.

Mah Bow Tan and Yeo Cheow Tong, both standing at fiftyseven and fiftyeight respectively, could also ben potential Minister for Home Affairs, with their experience in the domestic scene. I'm not so certain about Mah, but I predict a reshuffling that could at least see Yeo taking over as Minister for National Development (post held by Mah currently).

I haven't been able to do much in-depth read up on the new candidates the PAP has showcased, but there are a few faces that are obviously high-fliers, and we'll be seeing them as Ministers for State very soon (give them a year to three).

[I was too lazy to mix it in with speculations from "General Elections: Reloaded" by Thrasymachus]

2006-03-26T18:47:00.000+08:00

Right now, there's a sizeable amount of fear. Fear derived from hearing the supposedly schedule at work. Fear and impatience don't mix well. At least for me.

An update on various matters, not in order of importance:

I haven't been able to find time to watch Singapore Gaga. Even with the extra screenings at the Arts House.
Wishfully hoping that I'll be able to find company (preferably in the same age bracket as me) to catch Toto at Fort Canning without asking anyone in particular. Plus the part about seventy five dollars being grown on trees, and that I would be able to take off/leave from work on concert day and after.
Read point above, but in reference to S'pore International Film Fest.
Some authority needs to issue a long-term ban on me from purchasing any more books. I've begun to stop myself from frequenting Borders (25% discount this weekend!) and Kinokuniya, but I haven't been stopping myself from buying yet-more secondhand books (at unbelievably cheap prices!) at Knowledge. Someone please suggest a viable solution.
I visited Books Actually twice in the span of three days. (Refer to point above)
Work almost tortured me from missing out on my beloved 48-hours Threadless sale.
One quote that has got me going/moving/living/thinking: "Nothing in life is worse than being ordinary." Pearle told me it was the words of Angela Carter (so outstandingly-typical of her), but a search on Google revealed that Angela from American Beauty had used it as well. Identity and the life pursuit.
More storage space from IKEA, please.
I started laying foundation works for my ~~career~~ life. ('Career' is such a humogous word to me.) I'm not caught in any huge dilemma, thank God, at least not yet.
Missed writing my own emo poems.

The iTunes Oracle

2006-03-19T01:35:00.000+08:00

So I thought this was pretty good fun.

Go to your music player of choice and put it on shuffle. Say the following questions aloud, and press play. Use the song title as the answer to the question. NO CHEATING.

How does the world see you?
Hi-Heel Sneakers. (by Jose Feliciano)

Will I have a happy life?
All That She Wants. (Ace of Base) Well. Sounds good enough.

What do my friends really think of me?
Freedom (David Gray)

Do people secretly lust after me?:
Damn. (Matchbox Twenty) That's quite a curt answer.

How can I make myself happy?
Quizas, Quizas, Quizas. (Nat King Cole) Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps? That is so emo.

What should I do with my life?
Light My Fire. (Jose Feliciano) Haha. I like what it says.

Will I ever have children?
Wonderful Land. (The Shadows) This is an instrumental answer to a much probed about question.

What is some good advice for me?
Two-Headed Boy, Part II. (Neutral Milk Hotel). Fine.

How will I be remembered?
I'll Be There. (Jackson 5) Wow. Very inspirational, very sweet and humble too. Haunting?

What is my signature dancing song?
Words. (Boyzone!) Gees. You can't dance with this slow number. But I can't remember the last time I was dancing.

What do I think my current theme song is?
I Am Rock. (Simon and Garfunkel) Haven't I mentioned how much I adore this song? It lifts my spirits! I am a rock. I am an island. Haha. And this part that goes:
I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
Lovely Day. (Luther Vandross with Busta Rhymes)

What song will play at my funeral?
Come What May. (Air Supply) A very intersting choice by my iTunes. Especially for someone who isn't exactly concerned about life after death/afterlife.

What type of men/women do you like?
Men: Mae Solteira. (Gilberto Gil) I have no idea what it means.
Women: You Keep Me Hangin' On (Almighty Mix) by Diana Ross and the Supremes.

What is my day going to be like?
A Lover's Concerto. (The Toys) Ooh.

An Irish transvestite singer, a Jamaican-Briton on bass, a Jewish drummer and an Englishman on guitar

2006-03-07T17:01:00.000+08:00

I've never really understood why I fell in love with Culture Club's music. At a period of time where I wasn't really into English music (or music to begin with), and it was way back when I still tuned in to the television. I must have caught their promotion clip then, stumbled into a music store near my neighbourhood (the store has already folded many years ago) and decided to purchase their greatest hits. Then I got hooked onto their music.

To fully appreciate Culture Club, you'll need to sit through their outrageous MTVs. So I was very glad to find their DVD in some obsure video store in Ang Mo Kio central about two years back. My money very well-spent.
To me, their MTVs fully portray the absolute craziness and madness that so epitomises the music of the band. And I haven't got into the personality, history and life of their leadman, Boy George. The cross-dressing, for Boy George is a norm, features on the other members (Roy Hay, Mikey Craig and Jon Moss) as well (only the latter has declared himself bisexual, the other two are probably perfectly straight). Strong colours, strong hues, and unbelivable scenes completely fill all their MTVs - only their later MTVS seem more normal. I doubt I'll be able to stand such horrific images on my eyes should it feature another band, and I also doubt I'll be able to find someone as outrageous as them. Marilyn Manson comes the closest, but he's way too violence for any comparisons to be drawn - Culture Club is gentle, colourful, full of beat with songs that renouces war and violence.

Victims is arguably my personal favourite, but I love the rest all them same. I thought of the song as a powerful piece of condolence to those who perished in the 9/11 attacks, but they never came together then to perform like a lot of other American/UK singers and groups.
Karma Chameleon is still played today in local radio stations, though rare. To catch a glimpse of the true Culture Club spirit, the MTV is great for starters and definite must-see, beacause it's just so catchy and fun-sounding. (But would you believe that is has an emotional and sexual undercurrent?)

Back to my original question of why do I adore such a outfit group, whom at the peak of their years I was just born, with an androgynous-looking frontman who once said famously, "I prefer a nice cup of tea to sex" (which he later denied). Am I seriously attracted to his looks? I seriously doubt so. I do love his many hats, his blue eyes and his fantastic voice.
I think I found my answer revisiting the many MTVs they shot, from the 1980s, and the few from the late 90s. George, being the main songwriter, tackled many issues like love, sexuality, discrimination and war, veiled/draped them with a colourful piece of velvet scarf and created this soulful piece of music (which is sadly labelled as 80s' pop or rock and roll, or new wave) which is quite impossible to recreate today. They make everything so fun, so colourful and absurb, all at the same time, with a pinch (how much depends) of sentimentality. Probably these are the skeletons in my closet: I yearn for such fun-filled life with colourful clothes, colourful balloons, colourful people, colourful everything. A colourful world where you do not heisitate to love, where you accept the good, the bad, the highs with the lows. And you inject loads and loads of wackiness, bordering on the absurb into the world, shaking your bons-bons all these while. You don't have to worry about losing, because you know you're gaining all the time. But you don't lose values like sentimentality which keep you human. I guess Boy George represents the desire to flash and grab attention in me, letting me show my feminine side without a need to renouce and deny my masculinity.

If you need music videos that challenge your fixation on life and stretches your tolerance level, being all colourful and soft all this while, then you've got Culture Club and their brand of music.
*
I've been appreciating Jolie Holland's Escondida and Imogen Heap's Speak for Yourself (female singer from group Frou Frou, of Garden State soundtrack fame) music lately as well, being two new gems I stumbled upon and happened to like quite a bit. Music provides me with much needed therapy. Work has been a personal hell lately, and my emotions keep swinging towards depression/dysphoria.

Said the ugly duckling.

2006-03-05T20:10:00.000+08:00

The irony that's happening in my life right now is the point about not having enough time for myself. On weekends, or brief forty eight hours. I'm guility of spending less than an hour of quality time with my folks per week, and this is horrible news to me. Not that my folks are exactly complaining either.
I'm missing out on all my usual readings; National Geographic is the number one most ignored magazine, and the same fate is about to befall Times. And the many issues of I-S that I've thrown on my table, only to realise that I haven't got time to flip back, read through what I had meant to originally, or to take note of certain articles. Like the Alain Mikli interview like two, three weeks ago. The pin-up board in my room is almost abandoned; I haven't pinned up anything new for the past month or so. My room is in an utter mess. Perhaps not exactly 'really messy' - I really can't stand a messy room), but it sure is filthy dusty.
All this points to the fact that I haven't been home for a long time. I think the amount of time I spend in my house per week is easily less than twenty hours. Just yester-night, when I stepped in to an empty house, I found the view in my kitchen unfamiliar/distant.

On the same note, the wallclock in my room ceases to tick at least thrice this week. I brought myself to the neighbourhood Salvation Army Thrift Store (ten minutes' walk away from my place), and the silly looking clock dipped in yellow paint with a corny smiley face, was the only item that was half a worthwhile buy. Because it goes well with my roomwalls' colour. Perturbed me a bit when it simply ceased to work a while ago, because I had new batteries, and then it started working after I took it down from the wall. Strange. Must be some omen about my time management.

All this talk about time is pretty absurb when I complain of boredom in camp. I'm not exactly adept when it comes to dealing with polarities and extremities.

*

The only explanation I can diagnose for my dis-preference of photo-taking (me taking the photos, and not being part of it) is the inability to capture action, expression, movement and the passing of time. Of course, these vague terms are very susceptible to debate (it is possible to depict the above mentioned in a frame of negative/photo), and I'm oddly uncomfortable when I'm armed with a video camera and asked to shoot a particular event. It does make me wonder why I have even harboured ambitions of being a film director when the video camera doesn't seem to be my preferred instrument either. This comes to a very painful, possible conclusion: that my love for visualisation, dreaming and painting a mental picture will come to nought if I'm unable to transfer them to the storyboard and finally on film reels, tapes, and DVDs. I'm still looking for tools of expression. My description language is not awe-inspiring enough to create an action blockbuster, and I think my drawing skills are limited to stick figures.

I still have this dream script. Bold storytelling set in the future, about little children being sent to this utopian land to live in until they reach adolescence, and the drama unfolds when a group of them in teenagehood, unknowingly find their way back to reality, the real world. It's like Spielberg's A.I. mixed in with an emotional, coming-of-age storyline, with commentary on morals and emotions thrown in. On a wider picture, the story's about perfection and pathos. And maybe I'd like to include a couple of karmic symbols.

Of deep blue skies and grey paved roads.

2006-03-05T01:38:00.000+08:00

(Am probably going to ramble on and lose entirely what I've been meaning to say because it's way past my usual bedtime, after a long day being kissed by the sun the whole morning. My red shades only shielded my eyes. But I wouldn't want to lose the opportunity of recording down a bit of my Saturday; it has been incredible taking into mind the terrible work week I've had.)

So at least I've got photos (uploaded no less!) to show this time round, ignoring the amount. Oh, how should I begin.

I've been wanting to snap such photos all my life. The deep, blue sky, the amazing greenery, with the dark grey, paved road. The proverbial road I've been trotting on, and literally too. I walked enough (and stupidly) today in my Havianna slippers to burn my own feet with the tremendous heat, so that blisters can blight my feet. I was probably the most silly person on the island who armed himself with not one camera, but two -my trusty, 'fidgetive' lomo together-, and couldn't cycle to save his life.
But Ubin's not the main focus of the storytelling I'm doing. Ahem.

The strange thing with Edward is that he likes being in the know. Being obsessive with knowing; prodding around for answers, with a mouth that asks more than it should. Information, facts, statstics. Which explains how scary he uses Google and Wikipedia on a regular basis. And why he places almost ultimate value on honesty, even though he has come to realise that there is no such thing as absolute truth (even that is not absolute), and that honest words are broken easily. But never mind.
*
The strange sensation I got sitting through three hours' worth of no-holds barred discussion among the volunteers today is pretty much like a personal breakthrough. I could safely say I've never felt any more engaged than this afternoon for the little whole of this new year. Focused on making changes, effecting improvements, and Godknowswhatothernot. This sounds awfully corny (and sadistically wrong if you play into what was discussed), but I left the 'meeting' with a positive heart and feelings quite indescribable.

It is strange to have stayed on for more than a couple of years, especially so when I had entertained thoughts of leaving for another organisation many times a year back, and the joke about getting long-service achievement award is bit like stale fish.

Why did it take me today, for me to fully realise that I've really moved on and out of my old, tattered and yellowed comfort sofa, and settled (though uncomfortably) somewhere outside and new, and still searching?

I used to fret about organisational matters like who would be taking over should I fall dead one day (or the same happening to my good partner Crystal). I still think it's amazing how well we've worked together, in the real sense of that work, not stepping into each other tails and yet have enough room for personal growth. So it was natural to worry about where is the next generation of volunteers going to be popping out from. There's closure today, and I sense that I'll be asking this question less and less further on, and that's not because I've grown less responsible.

To rebutt any claims of myself harbouring thoughts of leaving entirely, being nonchalant about things and irresponsibility. I asked myself the same question as I was in between of nodding off and being jolted out of position in my seat by the bus on the road; about whatintheworld I was thinking of falling asleep in front of the bus instead of talking to the rest, and keeping quiet throughout most of the journey. It didn't feel like the kind of fatigue you get from doing repetitive work, so I was left guessing what exactly is causing me to be so tired.
It's odd how being scorched by the sun, walking alone (with my precious eyes protected from the harsh sunlight by my pretty shades) can seem to sort out any fatigue from a lack of sleep. Phototaking, again strange, helped a bit in therapy of clearing my mind.

I've been pleasantly surprised by myself on how willing I've been to keep a mental note on a particular youth (or a couple of them). Mentoring was something I wanted to do in the past, but I guess I was pretty much avoiding half the time. As I begin to inch nearer to the twenty mark, I discovered my own tendency to take whatever issue/matter at a slower pace. It's like watching another drama serial unfold when you know you've watched at least ten, and you're very conscious of how events will always turn and twist, and conclusions are easier bets. I wouldn't call this 'confidence at work', but I've seen my own rigidness break away. Yes, it has been a bigger bugbear trying to talk and befriend kids more than three years younger than me, but then I found out today that I've moving into operating in different roles as well.

(I've better continue this on another brighter time. It is late.)

The Weekend.

2006-02-26T16:48:00.000+08:00

Trips to my neighbourhood park has always been filled with peculiar-lism, optimism and a sense of action. No kidding.

If there's a tinge of optimism I get to draw out from jogging there, then it must be marital bliss. I've been running around the park regularly enough to identify certain regulars, usually men in their late fifties and above, probably retired, young and old married couples and also families with children. Lately, I've noticed an encouraging trend in the number of people rollerblading in the premises, and I suspect this has got to do with more expats (i.e. foreigners, S'pore PRs or "non-native S'poreans - the last term is pretty controversial though).
Harbouring ill pessimism in marriage-hood ever since I've contemplated about marriage, it is a very pleasant sight to see married couples (I should stress on the fact that they are married) jogging/walking/strolling together, either in silence or in discussion, quiet discussion with a smile. I can't exactly explain why I love the sight of that, but it may have got to do with the fact that my own parents talk too much/too loudly, and they hardly have quiet, peaceful conversations where you agree to disagree. For a change, I would like to have a significant other to do those weekly jogs with, catch up with each other, be in natural surrounds, have time to smell the roses and people-watch, all at the same time.

And how conincidental things is life can be. I saw a seriously adorable dog, a schnauzer (which I had wanted to have one at one part of my life, some years back), and then I saw the bear. Two bears, actually, locked in conversation, walking their dog on a humid Sunday afternoon/evening.

*

It's strange how I always get picked up by evangelist groups randomly, when I least expect it, ever since I learnt how to leave the house, and take the buses and trains. I don't think it'll be accurate to report that I look lost religiously/spiritually, or worse still, I look like a freethinker. I think we were easy targets: three guys falling under the category older teenagers-young adults, waiting for the train. So it's the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints this time round. I didn't wished to frighten/bore them with my background this time round; I decided to be nice since my two friends lied that they were Buddhists, and told them I was a Christian without a church, and reading the Bible on my way - which is pretty correct "theoretically". That at least broke the atmosphere of awkwardness, which I saw it as a personal mission (to eradicate boring/awkward conversations!) as a self-proclaimed toastmaster. I thought it was the very least I could do, to cheer them up a little during our short period of time being strangers. This reminds me of how bad/awkward I felt when Amy told me she was hoping I could be the first person she introduced/brought into 'having a personal relationship with God'. I thought I would have been very mean telling her the truth about how it would have been easier to make pigs fly than to convince me about everything in the Bible, about Mister God and Jesus. I'm still sticking to Fynn's Anna and Mister God (it stands as one of the most mysterious book I own), should I find a need to, you know, know more about Mister God.

*

Talking about wants. I've been stuck to the idea of visiting Books Actually after Life!, Friday's copy, decided to feature them (the owners) and the bright green and white decor. I had a craving to just wander around in Chinatown on Saturday, but I couldn't find any decent company for them. (So I had to make-do. I tricked my friends to visiting Knowledge at Bras Brasah.) Bright green is such a happy, optimistic colour. If I'm ever opening one myself (along the lines of a library, cafe, chill out/lounge destination, it will be bright yellow. The exact colours of my room's. With plastic reflective chairs, and there will be a need to shop, splurge on a funky looking clock. If I can bring this fantasy further, there would be a secret book-shelf door, because there's always a need for certain books to be hidden.
(Back to what I have wanted to say.) So it was ironic that my folks woke me up early this morning when I haven't even started dreaming in slumberland, drove down to Chinatown for breakfast, and in the process, I got to know (and see) exactly where Books Actually actually is (sorry, I couldn't help but use that pun with their address being quite obscure). But today was Sunday, and they don't open on Sundays.
Disappointing. (On the positive side, I saw posters, A4 sized, about some poetry slam event/happening coming up soon. I'm forgetful with dates as always.) And they didn't have a bright green and white signboard like what I had in mind. The small poster gave away the secret that I was at the correct address, and it's actually on the second floor of the stretch of shophouses. The corridor-way leading up to the stairs has a very mis-leading signboard (with its doors locked this morning, of course); if I'm not mistaken, the ground level holds some Hokkien/Nanyang clan, a black signboard with golden letters.

2006-02-21T20:05:00.000+08:00

My pickup line for the day would go along the lines of "Can you talk to me; because I think I'm getting under all this gay stuff." Or maybe you'd like to add that I've had a Brokeback day. And to think I wanted to continue talking about homosexuality.

Was very surprised when The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon (what I've been reading in camp) had an element of homosexuality in its plot; it was never mentioned anyway on the softcover I have; not the sypnosis/blurbl; the critics/reviewers just raved about how great a modern American novel it is. I did suspect Sammy and Tracy were androgynous names to begin with. And to my pleasant surprise, when I had privately earmarked K&C as possible material to do a film/series on, Stephen Daldry (the same guy who did 'Billy Elliot') had decided to embark on such a project a couple of years back. The movie version is currently said to be in-production. I can't wait, seriously.

I'm not stopping on the homosexuality issue. I do wonder at times when it's possible to be a psuedo-gay when you live with twelve other equally hormonally-charged and horny dudes five days a week, breathing-eating-sleeping-whatnot together. I laughed nervously when I came across Ang Lee's (supposedly) comment of "I think there's a Brokeback Mountain in all of us" and perhaps, I won't be betting my last dollar on it. I've lost half my wit for describing what goes on in my bunk with all the male action going on. And any of my appetite as well.
And Chabon is quite a novelist to read if you're interested in youths-coming-of-age-dealing-with-sexuality. I think I garnered quite some attention bringing the hardcover one-brick-of-a-book to camp with its suggestive, almost-provacative-among-conservatives title of Big Breasts and Wide Hips. Sometimes, it does help ease the sexual tension quite a bit when a copy of the latest Maxim or FHM find its ways around hands in a male-dominated work environment.

*

On a peculiar note, I think I've missed seeing inkstains on my fingers. This may sound awfully odd, but I was the model student with all the colour pens and highlighters. So when the black ink pen leaked when I was scribbling on my sketchpad this afternoon. And it did remind me of all those afternoons staring at my ink-stained fingertips, exclaiming how dirty they are, and never starting on my work.
It's amazing sometimes what boredom can do to the brain. Or idleness. Because I almost always get these flashes of nostagia in camp in the strangest of time; like when I'm marching back to company line, or when I'm exiting my bunk to the toliet. Recently, the emergence of the sergeant with the Canadian accent, memories seem to link towards my secondary school days.

Any semblance of the weekend

2006-02-19T20:43:00.000+08:00

And so I missed my weekly, Sunday evening routine of taking a jog at the neighbourhood park. Of course, this has nothing to do with the fact that the recent murder case and its developments are within a one kilmometre radius of where exactly I live. And it wouldn't be too difficult to come up with a real-time satellite picture using Google Earth. And the fact that the victim shares a uncanny resemblance to my dad's name; not that my dad owns a nightclub and several houses.

My weekends are turning into fleeting affairs whereby the amount of time I spend in the small four-room flat and my yellow walls room is less than fifteen hours. And this discussion can branch out into many different topics.

Like how I've missed having at least one meal together with my folks, and that I hardly see my dad anymore. The only conversations we get to have are in our metallic orange vehicle when he drives me back to (cages for trained monkeys) camp; when he does speak, he never fails to remind me of the good ol' Edward, or paint a possible impression of the older Edward, and of the country and society at large.

Like how pathetic my life has become, because there is nothing on-going besides work. I actually feel lucky on weekends when I do not have to discuss about work. But it remains a niggling/nagging complaint that I haven't been meeting new people at all, and I haven't been doing anything remotely interesting, or involving an adreanlin rush (And I needed someone younger to remind me that there's such a word and actual sensation known as adreanlin.) I do feel pretty lost without a monthly planner, and my days/weeks/months are just passing by. It's like being in quicksand, with swamp all over in the surrounding, with one distinct landmark, say a wooden pole some distance away. The pole signifies the eleventh day of the third month next year, which is when They temporaily free me from slavery and allow me to continue with my studies (and not to include, to renouce my citizenship, run away from the air-conditioned country and condemn it till the days of eternity).

And I don't exactly ever understood 'meeting new people' since I was pretty much anti-social to begin with. Can the new neighbourhood cat classify as meeting new 'people', or must it be random faces I see all the time in my estate but can never pinpoint straightaway who exactly they are. Or must it include words, sentences and a proper conversation, which means daft people people at work? I think I stopped creating imaginary friends when my craze/fascination for soft toys/beanies (: does not include dolls) waned, but I gather it would work just fine if I had to see to a quota for the number of new people I meet.

Which brings me to another piece of the sky that I've been pondering about: my sympathy and sustained interest towards reading up homosexuality and related issues. It is strange because it hasn't exactly bothered me in the past, but perhaps it's the marked awareness of what I've been reading. I haven't been reading gay porn magazines, so this could be quite hard to explain on. For starters, I picked up the news on Liberty League on Balderdash some time before the furore started by the news media in S'pore, and subsequent bloggers' reactions. And I've been making little discoveries along the way - because I like to know who is the person/persona behind what I'm reading/listening/engaged to - and I hope listing this doesn't exactly make me homophobic, since the view goes along the lines of 'who writes/sings it doesn't matter, the material itself matters'. I can't judge whether I'm hiding from being labelled homophobic, but I do go 'Oh.' whenever I realise something.
A certain Ng Yi Sheng whom I wanted to make contact with, because I was very interested in staging his play 'Hungry', which won first prize for the 24-hour Playwriting Competition in 1998. I've held back from emailing him not because he's supposedly gay, but because the staging of any script has to wait. But I do think I did find his blog, and it has been an interesting read.
I'm a regular reader at Zuco's and Yawning Bread, the latter because I value their penetrating viewpoints and socio-commentary. Andrew Sullivan's columns caught my attention when I read Times, and I was elated to discover he's one of the pioneers in blogging, and his style hasn't been lost when typing. And I'm too big a fan of Boy George, Elton John to deny anything. Not to mention Rufus Wainwright, Luther Vandross. There's probably more if I wanted to list them out, but it disturbs me slightly because it does seem discriminatory. Not that I'm about to delete what I've typed.
It's easy to take a stand and I declare I'm pro-choice when it comes to gay issues (like what a good democrat might do) (and at the same time, take a conservative, religious stand and persecute them) but issues are much more complicated at a personal level. I've jokingly stated to people who know my ambitions in career that I plan to take the gay issue up and defend it whenever necessary; in other hands, be a champion for gay rights and issues. That might sound pretty noble (to myself), and it has been painful to be aware of how conservative the majority of society still are. And this is just baseless judgements based on how my bunkmates react to movies Brokeback Mountain and Lan Yu (they probably wouldn't have heard of Happy Together)

(I wish I could go on on this, but time's up.)

And so.

2006-02-17T21:23:00.000+08:00

So I've been missing Blogger a little bit.
And everytime I'm at Blogger, I'm like a stick figure with arms placed at my hips, scratching my head and wondering a fair bit what I ought to mentioning about.

I haven't been exactly busy actually. I just lack a portable laptop/notebook with wireless internet connection. It's vuglar to me to think that I feel so foreign with my LCD monitor, a proud materialistic grey piece of matter which I've accquired about a month ago.

So a crash course on what exactly have I been up to. With the immediate past, things that come to my mind include what I've been missing out on. The Franz Ferdinand concert. The Spanish film concert that has been on-going. Learning to volunteer at SAM - something I've been wanting to do, because I gather it's the closest I'll ever get to be a curator. Patrizio Buanne's concert that has already been sold - okay, I'll have difficulty trying to find company to watch this, but nevertheless. I like to flip through Life! everyday, marvel at what I've been missing out on that page where they print the horoscope, the events and on-going happenings. Not to mention I've again, failed to keep up with watching movies. (This again, partly has to do with my choice of movies I wish to watch)
Besides complaining and whining about what I've missed out, I've had the strange luck on getting a nice healthy tan (all the morning football-on-the-basketball-court sessions). Not to mention I succeeded at surprising more than ten people by baking a average chocolate cake, and more thumb-ups and head-nodding at my maiden attempt of making an oreo cheesecake. I would also like to take satisfaction at making someone's life a lot brighter because we had a surprise birthday party thrown for him. We all thought he remained very much in shock/surprise, pleasantly, for the rest of the day. Our antics are fully captured and freezed on a Konica film inside my pretty/stylish lomo camera.
I broke another of my reading records, by finishing Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go in less than five days. I went on reading because I wanted to find out what made the novel so unique and to catch a bit of Mister Kazuo's style, and I found both. I wouldn't recommend reading to anyone who isn't exactly patient with the revealing of the plot. Still, I think I made not bad a choice, especially fit for an after read to Brave New World. (I'm starting on Chabon's The Amazing Adventure of Kavalier and Clay, and that will certainly take me a long while - it's over six hundred pages, small print.)

I'll love to talk more, if you'd like to listen more. (But I have to return to camp, on a Friday night, no less. Work always gets more exciting.)

Sunday's film and ramblings.

2006-02-05T19:43:00.000+08:00

And life trickles on.

I got out my bed late this morning feeling recharged, and then I spent the rest of the day in a daze, struggling to answer why I was in this fatigued, not exactly restless mood. I reckon it might be the late mocha yester-night.

Still, trying to change an totally unproductive day, I managed to (finally!) watch Shohei Imamura's The Pornographers, a 1966 film, part of the Criterion Collection. I got interrupted the last time I was watching and had to stop it half hour into the show, and this time round, I was interrupted again, twice no less. By a phone call and a late lunch.

Here's an excerpt of the show's plot from DVD Verdict Review:

Subu Ogata lives a strange double life in the ever-fluctuating social structure of modern day Japan. While he tells people he is in medical supply sales, his actual job is an illegal one: he makes 8mm pornographic sex films and occasionally pimps for important businessmen. He is also romantically, sexually, and financially involved with his landlady Haru, a widow with two teenage children. Koichi is the good for nothing son, constantly in need of money and teasing his mother with a combination of guilt and misplaced sexual desire. Keiko is the ripe young daughter, the new untapped resource of Subu's desires. Haru believes that her dead husband has been reincarnated as a carp, which she keeps in a tank in her home. She consults it occasionally for advice. As Subu tries to make his movies under the ever-present threat of exposure and mob influence, his home life begins to disintegrate. Haru gets sick and has to be hospitalized. Koichi is constantly scheming to get his hands on even more of the family wealth. And Keiko is playing a grown-up game of slutty hard to get that drives Subu insane with passion, perversion, and protectiveness. Eventually tragedy hits the family unit and all the issues of incest, impotence, and illegal activity come to the forefront. Subu is caught in the middle, trying to comply with the traditions of the past while exploring the forbidden pleasures of the present. He wants to solve the pervasive mystery of women even as he rejects and exploits them as one of the nation's pornographers, a secret chronicler of sex.

In a nutcase, it does has a complex plot to start with. I thought I was getting into vintage film material by getting this movie, but I think I got more than I bargained for. The beginning was excellent in unfolding the characters and conflicts, but I admit I found it getting pretty weird towards the end; Mister Ogata (the protagonist) goes into semi-solitude after being inspired by the idea of a machinised sex doll.
It was either my brain was totally not functioning today (I dozed off a couple of times because I was watching from my bed) or this is too profound for a silly person for me to understand. Because I really couldn't draw out anything firm to talk about after the one hour-mark. Perhaps The Pornographers is not exactly the ideal film to start with if I want to know about Inamura's style and direction.
But I still want to rave about old Japanese films in widescreen, black and white, and with an impressive plot/storyline to boot. For the uninitiated, there are no nude scenes throughout.

*

When I was younger, a lot younger. (And I'm still young at heart now.) I used to look forward to shower times because it meant that I could host my own talk-show in my toliet. It must have have been the influence of the black box, because I used to be that lucky kid who had access to the telly all day/night long. Of course, my studio was my small toliet (there was no rolling cameras, please) and I would have imagainary guests whom I'll be playing as well, in another fake voice/accent.
Fast-forward to JC days, where as toastmaster assistant (I think, because I cannot seem to remember my post anymore), I was surrounded by people who spoke English all their lives. And I got affected big time by this big moron/loser who said I couldn't speak well. (My excuse was that I was very tired that day. Yes.) I still harbour fancy hopes of breaking into radio and becoming a deejay, because the president said I had a lovely voice over the phone. (Okay, maybe she said that because she was trying to lure me into joining.) I absolute adore the hours spent listening to fellow toastmasters talking (sense or rubbish) at one of the competitions. Because that was what toastmasters are about. Talking. Effectively presenting yourself in front of the audience. (I like to tell people we make toast in the canteen every schoolday morning, complete with a variety of 'toppings' - peanut butter, kaya, blueberry paste and chocolate.)
And I wouldn't forget in a hurry how much I threw my reputation and dignity away organising and performing at Soapbox. All dressed up, hoping to look like a gyspie (but I think I looked more like a pseudo-wannabe magician in black, and a very short one), and convincing people that I can interpret dreams standing on the bench. First event, during lunch hour, in front of strangers, classmates and the people known as educators.
I miss those times, even though I never thought I would. Talking, expressing myself in front of an audience, making people smile, laugh, and of course, the applause. I think there's a Ricky Gervais in me, and that's why I laugh at/with him so much. The showmanship.

My (not so) friendly, neighbourhood community centre has a banner asking toastmasters to join their toastmaster club, but I'm pretty hesistant what it would bring out (a can of worms? Or some sweet dessert?), not to mention I don't have the luxury of a fixed weekly schedule.
Until then, I'm still be around in my toliet, charming my imaginary audience.

Sprinkles and religious toppings

2006-02-05T01:03:00.000+08:00

And so I've had wanted to blog about a couple of things.
Actually, I've just got lots of little stuff to bring out.

Like Time and a certain Mitch McConnell has not replied to my sincere letter/email to them; not that I'm pinning much hope on that, but I'm really keen (and curious) to see what kind of a response will be elicited.

And it's this kind of posting that raises my eyebrows about matters are really being handled in the public/civil sector. I'm not the first blogger to raise Mister Tan Kin Lian's blog (and to quote his description on his blog: "I am the CEO of NTUC Income...") - I do remember someone at Tomorrow.sg liken him to Donald Trump or Richard Branson - but it would be interesting to see how things unfold considering how past matters have been handled at 'the top of the table'. I do wish Mr Wang will speak (or has already spoken) on such matters. Being fervently outspoken and representing in 'personal capacity' is quite frowned upon in local civil space/practices (with rare exceptions like a certain Phillip Yeo, ex-representative of EDB). Someone suggested Tan could be stripped of his position quietly and behind the scenes (,under the tables); I'm pretty much in position to just observe.

This auction certainly caught my eye; I can't believe it closed at five hundred US dollars. And I'm not atheist on most counts. Touchy, sensitive issue/topic to be brought up, considering I just met up with my group of friends (we would make a very good nationalistic poster and example for racial integration, harmony and bonding).
The strange thing I've noticed is that I'm incredibly (and I'm very surprised with myself at this) cynical or careful when it comes to reading about religion, including religious texts. This only comes with reading about religion, mind you. I get easily sucked into anything else; I actually believed Life of Pi (, Yann Martel, and one of my favourites) was a real story until my friend had to tell me it's a work of fiction. I pretty much get easily convinced by works of fiction I read, self-help/self-improvement material and anything in between.
But I'm extremely weary, for reasons unknown to me yet, when it comes to one of my keen interests, religion. I enjoy reading the Bible and everything in it, but to be honest, I don't exactly the faith. I'm not educated enough yet to start on the Koran (but I will), Hindu tales and stories intrigue me, but still no real belief.
I haven't mentioned this anyone yet (except Mother), but I've started reading up on my Mum's Buddhist material. Better still, I'm keen on studying it and harbouring intents to take the paper (yes, it's like Bible studies, they are exams) at the beginner's level, and subsequently moving on to the intermediate level (I'm told that there is). And I actually have the secret desire to ace the paper, and see the faces of my mum's friends when they're told I'm not really a follower or one of them. I pretty much believe that if there's a Mister God, he'll probably laugh at my intent and attempt. Hey, I'm no martyr.
I still am unable to get a straight face when I do tell people I have intentions of doing theology studies and getting a degree for it. Or I had plans to run away from home in secondary school to Punggol End, where there is a school for Catholic priests, and yes, be an actual Catholic priest. And my more recent ambitions to escape to the mountains of Nepal-India-China and be a monk.
Religion is still kinda like an oxymoron in my life; I love to know so much about it, yet I'm proudly effectively of no real religion. Strange that I cannot seem to grapse the common point in monotheistic religions of the world: that as a believer, follower of a God, you have a duty/obligation/need to spread His words. Which explains why I could relate so well to what the protagonist in Life of Pi takes up at the beginning of the book; he was a practising Muslim, Christian, Hindu and Buddhist if I didn't recall wrongly. I like to tell people I'm like that at times, and I sure wish sometimes I was like that.
I think a certain Mister Phillip Tan shook a lot of my old thinkings on religion when he questioned in GP class whether religion (in context, a God) created man, or did man create religion out of necessity. I never did accept religion as it was, and I've been questioning quietly ever since whenever beliefs and faith is brought up.

And there has been some net users with weird search keywords that have landed up on my blog. Here's a sample:
free secondary school tutorial
lonely girls -none here.
big breast secondary school -i'm pretty sure it doesn't exist
how to attract girls -i'm flattered.
june lim photos -who?
akira love saki -?!

Just for amusement's sake. It happens on quite a regular basis.
*
Noticed how one of my archive page has been getting all the views/visits, so I decided to read through and find out what was so interesting. Turns out that I had wrote pretty much sub-standard poetry then, and how attached I was to events, people, and emotions.
Have I ever mentioned that my blog's one thousand, one hundred and eighty five days old currently? And how much I used to say 'it's been a long ride'.
It really has been quite a long ride, Blogger-wise.
Had comtemplated switching to MT, LJ, WP and even coming up with my own domain.

Hemingway's prose.

2006-02-01T20:46:00.000+08:00

And so I took her word and started on Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms. I got cheated of about twenty five pages worth of his words because the book suffered from duplicating printing; so I've got no idea whatsoever what happens after the lead heads back to the front, and I only got to resume in chapter twenty four.

But I must admit I got very gutted at the end. Considering I was left with a chapter to read on the bus home and decided to finish reading the conclusion at home. I have a bad habit of rushing the end of a novel, a strange habit of re-reading it again (because I rushed it). And and even stranger habit of temporarily adopting the style of the current writer's words I'm reading. Heminway certainly taught me a new way of writing. His short terse, almost statement-like sentences. And I can't figure out how such simple dialogues between characters can charm me like a mouse.

*

Let me add that I've had the good fortune today to being able to watch Bush's State of the Union address ('live' somemore) from my Cage.
And I've been very intrigued by this man they call Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the current elected (no less) President of Iran. Ever since Time published his photo a couple of issues ago, with a very witty caption. His deep expressive eyes I would say; his overall impression melts into my mind everytime I see him in photos and videos. Almost Hitler-like I should add. I guess I ought to be keeping watch on this man, at least for this year to pass.

Back to the Cage.

Of notes and coins

2006-01-31T21:52:00.000+08:00

There was a live liondance show right outside my home today. Or better still, just before my beloved room - I could see them getting ready from my window, while sitting in front of my computer. Louder than ducks, they were. I ran to the kitchen.

And I fell into deep sleep to the voice of David Gray this afternoon.

And so I've made the late jump-in into the bandwagon that is called the Orange County fever.
*

And I thankfully, did not succeed in my plans to do e-shopping during the CNY festive period. Both my bank accounts have been running disgustingly low (have already been criticised by people around me), so I spent what time I had 'rating' my wanted Threadless teeshirts, '3' being an okay design worth buying, '4' being a priority buy and '5' being a must-buy. This sounds pretty odd, but I have contemplated of not buying anymore teeshirts in local streets, because they are oh-so-common-on-the-streets-and-trains. Flirting with the idea of ordering a Threadless tee every month - I like at least one design everytime they send me a newsletter. With my current spending habits, I can no longer aspire to visit Vietnam, Bangkok, India, Japan and Toronto (roughly in that order).

I spend my times in the Cage thinking how it is mathematically impossible to come out with a good sum of money by the time I get my pink identification card back, and I must admit at times that I feel like asking good advice from my bunkmates to do some gambling on soccer games. Not discussing about the sixth-generation iPod I ought to be saving up/already have moolah to make a purchase.

I'm no longer a latch-key kid (only my Dad is working), my grandparents have passed away at least nineteen years ago so I do not have property to inherit, nor do I stay in the surroundings of Bukit Timah. The solemn advice is that I will have to work for the money, and I'm too weak to ask from money for work I've done or any service I've provided. (Though I have experience in the field of not doing work and asking for money). The pretty PayPal 'Make A Donation' at my sidebar has not yielded any results either.

With a dearth of living relatives, distant or close, I'm already resigned to the fact of not being able to factor in any money that can be acquired from the red packets. Because there isn't spare change to start with. Right now, (as before) I'm putting my hopes of getting any sponsorship for the apparel I don, or the words I write, type and say.

Please let the money start cashing into my bank account.

*

(More talk and ramblings about materialism and how the illness has gotten into me another time. I'll have to return to the Cage now. And no, they are not Wi-Fi enabled/supported/friendly.)

Arrogance and Confidence

2006-01-30T02:34:00.000+08:00

I initially had planned for a long blog post about this, but my memory has faded, and so I can only try to regurgitate what was originally in my mind.

In the spur of the moment (as I've mentioned in just my last post), I had my mind dead set on writing a response to a certain Republican senator named Mitch McConnell. Realise that this must be one of my first attempts of 'walking the talk'; actually carrying out what I ramble about so much.

But I'm not carrying a plycard and about to launch a demostration outside the States' embassy, and tell them to remove sanctions in the country they call Burma. (This is Singapore. Demostrations are illegal - this is an accepted fact of life. We are a free-er nation than what George Soros says.)

I wrote a pretty incoherent email to Mister Mitch McConnell and also included two Time departments in the 'To:' header.

*

Taking Issue with Counterattack

In response to VIEWPOINT (Time issue January 30, 2006, page 32-33) by Mitch McConnell, titled "Counterattack".

I am neither a citizen of Burma/Myanmar (or do I hold any affiliations towards the military regime SPDC), nor do I hold any grudges against Mister Mitch McConnell or his party. I am motivated to write this appeal because I believe the viewpoint has missed (or worse still, ignored) some very important points that need to be considered when discussing about the state of affairs in Burma/Myanmar. I do not attempt to possess first-hand knowledge of the going-ons in that South-east Asian country; but I have strong thoughts to raise after reading and digesting this article written by Mitch McConnell. Nor am I a seasoned writer (I'm waiting to enter university), so I would be very appreciative if you could read my piece with an open mind.

I strongly disagree with your viewpoint that sanctions "are the most effective weapon against Burma's military regime", simply because sanctions have not been proven to work in any country, South Africa included, if you refer to a certain Nelson Madela. I find ignorance (or ulterior motives) in this game of sanctions, because the US is more than a thousand miles away from its capital, should it be Yangon (Rangoon) or Pyinmana. The seven hundred thousands refugees do not affect the US; they cross borders into Third World or developing countries such as China, India, Laos and Thailand - does the US Senate fully realise and recognise the full effects of such a demographic trend?

It does not take a sociologist or economist to logically work out how sanctions have forced the Burmese into the trade of the oldest industry (sex), drugs and being part of the Golden Triangle. In further crippling the economy and livelihood of Burmese, you are creating straightforward, dire consequences - problems you have brought out in your article. Without a livelihood, there is no education, there will not be law and order - regardless of whether the government is a military regime or a democractic one.

Yes, sanctions strike at the junta's lifeblood, and Ms Aung San Suu Kyi and her party is in support of the situation, but have you not realised you are putting over-emphasis on the capability of sanctions, and disregarding the drawbacks that such sanctions will bring to Burmese, the very people you wish to help? I quote one of your statements, "Sanctions are a tremendous loss of face for the SPDC, a scarlet letter, particularly in the international arena" - you sounded much more upbeat about putting the junta under pressure (which the Southeast asian leaders and diplomats are already doing so) then helping the people of the country. Washington's commitment to democracy in Burma/Myanmar has to be re-examined, because sanctions are not toppling the regime's leaders - they are merely causing more hardship, suffering among the people, which Western journalists can take advantage of and point an accusating finger back at the junta.

Should Burma/Myanmar not be in my part of the region, but is geographically situated in a location closer to the US, I am confident that upholding sanctions would not be the priority, because the US will face problems in the influx of refugees. It is easy for the US to continue its renewal of sanctions from an ivory tower, but ultimately if one wishes to see "freedom come to Burma", it will not be a working solution.

I write this email/letter because I harbour hopes that Mister Mitch McConnell and the US can come to realisation that sanctions are tools without teeth - they do not operate well at all. I cringe to think about how decades down the road, when Burmese finally improve their standard of living, will come to analyse and conclude about US foreign policy and their sanctions against their country. Please be mindful that I am NOT defending the actions and ways of the military regime (yes, there is a need for change at the top), but I remain very disturbed and displease about continued sanctions and the belief that they are "the most effective weapon" - surely engagement and the promoting of a market economy would prove to be much more feasible.

With upmost respect,
Edward Lim
Hougang, Singapore

*

Here is where I tell my readers what I've left out of the email.

The number-crunching statistics that I think would bore this experienced senator. Instead I've set out (quite subtly I reckon) to establish an almost amateurish (okay, I am an amateur in such letter-writing) impression, hoping to catch somebody's attention with it.

I could have been much ruder and finger-pointing, accusating tone, but I decide to pitch a little less harsh, partly out of fear of getting into any slander lawsuits (but isn't the US a free state where one's voice overrides into the freedom of others?)

Because I'm seriously insulted (and the word that rhymes with 'miss') about his lack of reality and knowledge about life, should it be Burma or even Southeast Asia. He reminds me of another George Bush who scores single-digit points on foreign policy and knowledge about the world outside States. His role as the Majority Whip invariably induces me to liken him to a sergeant major, and I haven't got any good impression of people who are in the role of the latter. Yes, I admit I'm a Democrat sympathiser and a certain Bill Clinton supporter. And yes, I deliberately inserted 'Hougang' before Singapore (even though it's pretty dumb to start with), hoping that it'll teach him a tight lesson on "External Affairs & World Knowledge 101" and that S'pore is not part of China.

I'm writing this horribly written (lack of organisation, substance, format and probably gramatically full of mistakes) because I'm annoyed by people with ulterior motives (politically driven most likely), who tell facts but do not relate to the subject matter. In my point of view, he hasn't fully explained (nor convinced me) why sanctions are "the most effective weapon against Burma's regime". I wish I had the discipline and energy to do good and proper research to shoot his head off, but I've been procastinating.

I have a dream. I dream that my email can (through the help of major, mainly Western broadcasting satellites and publications) wake the senses of old fashioned, close minded Americans up and make them realise that Singapore is not part of China, that Koreans, Japanese and Chinese might be Asian but we are not the same, and that our values and systems are not necessarily inferior to yours. I do dream of an American that has reduced bi-partisan politics, and that males and females from each side of the party colours can safely marry each other and have meaningful conversations about the progress of the country. Where successive governments do not attempt to undo and redo each other efforts and policies, and the nation actually progresses and matures with each term of presidency.
And I'm not even remotely American. (I have only contemplated the Green Card recently because I'm stubbornly reluctant to continue my national commitments after two years of national slavery, but it was just a passing flirtation.)

(Of course, I have another dream regarding Asians' attitude towards the West and people, but that's another dream for another day)

Chinese New Year.

2006-01-28T10:25:00.000+08:00

On Why I Read
(Or why I've been spending almost all my time and money on books)

Because It is a cheap alternative to other forms of escapcism.
Because It does not belong to one of the contraband items listed that are not allowed in the Cage. (They couldn't recognise Rushdie's The Satanic Verses, can they?)
Because I do not own an Ipod. Yet.
Because the Cage is so ancient that computers do not feature at all, and They take away the television because They're afraid of us taking the television away. (So we do have comfy sofas, a powerpoint and signal point, and an empty television table.)
Because the top three activities in my bunk involve a Gameboy, chess with rewritten rules and owning a mp3 player (refer to my third point on why).

*

And so I've been punished for going overkill on my iTunes today; I'm practically quite sick of the songs put on shuffle, so I'm switching back to the good ol' radio for now.

I haven't got the chance to mention what I think deserves a mention. Casual reading of this week's Time issue on my bunk's bed. I switched into a mad mood less than half way through this article, and I'm actually motivated to pen a proper piece to Mitch McConnell, and tell him off regarding his arrogance and ignorance. It's strange that I felt this compulsive urge to slam him, when I've got no greater interest in Myanmar (I didn't even comtemplate about visiting the country before) than any other country, nor have I been aquainted with this Republican Senator. I admit I'm a Democrat sympathiser, and McConnell pretty much typifies the arrogance old-time, conservative Republicans (I'm finding hard to believe his wife in a Chinese American, in government, no less) that I've grown to dislike. Nor do I necessarily agree with sanctions, especially when preached by someone who is more than a thousand miles away from Burma. (hello, we call it Myanmar over in this region)

*

I've been on lomo-mode the afternoon, scanning my first roll of negatives (the scanner working ever so slowly. Five freaking minutes for one, print quality.) And uploading them to flickr. It's not worthy of being called a piece of art, but I did like how certain shots turned out (and how other turned out almost completely black). I'm keeping my top-notch printer in my cupboard for now, until I feel the urge for some prints.

*

I suddenly get a good gauge of how much time has passed when a friend decided to leave a book loaned to her at my door-step. I didn't get to the package until this morning (left from yesterday morning). I had expected to find my (once beloved) Calvin and Hobbes Tenth Anniversary book only, but I found two issues of Time as well, circa March third, twothousandandthree. That's like almost three years ago.

Of rooms and dogs, and the Other

2006-01-24T20:47:00.000+08:00

Wearing my tee the other side makes my brain think I'm actually wearing a jumper/pullover/sweater.

My iTunes keeps playing Death Cab For Cutie and Broken Social Scene songs; I'm not exactly a big fan of theirs', and it just happens that I have almost all their songs, because someone is such a big fan of theirs. And yes, I do press the forward button to get to something I prefer.

*

My mind keeps switching to blog mode whenever it's mid-day, I'm stuck at work having lunch, and my pathetic (concentration) camp has no inkling whatsoever as to what a digital, electronic notebook is all about. Just for the record (and to get this almost-guilty, secretive, blended with a generous dosage of excitement out of my system) I still harbour illegal thoughts of smuggling my lomo camera into (concentration) camp. Getting the cam in and out of camp shouldn't be a problem lately (with lax checks), but getting my pretty photos is one major issue. And I still can't imagine my bunkmates having a more-than-delighted look on their faces (and mouths) when they see me with a toy-looking camera and snapping photos in the toliet - I absolutely believe that the world should see my (concentration) camp's vintage-seventies-classic toliets, with yellowed stickers telling you the correct method to flush. And the company line's fire alarm system (non-existent). I love to tell my friends about it; you have to crank it to make it ring, a simple demonstration of physics at work.

*

My iTunes still has a bad habit of playing the songs of which I do not exactly wish to listen to now. Next. Next.

*

It's a good day when you get to see your favourite writer being featured on one of your must-read blogs. So it holds no surprise when I nod my head, wag my finger in agreement and proclaim that Mister Murakami will one day win the Nobel. I'm keeping my fingers crossed as well that when that day arrives, I'll be able to jet off to wherever the ceremony will be held at, and attend it, listening to this old writer whom I greatly admire and respect.

Getting reminded by 'after the quake' and the short story 'Honey Pie': I recall how slightly disturbed I was by the possibility of being like Junpei, the writer who never knew how to articulate his love. Francis Martin from the Town and The City haunts me even greater, because I find the traits of Francis in many parts of me.

*

This thought has been hovering around my mind for the quite some time now, and I think I can safely say I've reached a conclusion more or less, partly jolted by a piece (yet another. How torturous my sleeping mind can be.) of nightmare I dreamt of this morning.

We all have enemies-rivals-nemesis-people-you-don't-like-opposites. Cartoons with an action hero depict this almost perfectly. (And you've read Midnight's Children, Saleem and Shiva). On the technical term, we label it as the Self and the Other, simple psychology. I'll be honest about this: there are people I don't exactly enjoy being with at work, and at-the-spur-of-the-moment-mindset, I'll be happier without them around and in the way.

However, the more I drew this person's character traits out, both good and bad (I'm not a completely evil, unsympathetic and un-empathetic person), I had to struggle to comes to terms with the fact that these very traits of my enemy-rival-person-I-dislike were the same or very similar to my mine's. This may sound really hyprocritic or deft depending on which way you look at it, but I've realise it's how life works. A certain Mister Freud (or distinguished people from his field of research) probably has a very good answer to this. Ego, Id, Superego and other psychobabble which I'm not entirely familar with.

I'm actually pretty much spooked by the realisation (the nightmare this morning had put it quite clearly to me), but I may have settled down a bit quicker than I've expected.

*

Reading Endo's The Sea And Poison has put me back in such a state of mind that I once again hold lofty sandcastles in the air of being a (struggling) writer. Allow me to indulge myself a little: my writing style would be a fusion of Kundera and Kafka, with storytelling similar to that of Murakami and Yoshimoto. It doesn't exactly sound right nor logically plausible, but I flattered myself further by encouraging Pearle to be the next Angela Carter while I work myself to be her Salman Rushdie. (Take what I've said with a big pinch of salt; this is pre-CNY self-indulgment, something nobody would listen to but I'll like to talk about nonsense)

(Pushing this further) With means of being a film director-scripter-producer, I'll be attempting to put together a piece you'll get when you put Akira Kurosawa and Wong Kar Wai (You can't. One's dead.) Plenty of novels and short stories I've read have fierce potential to make it a hit: think Kerouac's the Town and the City, Endo's the Sea and Poison (like Speilberg's Schindler's List, a la WW2 in the Pacific region) and my yet-to-be-written epic on an uptopia. I haven't started discussing about the soundtracks and music accompanying the movie.

Of course, these are all lofty (oh so lofty!) dreams of an impatient (now learning to be less uptight, calmer and more patient) young lad not of twenty years in age. If I were to harshly judge my own life and decisions, I definitely lack something called a Plan B.

2006-01-22T18:44:00.000+08:00

My mundane life and eyes have decided to turn a sharp turn towards the surreal, withholding the fact that I've been escaping reality. I've been witnessing matters that bridge the gap between reel and real, so much so that I feel I'm in a Hollywood reality show.

This must be a new episode in the adventures of people watching: first I had an account of the parent-child relationship; the mother, the lad who thinks he has grown up, and of course, the older, grumpy sister. I cringed whenever the young chap interrupted his mum's tirade (and she had to shun him with phrases like 'you don't know the real world!"), his sister's occasional irratated glares and stares at him.

I decided to know better and not meddle in people's affairs. When I looked to the right, I saw a grandma fish two blue, fresh fifty dollars notes and handed them to his grandson without much of a word. The classic case of who you should target in "How To Rob, Explained".

Yes, I was shocked myself when I saw a particular female crying right outside the departure gates. So is the television box a bunch of lies and sensationalised, or are they moulded after real-life incidents?

*

Richard Lim calls himself a spiritual pornographer (go read his article on Sunday Times). My obession on spiritual matters might not reach his level, but I was comtemplating whether to call myself knowledge pornographer, or a knowledge voyeur. To define it, it would go with the lines of "An obsessive observer of knowledge or information". I believe my usage of Wikipedia averages about twice everytime I launch my FireFox browser, and I'm not counting my searches in GraceNote, IMDB, Amazon and Google. It's probably still an undiagnosed disorder, but the latest Time issue has helpfully tried to bring to attention some of the traits and disorders pertaining to attention deficiency.

*

A dash of Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children

2006-01-22T13:59:00.000+08:00

"The moment I was old enough to play board games, I fell in love with Snakes and Ladders. O perfect balance of rewards and penalties! O seemingly random choices made by tumbling dice! Clambering up ladders, slithering down snakes, I spent some of the happiest days of my life. When, in my time of trial, my father challenged me to master the game of shatranji, I infuriated him by preferring to invite him, instead, to chance his fortune among the ladders and nibbling snakes.

All games have morals; and the game of Snakes and Ladders captures, as no other activity can hope to do, the eternal truth that for every ladder you climb, a snake is waiting just around the corner; and for every snake , a ladder will compensate. But it's more than that; no mere carrot-and-stick affair, because implicit in the game is the unchanging twoness of things, the duality of up against down, good against evil; the solid rationality of ladders balances the occult sinuousities of the serpent; in the opposition of staircase and cobra we can see, metaphorically, all conceivable opposition, Alpha against Omega, father against mother; here is the war of Mary and Musa, and the polarities of knees and nose... but I found, very early in my life, that the game lacked one crucial dimension, that of ambiguity - because as events are about to show, it is also possible to slither down a ladder and lcimb to truimph on the venom of a snake... Keeping things simple for the moment, however, I recrod that no sooner had my mother discovered the ladder to victory represented by her racecourse luck than she was reminded that the gutters of the country were still teeming with snakes."

*

Something I had loved but never really got down to typing it out and posting it. I thought it was both peculiar and intelligent to strike a chord between the familar game of Snake and Ladders to the ups and downs of our lives (and this comes from someone who didn't really appreciate the simplicity of the board game). Mister Rushdie refers back to this analogy a couple of times in the four hundred-odd pages of novel (which deservely won the Booker of Bookers.

Here, the narrator's discourse on truth and belief strikes me as a passionate plea, and the flow of words vaguely remind me of another novel named after a flower, and screams Rashomon. And this makes a lot of sense following the whirlwind around author James Frey and his "fictional autobiography" (and Oprah Winfrey's support, of course).

*

"...'I told you the truth,' I say yet again, 'Memory's truth, because memory has its own special kind. It selects, eliminates, alters, exaggerates, minimizes, glorifies, and vilifies also; but in the end it creates its own reality, its heterogeneous but usually coherent version of events; and no sane human being ever trusts someone else's version more than his own.'

...'Even Muhammad,' I said, 'at first believed himself insane: do you think the notion never crossed my mind? But the Prophet had his Khadija, his Abu-Bakr, to reassure him of the genuineness of his Calling; nobody betrated him into the hands of asylum-doctors.'...'What is the truth?' I waxed rhetorical, 'What is sanity? Did Jesus rise up from the grave? Do Hindus not accept that the world is a kind of dream; that Brahma dreamed, is dreaming the universe; that we only see dimly through that dream-web, which is Maya. Maya,' I adoped a haughty, lecturing tone, 'may be defined as all that is illusory; as trickery, artifice and deceit. Apparitions, phantasms, mirages, sleight-of-hand, the seeming form of things: all these are parts of Maya."

Piggy's tirade

2006-01-14T22:39:00.000+08:00

I examined my doings today and realised that it has been nothing short of a short piece of film that WKW (or affectionately, mister Wong Kar-wai) would have done, mixed in with the usual goodness of Murakami, a bit a-la Cheungking Express; I (happened to) visted an old haunt, where hours were spent with Her half-studying, half-distracted by Her herself. Sitting by the window, I couldn't help but get distracted again this time. The peculiarities of couples walking by and into the franchise. The odd counter lady-staff has been replaced with a young chap (probably awaiting his O Levels results) and his friend, who's another young lady (also waiting for her results) in the kitchen.

"Value-combo meal three!"

The radio station is still as awful I must say. And I must declare as well that I'm fully confident of hosting a better show than the deejay. Cringed at the public revelations of secondary school and junior college days, and her story-telling about how Friday the Thirteen went for a host of people.

"And this song goes out to Jack... spelt as J-A-C-Q, so I guess it's a she."

I really think I have a sweeter voice than the deejay.

*

Such are the complete lives of youth (I'm speaking more of the secondary school days here). If mrbrown and his blog (forgetting his famous National Education segments) can convince a host of working adults/adoloscents to get their bums out of the seat and got jogging on a regular basis (and I'm told Mr Miyagi brings attention to certain children with disabilities), then with my blog, I do harbour a goal to educate (maybe too harsh a word there) about the ups-and-downs of being part of a group of youths (stereotyped as troubled teens, heartlanders with colourful language [read: regular vulgarities]). What makes what I've been doing for the past years unique is the unblinking piece of fact: it's a secular (though with pretty heavy leanings to being Cheena-fied) group of people. Pretty much like your Christian cellgroup and fellow-worshipping, but without the Bible, God or guitars. And I've only realised that today.

*

Looking at them during our now tradition sitting-on-chairs-in-a-circle-in-the-activity-hall made me acknowledge that the thought that I have wishes of imposing my own beliefs and hatred on them. It's something I never really could stand; somebody insisting on something without proper reason or truth, and entirely on the basis of faith and experience. It has become an inside joke that we operate as a match-making agency that could rival our nation's Social Development Unit (or the other, superior unit established). A pretty good laugh, seeing how many relationships have been created and broken apart under the big shelter of volunteering. ZW put it very succulently, expressing his disappointments over so many youths (and volunteers, I would add) have left us simply because their relationships didn't work out. How true.

*

It's ironic how I talk to people at times. About not to laugh at what I'm about to reveal next. He laughed immediately after I said "My mind works like a web browser." And I had yet to touch on the fact that it works like my current version of Firefox, with my own customised search engines at top-right, with quite a powerful database of history (of what's in my mind), and how it really comes with forward and back buttons. I've gone to publicly admitting that I spend way too much time online with FireFox overworked. I have such minute attention spans that resemble the mutiple tabs I open when browsing, and things have detoriated ever since I installed Tab Mix Plus extension, because I now can 'Undo Close Tab'. Such a simple button, but I have so much respect for it. Because my life lacks the "Undo Close Tab" function. This is one of the many debilitating illness of all time; regret.

(You can tell how screwed up my mind is when I attempt to describe, encapsulate my life as a enhanced FireFox browser version onepointfive. Thank God it's not IE.)

*

My nightmares. I decided that I might be able to earn quick bucks off them; both of my close friends had a good laugh when I told them briefly about the two nightmares I had on Thursday night-Friday morning, when I was sleeping in (concentration) camp. I'm going to try giving an account again here and see whether it will make it to Joke of the Day-Week-Month-Year-Decade-Century. The first involved my dad (who has hardly ever appeared in my dreams before, an omen) and myself. We were trying to find our way to an unknown place on a dark night, with a simple path with surroundings resembling a park. After a few moments of moving forward in that eerie environment, we decided it was the wrong way and turned back to where we came from. Slight panic at this moment, because I had the feeling that we might be trapped in this God-forsaken place. Here comes the 'punchline': A woman (resembling a Chinese national - please note that I'm not xenophobic, there are plausible explanations as to why my subconscious 'chose' the appearance of this woman) appeared in front, with almost ghostly eyes, starring hard at my Dad. We froze, and I proceeded to shout at the woman (a warning I guess), probably as a gut instinct to protect my Dad. My Dad, on the other hand, had no reactions.

The other little nightmare I have less details (my memory fails me) of, but I've seen that it made my two close friends laugh even harder. It involved me, in the position of a teacher, being bullied by my students. Physical bullying, no less. It really made me ask 'why-what-huh'.

*

As an Asian through and through (I seriously doubt any of my direct/indirect ancestors were not from Asia), this is a very difficult subject or topic to broach about. I waited for seventeen years to finally hear my friends talk about it, and I was left wondering today whether the next generation (I'm thinking of people about eight years my junior) will take how many years of growth before they'll start talking about it privately among themselves.

(The above is related to the below)

As a self-confessed computer nerd, I've had both the honour and dishonour to help people out with their personal computers, laptops and-what-nots when they deem the machines un-repairable, condemned or dead. (I must say I'm pretty uncomfortable about typing this, but such is the importance of the matter at hand that I need to vomit) Maybe it's my calling and someone above who's omnipotent has decided that this is Edward's fate. Or it's my personality - I take awareness and dexterity-of-fingers-clicking-on-the-mouse-and-keyboard together. It happens. I invariably find folders that ought to be renamed "Pretend-You-Didn't-See-This". I wished they had warned me that way - I'd be a less stressed, uptight person. To put in keywords that describe what I find on people's computers: (typing these out will sadly lead misled people searching for them to my blog) "porn", "pr0n", "nude pictures", "nude videos" or (I saw this on someone's search engine's autocomplete or history) "naked girls". Or solitaire that involved the 'nekkid kind'. I'm not judging people (or I'm trying very hard not to). But the reaction has always been similar; immediate shock, and an attempt to hide it (because someone's mother is looking at the very same monitor, or shame-guilt). Because "Edward-the-one-with-the-dexterous-fingers", I usually click away or He heaves a quiet sigh of relief. Here lies my dilemma - is my doing (of clicking away, their undoing) a sin proportionate to those who witnessed what Hitler had in his plans and carried out, but simply looked away? (inaction!)
(I have chose to end the topic discussion on such a mocking note because further dissection of morals-ethics-porn-or-art-debate will kill me. Through stress. Yes.)

2006-01-10T01:22:00.000+08:00

I think I just developed another way of watching movies. I started watching Garden State one quarter into the show, fell in love with it (because of Natalie Portman), ended the show, then played the first quarter back again. It's a weird way of watching, but I must add it was quite a peculiar show to start with. It has "emo" written all over it, and Zach Braff's acting was quite an equivalent to a Bill Murray (Broken Flowers). Quite a mean feat considering he wrote and directed the show as well.

Saying Farewell 101, imagining. (continued)

2006-01-02T01:05:00.000+08:00

I seem to find myself somehow getting increasingly disconnected from the real world, reminded no less by this throbbing headache of mine, which has no real tangible solution, but to wait for my body to repair itself.

*

I received the realisation this morning that saying proper goodbyes are very important to me. I cherish my dreams, and my subconscious decided to give me lesson on Saying Farewell 101. Or adequately closing chapters in my life, because I'll never wish to return to this chapter thirty years down the road and heave a big sigh of regret.

*

Such is my illness at the moment. I have a certain gut instinct that I'm hitting threshold point (or touching, not too near at the moment) of turning my dreams into lucid ones. In my maiden dream for the year, I found myself giving so much to someone at the point of no return (and separation). The sense of sadness is deeper than what I've encountered in reality; and I believe this is of relation to a periodically re-occurring dream of myself in tears and grief finding that my mother is no longer around. As if they needed evidence to back the point about how dreams happen 'in reverse' or in opposition, I've always believed that I'll be in a sombre state when the grim reaper (or one of the devil's slaves) visits my parents.

*

Dreaming (not exactly daydreaming in the strictest sense) has officially been a form of escapcism for me. I recall a handful of instances back in (concentration) camp where I decided to go back to sleep/nap not because I was tired, fatigued or bored, but because I wanted to dream somemore. It's probably got to do with my obsession with knowledge and information; I do believe that I seem to be able to yield more (to satisfy this almost crazy appetite) when I dream than in the waking world - and I certainly have a right to put much of the blame on national slavery. Reading scenicism's thoughts on 2005 - specifically on running away to this mental corner when depressed - highlighted more of this escapist nature in me. I think I was hiding in this mental corner for the whole stay in the Island of Doom, depression running throughout. I too, starred at the sky everytime there was a plane roar, during the week before and on the actual week Pearle was scheduled to touch down at Changi. The track was one of the open places in the Island of Doom where I could clearly see which airlines from the tail of the planes, and this simple fact made me enjoy running/jogging more than any of the other (slavery) activities.

*

I do fear the worst when I return back to (concentration) camp tomorrow, but I do know I have already pulled through many of the self-dubbed 'this-is-the-worst/this-is-the-end' times. What I wish to do is to draw strength from that fact (history does empower people, go read White Oleander) and to continue the journey with the year still in its infancy.

*

Sometimes I can't help but chide myself for getting and reading so many novels, because it's a cheap and powerful form of escapcism. I might not be exactly reading escape/fantasy island fiction (something Ms G would murder me for) , but those who read what I've been reading might concur that it's not very healthy reading. This coming from someone who absoulutely adores most, if not all, of what he has read for the year. It's from such books, at the same time, I draw strength, imagination and optimism from. Oddly, I've always felt reading Golding's Lord of the Flies for O Levels (and me being the kiasu mugger who digested whatever analysis and interpretation I could lay my hands on) brought this sense of pessimism, acute awareness about the evilness in all of men's hearts, to my inborn optimism. This must explain my both dislike and awe at Conrad's Heart of Darkness (Peter Jackson's King Kong touched momentarily on how such 'dark mystery' seduces the very core of man's heart, despite danger written all over, which I thought was a neat point), and why I'm interested to read Endo's The Sea and Poison.

*

I'm curious to find out how my mind heals the soul and vice versa, after having my dream this morning demonstating saying farewell and properly closing a chapter of life. I still am too emotional to carry out any semblance of the dream in real, so I'm actually speculating (the blasphemy) that the realistic dream can do the job as well, if not better. Of course, I'm really beginning to blur reel and real. I know.

Bits and pieces (follow the asterisks)

2005-12-30T21:40:00.000+08:00

Morals. I've been told that I'm quickly becoming a person devoid of moral values, (or if there's such a word) immoral-istic. I haven't been figuring out why, though it's very easy to pin the blame on many factors. But morals are always a tricky game. Especially when emotions and politics come into play. I just love this piece from Non Sequitur, which's probably taking a dig at a certain Bush president.

*

New year's resolutions. I haven't had time to revisit my archives, but I'm quite optimistic that I've kept to my resolutions for at least the past two years. National slavery and being stuck in (concentration) camp has provided me with yet the toughest lesson I have had to learn: tolerance and patient. This comes from last year's critics as to what an uptight ma-ma's boy I am (I still am, thank you very much). Personally, I thought yoga made a real impact in my life, compared to the pages of self-help (and self-improvement, of course) I used to indulge in. Yoga, in my opinion, is one of the most real skill one can pick up, but alas, it's been over-talked about, over-hyped, over-commercialised and under-practiced. I still hold fond memories of myself taking yoga lessons in a small dance studio, filled with women who age are at least twice of mine's, that very patient instructor/teacher and the ambience music playing softly in the background. I think I can safely credit her for making me believe in ambience music.

Of course, life as a slave (for nine months already!) has made it seemingly easier to take things easier (or stop taking life too seriously = uptight about things). I must have seen, heard and done the most number of riduculous matters in this year, that I've ceased to take everything and everything seriously.

One thing I'm afraid of is my brain matter failing to connect and express. I've realised my reflection topics has gone on to the absurd, supernatural and seemingly unimportant affairs of life - no longer the penetrative powers (which nearly made me go crazy of course). I blame it on the lack of sleep and hours spent outfield (on sentry duty, no less) waiting for the sky to drop. The mind drifts off, and I've caught myself on several occasions humming the tune of Teletubbies, revisting milestones in my life (in reel mode) and asking what if and why.

*

I'm lacking a mentor, a role model. And so I told Pearle and confided in her about how my morals have gone down the drain. Things got so bad in my mind that I felt impulses within to visit the church. I haven't been telling anybody this (it doesn't make very interesting conversation to start with), but I've been chanting, and quite regularly. My mum would be very happy about this fact since I'm chanting Nam-myoho-renge-kyo (the Nichiren branch specifically), something she's been prodding me to do for at least the past ten years. Mentioning so, I've been keeping mum about it simply because I don't wish to make her misunderstand about my faith; I'm still very doubtful about the whole organisation (and praying to a sacred piece of paper in a cupboard), and I feel more comfortable and happier just following the words and practices of Buddha himself, and also (she'll be unhappy reading this) being in a church.

I've been chanting whenever I need some calming down; and this happens very often whenever I'm in (concentration) camp, whether it's dealing with people and relationships, or challenges and situations. I've seen myself get so much more emotional than before (and than I thought I'll be). The thing is that I'm almost immediately aware of it, right after, and I haven't had much luck in stopping such emotional outbursts (Gary and Chris love to use this term on me) beforehand. It's easy to diagnose such emotional outbursts as a result of extreme stress, but I think it has been quite a repeated issue with myself. It'll be only good for myself (and the people around me) that I attempt to deal with such emotional issues (or traumas), especially since it seems to be slowly getting out of hand. There are strange times when I'll be reading a particlar article off the newspaper or magazine, and there will suddenly come a point where I need to hold back my tears. It's really as if the tear gates suddenly opened, and it's in reaction to what I'm reading. The peculiar thing is that I can never seem to identify the exact trigger for my tears; it's not exactly something extremely depressing or touching I'm reading, and it might not happen again should I be reading something similar at another time. (This 'problem', is at an complete end from the kind of total nonchalance I have at certain times to the same topic. Troubling.)

*

Walking along without a mentor (a someone to hold your hand or to borrow the popular Christian/Catholic image of God carrying you at your most difficult times), without guidance from an all-powerful One (I'm still pondering whether I believe in one), my life has been a total mess. Not so. I have read so much more and watched the most number of movies this year than any other year; expressions and images will hopefully keep the fire in my mind and heart burning brightly. I've been seeing this year as one with a huge and steep learning curve (if life was a graph), with the safely net seemingly taken away (or vanished upon a bed of clouds!). Thrusted high on a balancing rope (and I have a huge phobia of height) and made to move only forward on the rope. But I never thought I'll be able to run so fast - the year has indeed passed very quickly, in my mind.

I failed to record down my experiences and musings about working for the first time in my life: first as manual labour and packaging (tho' very short-term), very oft-talked about times as a relief teacher back at my seconday school (fond memories, redux!) and the less talked-about obscure, almost secretive, admin personnel on the thirty sixth (or was it thirty second?) floor of a bank tower in Shenton Way. The first job allowed me to be in touch with my feminine side (strangely), the second job was well-paid but gave me lessons in mantaining that teacher image and never allowing students to leave the class before time and how much I appreciate my teachers. The strongest impressions I had of my last job was of taking lifts umpteen times, sweet milk tea and being totally submerged in Elfriede Jelinek's The Piano Teacher.

*

I'll continue this when my headache ceases.

Baaa.

2005-12-30T09:30:00.000+08:00

"Huh?"

The Billy Goat
Deliberate Brutal Sex Dreamer (DBSDm)

Horny. Stubborn. Kinda cute. Slightly immature. And often found on rough terrain. You are The Billy Goat.

You're lusty, but typically monogamous, and all in all you're a pretty good boyfriend. In fact, you enjoy relationships, if mostly for the sex and physical companionship. You'd do or say almost anything to get together with someone, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

You're sensitive, you have a certain boyish charm, and you're eager. Therefore you probably attract girls who are serious about romance. But few who get close to you realize how unready for total commitment you are. People fall for you. Meanwhile, you maintain your emotional distance, and there goes another box of tissues.

Your exact opposite:
The Loverboy

Random Gentle Love Master

You're perfectly capable of a long-haul relationship, but, right now, dating someone primarily means having a consistent, available, preferably not-too-chatty, hookup. You're a careful, methodical person, and you work hard at making things work. It's just that the type of woman most likely to find your strengths endearing is also the most likely type to find your shortcomings heartbreaking. Someone with a similarly laid-back approach to dating would be perfect for you.

ALWAYS AVOID: The Priss, The Sonnet, The Wild Rose

CONSIDER: The Playstation

Link: The 32-Type Dating Test by OkCupid - Free Online Dating.
My profile name: footix2411

*

This has been an extremely fun quiz to take, and it was done partly in response to Pearle's. Haha! Just don't ask why.

An old piece of shell from the hermit.

2005-12-29T10:51:00.000+08:00

This is something I fished out from one of my folders (titled "Uncategorised, messy stuff"), with the date stamp of Novemember 1st, a year ago in 2004. I have a strange habit at times of not recognising what I've written. I think I wrote this very short piece back at the height of mugging time for my General Paper. Enjoy!

"Hermit crabs look for empty shells for a simple reason: to protect their own abdomens.

There is no other reason other than for survival’s sake. The coconut crab, is named so for its ability to climb up trees to “pluck” coconuts; its strong sharp claws are capable of piercing through the tough husk of the coconut. The adult crabs leave behind the coconut shells as they have already developed protection, and can subsequently grow into larger sizes.

Leaving the animal kingdom behind, hermits are usually male-dominated. Several early Christian and Buddhist followers have led a hermit’s life.

I certainly only discovered all those facts after doing a search and reading through some articles. I have been always fascinated with the idea of the hermit’s ability to switch shells, as they grow larger. Humans who have the luxury to witness this special scenario, will find themselves marvelling and commenting how the crab has left behind its home.

I disagree with the last point made.

There is no evidence suggesting that hermit crabs treat their shells as homes, as it is seen more as a kind of evolution. It serves as a very basic function; to protect against any harm, for survival’s sake in other words.

Why the comment then about leaving its home behind?

Humans have a similar instinct to that of the hermit crab. The idea of a home, is more than the concept of a roof over one’s head, or loosely put in, a shelter. I am strongly with the idea that home is where the heart is. Is physical space, and walls and furniture make up ‘home’? If you have answered no to the last question, then ask yourself when was the last time you felt home-sick.

Can one certainly live without a home, in the material sense? Putting hermits aside, do individuals possess the physical and mental ability to live without a real home? The exploration of the notion ‘home’ is not new. In an increasingly globalisation, and as McLuhan coined the term ‘global village’, one cannot stop but marvel at how close we are to one another in this world. Friendster was just a commercial attempt to connect people together, while earning advertising revenues at the same time.

So the big question lies in finding out where exactly is home.

Many years ago, when I was still young, innocent and while cartoons and movies on television for pure enjoyment’s sake, the caravan struck me as a wonderful vehicle. How wonderful would it be to be able to sleep while being on the road literally, and for the food-lovers, grab a bite with the refrigerator just ‘next door’? This could be all done within the comfort of your home.

Travelling was a notion imbued in you as you grew up. The first aeroplane I knew was that of Singapore Airlines (thanks to their successful marketing), though my first air trip was on Qantas, and without failed, I vomited into the waxy, paper bag the airlines had provided to every passenger, upon touching down at Brisbane’s international airport. To be honest, I never felt at ease the entire vacation in which I was far away from my country. My mum had remarked many times that “home is still best”.

But what ‘best home’? The foreignness is eradicated, but there is still a strong lingering sense to get out of the country and experience the vast world out there. Luxembourg is ranked as the world’s safest city. Singapore remains one of the safest city in Asia. Why aren’t we keeping this ‘shell’ for protection?"

Whine, trust and one minute of your life

2005-12-28T22:59:00.000+08:00

This is very interesting indeed:

The ST reported a recent survey about whining conducted by the Reader's Digest, and respondents were asked to add their own gripes to the list of twenty provided. I found Singapore's a gem, on what they like to moan about; "people who stereotype others by age or race, kissing in public, picking one's nose, cellphone ring tones and adjusting underwear when people think no one's looking. Oh, they also hate surveys."

Haha! What about moaning about people who love to moan?

*

I'm on my own movie marathon! I caught two movies that were coincidentally similar in plot and climax: Closer (2004) last night, and Days Of Being Wild (1991) this afternoon. It explains why they say if you've seen one love story, you've seen all love stories. I watched the former because of its excellent review in Times a year back (Julia Robert's facial expressions akin to a BBC newscaster's words, and my personal fancy for Natalie Portman), and the latter because of my own commitment to finish watching all of mister Wong Kar-Wai films.

I never expected this, but I find myself laughing pretty hard during the dialogue in Closer. Maybe it's the British accent (and sense of humour, even if it's ironic to raise how real is the British content), or the deliciously realistic depiction of life's relationships. I won't use the word 'love' to cheapen it further, but somehow, I felt Mike Nichols was trying to laugh at how the word "love" (and related euphemisms) is being so carelessly thrown around. I fully appreciate his acute sense of subtleness.
On a darker side, I found myself drawn towards Dan (Jude Law's character) and simple minded we both are pertaining to love, relationships (and having sex with your eyes closed). But it was a big joy for me to see how Larry (acted by Clive Owens) "fought back" and also Julia Robert's character Anna - I find myself liking all four leads and their immaculate talent. Mister Nichols certainly has the ability to make me like his works.

Days of Being Wild's Mimi is somewhat similar to Natalie Portman's Alice (or Miss Jane Jones), the former being a dancer. I must be watching Leslie Cheung for the first time, and I can't help but think he's the predecessor to later Tony Leung's characters or portrayals. He holds his own unique sense of magic, pretty much different from Tony Leung's luring eyes, and I'm making a personal note that I must watch Happy Together (1997).

The magical world of Wong Kar-wai, in my opinion is at its experimental stage here, or his beginnings. This coming from someone who caught Chungking Express (1994), In the Mood for Love (2000) , 2046 (2004), Chungking Express, in that order. An entire movie in Cantonese did make me feel a bit foreign at the beginning, but I got used to it. I was pleasantly surprised to find a young Su Li-Zhen, portrayed by Maggie Cheung (who will later continue to feature in In the Mood for Love and 2046). I honestly found Jacky Chueng and Andy Lau's appearances in a Wong Kar-Wai (my beloved mister Wong Kar-Wai), to put it mildly, quite disgusting and/or vulgar. Andy Lau's features clearly tells the audience that he's not cut out to be in his films, and sets the tone precisely to what kind of role he's meant for (the hero-at-the-end type; he helps Leslie Chung's character out in a brawl/fight). Jacky Cheung, for the love of what's above, is horribly silly in his character; when he tells Mimi that he can go to him if she can't find Yuddy (played Leslie Cheung) in the Phillipines. "Please stick to singing." Keeping history in perspective, they probably got roped in because they were up and coming stars in the industry then, but man, what failings I say. It'll be hard to predict what comes out of Ziyi Zhang, say, ten years after she played Bai Ling in 2046.

Couldn't resist this one

2005-12-28T22:22:00.000+08:00

CHOCOLATE THERAPY!
You scored 85% SWEET, 55% CHUNKY, and 81% UNIQUE!

chocolate ice cream with chocolate cookies & swirls of chocolate pudding ice cream

You, my friend, ooze sweetness, just like this ice cream flavor. But there's much more to you than that...you tend to view things differently than other people and you like to engage yourself in creative, challenging activities. You're spunky, but not too wild, which is nice. Those who understand you tend to get along with you very well, appreciating all that you have to offer...and you offer a lot :)

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 89% on SWEET
You scored higher than 8% on CHUNKY
You scored higher than 90% on UNIQUE

Link: The Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream Flavor Test written by weered1 on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Murakami ideas

2005-12-13T19:59:00.000+08:00

Murakami's short story, Thailand, struck a deep, almost disturbing chord in me. While I was reading Mo Yan's novella Big Breast and Wide (dubbed as a sex novel by almost everybody around me, who saw me reading it in bunk). I ended the reading of both texts with a few days in between. This together with my time spent today in front of news sites, and devouring any information that was on Google News, Guardian and that bit Agence France Presse.

His views about the Kobe earthquake and the Tokyo gas attack as “twin manifestations of a violence just benath the surface of Japanese life” is pretty much worth exploring, and applying on a global or personal scale. As I was explaining the ice-berg theory over dinner to my mates last Friday. The infamous 'strip-squat-search' in Malaysia, the latest Sydney race riots (and possibly even the Paris riots, or the furore over the death sentence and his case), is, to my simple mind, glaring examples of such manifestations occuring right now. I know not of the causes (although globalisations and its effects come to my mind) but I believe I've seen it happen to myself.
I discovered and read something that perturbed me quite a fair bit, but I guess I didn't admit myself getting angry over it. “I'm fine about it, really.” Case closed. What struck me a while ago was how angry and upset I was at my dear mum – I screamed at her for not buying the small tube of toothpaste I needed – that I made her go to the mini-mart again to get it. One can simply dismiss it as 'outburst'; probably down to Edward's personality. I may have a horrid temper, but I find it much more reasonable to link it to the particularly unhappy reading in the afternoon (than to the controversial matter of hormones, time of the month).

*

I suspect that I'm pretty much de-sensitised when it comes to accounts of battered familes, cancer-struck patients and unfortunate traffic accidents (and of the such). I still wonder why I have to hold back my tears at certain times when I read, and I don't think I've lost much of my sympathy (or empathy). I used to feel hopeless whenever reading of such disasters, and I think I've found the reason as to why I get quite nonchalant (very disrespectful, I know) in such (impersonal to an extent, I'd say) circumstances:

RADIO: ... garrison already decimated by the Vietcong, who lost 115 of their men...
WOMAN: It's awful, isn't it, it's so anonymous.
MAN: What is?
WOMAN: They say 115 guerillas, yet it doesn't mean anything, because we don't know anything about these men, who they are, whether they love a woman, or have children, if they prefer the cinema to the theatre. We know nothing. They just say ... 115 dead.
- JEAN-LUC GODARD, Pierrot le Fou [taken from page iv of 'after the quake' by Murakami]

***

I feel the rust, around my brain matter every time I attempt to write something on Blogger. My mind has been working on overkill for at least the past two weeks, and it's not as if it's generating ideas and concepts that can make the world a better plans. I'd say most of my time spent thinking would be on assuring myself and my life, or attempting to strike out a better 'thinking plan' for myself. I know it doesn't sound right, but I'm thinking of thinking.

The point is, my hands do not move as fast as my thought processes go, and I wholly put the blame on my brain, because it seems to be delaying or detering any action from being taken. It's quite a sickening situation: my mind runs away with all its ideas, but refuses any form of recording to be done. T'was, explaining my slightly morbid behaviour for the past week or so; keeping mum about things and keeping comments inside the head, and being a bit of an anti-social by burrying myself in books. Normally, self-help books help coax the mind out of its selfish little shell known as the skull (this being a tried-and-proven method), but few years back, I did promise a certain someone that I'll slowly wean off my dependency on self-help books. So I'm caught in a rut, and it'll take a while before Edward reclaims his mind back and get his feet back on the floor. The festive season (read: at least a week-long break from concentration camp) should help.

If my mind decides to run away again, I've got Angela Carter's Burning Your Boats, Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children, Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Dostoovsky's Notes from Underground and Shusaku Endo's The Sea and the Poison for company (not to mention many more I'll be getting impulsively).

An attempt to explain my nightmares.

2005-12-11T00:27:00.000+08:00

Time to get a little philosopical I guess. I've always felt people haven't been spending enough time thinking, calming themselves down before they decide to trigger a brain reaction.

I haven't been tempted enough to drop my pants and chase after job qualifications, a big house with private amenities, find a family and have lovely children. Still reckless (and silly I suppose) to not fear dying slowly (read: suffering) on the streets of slums of a forgotten city. By doing so, I may cease to place any desirable value of my own individual piece of life, and how comparable am I to a being without a soul? Perhaps I have so much distaste for modern society and values (certain ones, not entirely) that I'm launching my own ultimatum; try to change the world "in just one night", or simply vanish from the face of the earth.

Of course, I'm not one to give up without a fight. Still, I fear that come one cold, windy night, that flame within my heart diminishes to darkness. Right now, I feel that I'm treading through the proverbial desert, with sand-laden sandals.

My frequent nightmares reflect such a reality versus reel going on in my mind and heart: My ego is the protagonist (hero in simple terms) who takes the opportunity to right a wrong (examples include rescuing a particular person or character, escaping with a particular object of relative importance, fleeing from the 'scene of crime' after realisation or accquiring information), gets entrapped in the process (thus being the conflict, crux of the nightmare). My memory or subconscious might fail me here, but I hardly recall being able to escape successfully (which makes perfect sense as to why it's a nightmare). In strict categorisation, it would be a simple drama, followed by action and thrill, and the action just ceases at that point.

It hinges back to my strong, almost instinctual, fears about not living up to my expectations, ambitions, yearnings.

***

I guess it's time to stop thinking for a while.

Francis Martin.

2005-11-27T19:34:00.000+08:00

I haven't had a chance to rave about The Town and the City; Kerouac's first novel published, something I've been spending the past couple of weeks pretty glued. And I'm unbashedly proud of the truly vintage copy I picked up, yellow and 'brittle pages', most likely printed in 1950. I came across this nice writeup about the novel at LitKicks.

Reading about Francis Martin brought up a dark side of me, reminded me of my own beliefs, and perhaps, a soulless intellectual like him. Early in the first part of the book, Kerouac writes something about young Francis that shocked me so much. LitKicks mentions this as well - the incident where the Francis in his youth, bewitched by this girl named Mary (she strikes me as an aloof Arabella of sorts, perhaps with less of the sexual provacativenss, but still too much a tease for Francis' heart to handle.) "Sick and drooping with love", Francis decides to give Mary a piece of jewelry purchased from the local Galloway jewelry store, cycling over to her place, planning to give her a pleasant surprise. What Kerouac proceeds to paint is so realistic that I swear he had encountered the same situation before. Mary's out, with another boy (with a car, no less!), at the nearby beach. It's her birthday by the way. Mary refuses his invitation to go on a ride on Francis' bicycle as she's "going for a ride on the highway for some ice-cream up at Bill's". He leaves "with a feeling of dry rotten horror in his heart", and in order to avoid the trauma of meeting up with Mary and Chuck as they drive up:
"The car was moving along the old dirt road, it's headlights reaching over the bushes where he was walking, and in a moment he knew his wretched figure would be revealed in shafts of light for all to see. He suddenly threw himself on the ground with his bicycle and lay breathlessly embracing the grass in darkness."

Francis does hearing Mary asking "Where's Francis? I don't see him anywhere! He just disappeared!", and it haunts him later when he gets home. It's with such magic depiction that the Town and the City has earned my respect and love; (mind you, this is just about Francis. Alex Panos, Joe Martin, Peter Martin, Liz Martin and George Martin feature heavily throughout as well.) with good luck and fortune, this will be one work I would like to produce for the big screen, a ten, twenty episode of sorts, a journey about the American dream and the first half of the twentieth century.

*

Time flies. My youths and kids are heading the Mawai, and this year's project is coming to an end. Nineteen. I just turned nineteen, three days ago, very so quietly, in (concentration) camp.

Already nineteen.

2005-11-20T20:38:00.000+08:00

Just a quick post since I'm running out of time.

I took advice, went to somewhere pretty peaceful, but with an entire group of adorable people who were bent on having fun.

Finally found time and the mood to sit down and watch Yojimbo (loosely translated: 'bodyguard'), released back in 1961 by Mister Kurosawa and went on to influence the likes of Clint Eastwood and Hollywood. I must praise Toshiro Mifune for being quite an unique actor. I'm thinking of Sanjuro (the perceived sequel to this) next =)

Trip that was never meant to be

2005-11-13T21:28:00.000+08:00

Something I fished out of my personal scrapbook and wanted to share on my blog (completely unedited!), because I still enjoy the sentimentality of what I wrote.

Dated twentyeight October '04.

"Had cultivated some thoughts in the bathroom,
When I was showering and my bright mind was lit.
Had set my thoughts in my visual mind.
That I would secretly buy you flowers by the beach side,
Which I haven't done so in a long time, ever since our last big quarrel -
The last time I had a big bawl, and caused you much misery
Several months ago.

My mind was wondering;
Just like how I'll be able to wander like a kid on a beach,
A foreign land, but ever so beautiful in my mind.
Because I was able to spend time with you.
Why I had agree to your invitation so readily and eagerly
Because I was able to spend time with you.

I think I'm still in love with you;
Simply because otherwise, I wouldn't be holding back my tears.
The irony is so mockingly evil;
Because as a naive child (which I probably am) I had told many of my friends.
But I still treasure you as much.

I do recognise that it wasn't your fault
The world is complicated enough with its affairs,
And I know I shouldn't be adding to your woes.
For you said there would be another opportunity.

Deeply sceptical and cynical I maybe;
Because I fear losing you
But that shouldn't be bothering me at all.
Because life is short enough.
I will spend it the best way I can be (and not the most pleasing way)

For this was the trip never meant to be."

*

[Done so as part of Edward's theraputic program and brought to you by the letter 'E'.]

Saved by the nightmare

2005-11-13T16:39:00.000+08:00

I had a nightmare, on my obligatory afternoon nap. I dreamt that I was about to re-take my A levels, spent no time studying since I was serving the nation. I panicked when I flipped through the syllabus paper hours before the paper (my beloved Literature paper eight, no less) and realised I had no inkling, the train on thought on any of the possibly tested topics or keywords. I proceeded to re-joice in the fact that having to take my papers would allow me to book out of (concentration) camp.

This goes hand-in-hand with my recurring nightmares of never being able to 'make it in time', should it be for an examination paper, an important event, a date/appointment or just to get home.

I must be one scared little kid lately. (Though I haven't been reading horror stories or watching horror movies) [I shall blog about this another time when I have my Kerouac novel beside me.]

*

I was racking my brains (as usual) last weekend on the bus ride as to what made me such an angry (arrogant) Edward, those crazy mood swings littered with near insanity. What a terribly impatient young man I've been, a disgustingly brash twerp that drives people up the wall. A little self-depreciating.

I realised I have this infinite capacity to dream and desire (someone will name it the Saggitarius' optimism), wonderous expectations with elaborate plans in the magnitude of trying to take over the world. You can't be winners all the time, and with so much stakes I throw out at times, there's a tendency to fall flat and get run over by a rollercoaster.

Has been disappointing the week before because my plans for a play production has been cruelly hacked off, so now I'm just a pseudo-director with even no "DIRECTOR" chair. I was telling Shu and Jason this, and I'll be happy to proclaim it here: I have some wild dreams of being involved in a production at the newly-built Drama Centre. I just adore that place. Or it might be just as momentarily as my current obsession with Alain Mikli's shades. Until then, I shall try to save up and buy cheap tickets to sneak in and watch the world.

*

Yes. I was very mad at this. So angry was I that I christened it as "The White Elephants Affairs". About being ahead of me with the printing of the tees (ugly!). And what they wrote as they decided to play safe.

White Tigers and Coffee

2005-11-06T15:24:00.000+08:00

The jackass penguin and the white tiger. What my camera managed to snap at day at mandai.

It has been an emo Sunday because I've had two cans of coffee within ten hours last night, quite a feat for me (who wishes to stay off from any form of coffee addiction). Unfortunately, I've been growing old and realising it is quite a pain in the proverbial ass. I'll be turning nineteen in less than twenty days, by no means old when average life expectancy spans about seventy, eighty odd years.

As I was telling Crystal (and how Shu has put it beautifully), we actually think "we know the world". The mighty arrogance, the oh-so "the world revolves around me, us" idea, the almost undying soul. The greatest expression of disbelief from my mum came when I told her (many many years ago) how I'll be able to escape starvation, because there will always be someone willing to feed and clothe me, family or stranger. (It was a gut feeling. I still can't find some influence to blame on for giving me such a belief.)

*

It felt almost sad this morning when I had to leave; leave the pretty "chalet", which I described as having forty beds, twenty for each sex and in separate dorms, kitchen with the complete tools, toliets with shower heads, a huge activity hall (with television, whiteboard, two noticeboards and many fans!) which I adore so much, a basketball court ten steps to the left, a bigger field to the right (with two big BBQ pits, complete with benches, a boulder wall with safety mats Chris would have been delighted with), and an even bigger field right in front of my eyes - those where your dogs can run forever in, fly a kite, or just chill seeing the sun rise/set.

I had to leave because I ran out of coffee, and more critically, I ran out of energy. Energy to chat with the youths till the wee hours of the morning, to make sure they're 'emotionally stable', and to make them admit that they're having good fun without booze and sleaze. Welcome to Edward's sanitized kingdom. But I could see in the twinkle in their eyes that they were really having fun. The riduculous games of guessing random numbers and equally riduculous forfeit ("The sky is falling! Falling, falling, falling!"). The little truths that shared that little about our lives, made us closer as a group anyway, even though my coffee was running out.

Put me on a stage, give me a mic and a mic stand, and I'll gratefully declare how fortunate my live is, up to the point where I'll forgo pursuing perfection. My folks, especially my Dad, hasn't been exceptionally glad of lately with my weekends being burnt at the organisation. (It probably IS about the lazy letter of commendation they had written for me, 'lousy' to his standards). Three to five times for the past few years when I felt I've been pushed way too much to the wall, grinded by the activities and that sense of helplessness, and that I wanted to run away from all such responsibilities. The fine art of recharging yourself, and boy do I feel I desperately need such a recharge - I didn't need coffee, in the past.

*

If you've considered about getting a Sony PSP, please do. Obviously I'm not a big fan.

Self publicity, ego boosting link.

Elephants have good memory power

2005-10-24T17:03:00.000+08:00

And because I went for a good walk after dinner last night.

I think Sunday nights are so much under-discussed, under-rated, under-valued and under-appreciated. They're like a mystery nobody wants to know about or bothers to find out. Yester-night was a pretty sight, but I must have killed a little over-walking.

*

Ever since switching to FireFox, my attention span has been reduced to the size of a booger. I need to manually restraint myself from opening tabs; it has grown so powerful that it's almost subconscious that I open another tab while waiting for the first one to load. The same goes for the number of background tasks I run. iTunes is in the background, but I can't exactly decide what to play, fearing that it will spoil my atmosphere, my mood. And in my room, there's probably about five other matters that require my immediate attention.

There must be a diagnosis for such split (obsessively) attention span. To make the roads a safer place, I've told everyone who asked why have I not learnt driving that I have such poor attention focus that I quietly appreciated the much criticised public transport network.

*

This pretty much gave me a jolt; after my smart suggestion to Shu that he design a tee similar to what he got, but in white and the elephant cutouts instead of the hungry hippo, the wrecked car and the two morons (men).

And I'm much aware that it's theoretically possibe under the Public Entertainment Act (told you so, Luke!), when I was reading the many articles published in the ST revolving around the whole hoo-ha over the cutouts. (Any photos of the actual elephant cutouts will be much appreciated.)

But this is a shocker considering my ambitious plan to get threadless to print the tees, purchase them, and parade them around Buangkok MRT station, Orchard Road and (gasp) City Hall-Bugis area.

This coming from someone who used to jog past the white elephant, and saw the white elephants while driving past that stretch of road on a nice Sunday morning.

(I wonder whether I could theoretically be arrested under the Sedition Act or the ISA for posting such a suggestion. Food for thought.)

"The mother: YOU"

2005-10-02T18:37:00.000+08:00

The rabbit. The cute bunny rabbit that appeared twice in the picture, at the beginning, and at the end.

It made me cry, tearless. Running in flip flops through the city, Kore-eda Hirokazu has managed to bring across an univeral picture of the street urchin that is growing up. Complexities of life and puberty issues creeps into the plot, but he does not allow it to overshadow the simple childhood of four children.

I had the simple mind to think it was a young girl on the cover of the picture. Kore-eda tricks you so convincingly throughtout.Depicting him (Akira, the main character, a tweleve year old boy) as the man of the household - the scene was shot in a fashion so striking jarring with what a husband and an actual man of the household would do and say - who masters the finer details of household care and management, he is twisted to become the sickly, almost-irritating childish kid who looms behind lanes and shoplifts. The breaking point comes when he is rejected by his (cram) school-going pals when he invites them to his place to try out a new game ("He has a very smelly and messy house"). What happened to the house which was immaticataely taken care of, and whose siblings knew the rules and did not cross the line?

And so their mum (with a uncomfortably high-pictched voice) leaves them for the city of Osaka, whose job is not mentioned. Akira makes the effort to forge fake letters from their mum addressing to the four children, bringing them much hope and joy. The faces of the children captures the essence of the show; their boisterous laughter, their mumblings and their longing; Apollo chocolates (this brand only), roller skates, a piano and a baseball glove.

The picture is moving because Kore-eda doesn't allow time to play tricks on him and he dares to express, with shots that would have otherwise been cut out and removed. (the approximate running time is a hefty two hours and twenty minutes, for a coming-of-age picture, this must be a bold move) Brutality and the harshness of life is fully shown in the eyes of Akira (who has the eyes of his father) and it never blinks. Kyoko's hands are meant for the piano keys (her father was a musician), which juxtaposes with the red nail varnish she so symbolically wish to have. The introduction of Saki is more complicated than what is shown; donning traditional school uniform, laughed at and octracised by fellow schoolmates (not that she seems to care), helping Akira out financially to accompanying a fine handsome gentleman with a professional-looking silver briefcase to sing karaoke. Which brings us to that scene of Akira running through the streets of the city (after rejecting that money - is it really 'filty'?)

Kore-eda explores the age-old question of morals - is it wrong to steal for a mouth that is hungry and dying? He leaves this to the audience with half an answer: a dozen boxes of chocolates, that cute bunny soft toy, a huge pink suitcase and Yuki, that adorable cute little girl whom the neighbours love. With music and the plucking of strings so reminscent of the Motorcycle Diaries.

If Nobody Knows ("Daremo Shiranai") doesn't move and absorb your heart, then I don't know what does.

Tea shots, anyone?

2005-10-02T01:26:00.000+08:00

I'm such a internet whore. And frightening so. I'm the sort who is capable of spending his entire waking life connected to the net, surfing and downloading. To think I'm the same boy who proudly proclaimed during his English oral examination (during secondary school) that I can "disconnect anytime" and therefore, there is no addiction.
Unfortunately, broadband arrived and I'm connected 24/7 now.

I've had the luxury of time last week to indulge in silly thoughts of mine.
And so I thought of how slavery has become a drama, performance on stage. How my life is no longer controlled by a certain Edward, but run by the audience, the backstage crew and the director. How I wearily step up to the stage, come up with a performance that shocks even myself. How I can manipulate and morph myself to someone unrecognisable, becoming somewhat inhuman, and only an object, stage prop, and at the best, an unknown actor.
A show that never seems to cease, where the metaphorical 'they', grind and squeeze every bit of blood of your body. Fortunately, there is a metaphysical soul which flees from the seven sins of the humankind.
[I tend to mumble about slavery matters on my blog because I do fear Big Brother is watching.]

*
My bunkmates have been informing me that I possess the ability to sneeze continuously in the middle of the night, disturbing some of them from their sleep. This done with a conclusion - involving the coarse sound of sniffing very hard - and returning back to sleep without a pause of unease. It sounds ignorant, but I'm completely unaware of these happenings. (It has been the third time in like four to five months of staying at my camp). I jokingly tell them I must have broken some world record for unconsciously sneezing continuously for a period of time, and they shake their head.
I tell them about this episode where one of my ex-bunk mate revealed to me (without any evidence) that I hugged him while crying in my sleep. All this with no inkling of any memory residue in my mind.

Which reminds me of another text message my friend showed me on her phone years ago. I had texted her something pretty illogical and nonsensical (about returning money to a loanshark from a friend) in the middle of the night, when I had been sound asleep. It's pretty impressive that I was able to text someone a pretty long message, and yet had no memory or whatsoever of having done so. It's frightening when you consider that it's similar to sleepwalking (which is serious business). Add that to Edward's history of sleeptalking and I do get a little uptight.
But maybe I can take over the world when I'm asleep. Just like Pinky and the Brain.

It's two in the morning and I'm tired.

2005-10-01T12:31:00.000+08:00

Late Saturday mornings are perhaps best meant for listening to Carole King.

Half hour of my time.

2005-09-27T20:09:00.000+08:00

I still can't understand why Walter Salles decided to do a English version of Dark Waters, that pseudo-horror movie. I mean he isn't English nor is he into horror flicks. I swear it is Hollywood's money.
Still, I'm looking forward his direction in Russell Bank's screenplay adaption of Kerouac's On the Road. Explains my fansination with the alcohol-loving, "the Father of the Hippies", and passed away at the young age of forty seven (by consumption, what else), a certain Jack Kerouac.
This coming from a worshipper of the Motorcycle Diaries.

Felt a thick sense of irony when I had the luxury to be chauffered in my dad's new car in neon-orange back to concentration camp. Being a devout listener of my favorite radio station Gold90fm, I seriously thought my mood will turn for the better during the drive. (The old car had a non-existent radio set and weak air-conditioning.) My dear dad, for all his complaints about S'poreans (and swears by the fact that he's from China, even though he holds a pink identification card and a S'pore passport), was listening to ninefivethree. Which means great classics of the Chinese, opera-style kind. I couldn't have the heart to ask him to change the station, since he was doing me a big favor.
Maybe I'll try again tonight when he drives me back. Unfortunately, his level of road rage has risen after he made his new purchase.

Japanese Film Fest this weekend anyway? Tony Takatani's on my must-watch list.

My blog images are screwed because my email account with Singtel is screwed. And so is the webspace Singtel promises - I'm supposed to login using a dial-up; how am I supposed to do that when I'm broadband!

Things are equally bad with my camera, since it takes at least ten long seconds to save on the memory card for any photo I decide to take without the flash. I do regret getting this camera at times, since I accidently dropped the battery one fine afternoon and it got cracked.
Which effectively means I'm wasting my flickr account.

Couples prefered. "That one in white and black. Go!"

2005-09-25T00:50:00.000+08:00

A long day of fun, learning and experience.

I was one of the souls at the junction at Queensway, peddling handmade crafts made by pre-teens and youths, from four fifty to seven thirty, from the dying sun of dusk, to shadows in the evening. For a good cause.

"Good afternoon/evening. I'm from Students Care Service and we're currently doing a fundraising to raise funds to bring needy children to overseas at the end of the year. It's called Project Mawai and many of these children will not be able to travel without the money.
Would you like to buy something? They're all made by our children, pre-teens and youths. Or you could make a donation."

Or as one of my handsome kids from Hougang Centre taught me later, "(Do you want to buy?) Ai buay miah?"

I never saw so much people, or had so many two dollars notes cramped in my front pocket (together with some five and ten dollar notes). I don't think I'm exaggerating to say I've seen a small bit of humanity. When one of my kids told me, "Oh. I asked that man before. He said 'Go away'". The same persistent kid (Kenneth is his name) who stood boldly in front of men and women who didn't want him around, and got them to get their wallets, purses and handbags ten seconds later. The same kid who was so enthusiatic about selling that he broke a clay decorative cup because he ran with that thing sitting on top on a photoframe.

Call me evil, envious, jealous or sceptical, but I like to be honest. I plainly told my youths and kids (read: pre-teens) to target the couples. Young and old. Especially the young. If you had been walking out from IKEA towards the junction this afternoon, chances are you were stopped by one of my "professional salesmen". Or your boyfriend. Or your girlfriend. I still tell people about that couple who gave five dollars, found no photo frame to their liking and didn't want to carry something around, and took a lollipop at the end. Which was complimentary by the way (we weren't allowed to sell lollipops for goodness sake).

And it was nice to see people giving money, fifty cents to two dollars, just to "make a donation". Especially after the whole NKF fiasco. To say Singaporeans are kind-hearted is an understatement. I put myself incharge of handling any members of the public who might be suspicious about kiddish-looking youths and children peddling lousy, second-grade (though lovingly handmade) items, who had no license whatsoever. In the end, I never had to deal with any. (Says quite a fair bit about how trusting S'poreans still are, post-NKF fiasco.) We had the organisation's brochures/pamplets with us that we made use of to the fullest extent.

I was happy telling people "we're from Students Care Service and we're under the Community Chest". (we really are.) I was happy when members of the public actually bothered to pause, stop, listen to what we were doing (even if they didn't come out with any money for donation). I explained with genuine pride when quizzed about the nature and authenicity of the organisation; something I never did realise.

Playing UNO at a crowded Burger King, getting hotdogs and drinks for more than ten pax, shepherding four hyperactive pre-teens around a peak hour, crowded shopping centre and IKEA, carrying items around in the hot sun while trying to maintain some poise and grace, chasing after pre-teens who chased after potential donators. Texting over fifty friends and aquaintances about supporting the event and with one showing up and donating two dollars. (I must not be very popular with my friends on that.)All checked.
I'm really going to have to think twice about having children. I was running up escalators and down stairs shouting names like "Ice Kachang" and "Red Bean". (The pre-teens refused to tell me their real names). And one of the biggest mistake? Giving non-halal chicken hotdog to a Muslim boy and having to realise it only after he finished with the entire hotdog.

How I love doing volunteering, and be with my youths (and pre-teens now, together!). Even if it means my Saturdays are burnt more half the time.

My roots and branches under the storm.

2005-09-20T19:54:00.000+08:00

How much I love the rain. The frequent thunderstorms that have been shadowing my dear home. I gather that if there was ever such a concept as 'your dream death', I would be dying in a cold, rainy night. Not struck by lightning though. I remember reading somewhere that I'll be run into by a pair scissors. That prophet must have known my name.

But I can't exactly comprehend why I adore the rain so much. Somehow during the past few days, some famous personality (I think it was Gao) said the frequent drizzles S'pore experience were like scrubbing the city clean. I liked his words.

*

Two matters that have been keeping my mind occupied since I was on a short break from slavery last Friday. I shall attempt to talk about them without the melancholy and sense of depression. I get this everytime, without fail, when I'm a few hours from booking in.

One.
My roots. My ancestors. My family tree. I must have spent a good half hour listening to my mum tell me about how the relatives run on her side. It's an awfully visual thing, for I haven't met more than half of the relatives she mentioned. But I smile at how utterly complicated it gets. I find some pleasure in tracing and getting to know the background, status and character of people I'm related to, but never had the chance to meet. As my mum puts it, "due to the act of fate", my folks' late marriage (with the fact that my mum was the youngest daughter and child), anybody remotely related to me who belongs to my mum's side of the family tree are in their thirties to nineties, or already dead. Failed marriages and illness (mental being what I hear more often) dodge my mum's relatives. I told my mum honestly that reduces my own willingness to be part of a sacred institution.

If you would like to hear about this: it has made me a very curious cat;
Apparently, my grandmother (my mum's mum) was born in the Borneo territories - Sarawak if I'm not mistaken - and got her pink identification card, after staying in Singapore. My maternal grandfather forms the Peranakan blood, something I'm unbelievably proud of. I'm no medical student, but the death certification of my grandmother has the word 'brain' under "causes of death". I suspect secretly that she suffered in the nursing home she was put it, mourning after the death of her spouse, and passed on two years later.

My mum speaks a fair deal of her sister as well - who's in a strict sense, her half-sister, since they have different dads but a same mum - for she was the lady who burnt most of the mum's belongings, from her O Levels certificates to many of her priceless photos. It wasn't sibling rivalry gone aboard, but rather a case of depression (said to be set on by the accident involving her boyfriend, husband-to be) or as superstition writes so, she stepped on 'dirty stuff' that caused much wrath to the roaming spirits. Tragically, she jumped.

Not so long ago, in '97, my mum's brother (or half-brother if you want to be particular) passed on as well. I was too young to recall, but I do believe he had Alzheimer's disease. My mum diagnoses it as fatherly love, for he lost one of his sons at a young age, went into depression and was fairly poor shape. Had quit his job as a teacher, was in the tuition business for a short while before going bonkers. Another tragic ending as left when he was only fifty two. I can only remember him as an intellect and uncle who showed interest in my brother and me, on those yearly visits to his big house.

I think I shall skip over the parts to prevent any more depressing thoughts on me.

*

Two.
Something I don't really discuss with anybody else except myself. I'm not exactly breaking any rules here. Returning to my Lantern Year (read: the neighbourhood I grew up in, where my childhood memories lie) yester-night has put in more sheeps into my grassland. I've been contemplating again and again, without any real solution until now. With such fierce, inner 'instincts' from my dad, I shrudder to think of the possibility of running under the flag of the white and the lightning. My pragmatism tells me that it will be a failed cause with the flag of the hammer - my dad is half a good example. Somebody within me tells me to run as an Independent. On a silly note, at least I'll have the liberty to wear clothes of colours that suit my image, and not blindly following party protocols. After a good long thought-through as I was walking about Lantern Yard late last night, I realised my plans doesn't exactly fit in: considering the fact that I saw only elderly people (of at least sixty years of age) and young punks playing basketball, it says quite a fair bit about demographics. And I've learnt enough to know Ralph Nader cannot be seen as a role model of mines.

*

Such are the swirlings of grey matter in Edward's mind.

Battle Royale, directed by Kinji Fukasaku

2005-09-19T23:13:00.000+08:00

Two reviews, two sittings in two days. It's getting a little boring, but it also means that I've had the luxury of time to do so.

*

Battle Royale. One heck of a movie I had wanted to catch few years back, when I was doing Lord of the Flies (by Golding) for my examinations. I must have had overly induldged in that text, because I still can remember I wanted to do a localised version of that text, on stage. Unfortunately, Battle Royale's banned in Singapore. Come to think of it, it might be given M18 or R21 rating today. (Is anybody from MDA reading this? Bring Battle Royale to Singapore! And Battle Royale 2.)

Call me a sadistic freak, but I like the gore and blood I see in the movie. And it's not necessarily what you see in typical Hollywood action flicks with guns ablazing. Certain parts tickled me because of the irony and from the perspective of a observer - someone completely separated from the path of self-devastation and killing they're forced to take.

[spoiler alert on]
A class of high school students. Under the fictious BR Act, one class will be selected every year to take part in this game of survival. It's uncannily supported by the military (seeing it from the eyes of a national slave) and headed by this ex-(I'm presuming) high school teacher. Who will later be revealed to the audience that he's a lousy father, hated by his own child, walks with a limp (injury caused by one of his ex-student, who will be killed by him at the beginning) and had a relationship (what kind remains unclear and unanswered) with the surviving female student.
Fukasaku has obviously consciously inserted amusing dialogues within the students, even it is done in the setting of life and death - when one student is about to attack another. Such 'tricks' does not attempt to trivalise the importance of life, but serves to bring out humanity. I got a huge kick watching this particular segment when Kazushi catches up with his crush, Chigusa. Chigusa is irritated at his presence and has no feelings whatsoever towards him, but Kazushi is desperate to return to his instincts, his reason being that death is near: he asks for sex. Appalled she is, and he throws his trump card by asking that question: "You are a virgin right?" A pause follows, and he truimphantly declares "[insert female student's boyfriend's name] couldn't get it up right? I knew it!"

[spoiler alert off]

I like that fact that there were quite a number of twists to the plot, even though the rest of the action were pretty predictable. Trust fades and disappears when survival instincts prevail, everybody is killed in a moment of folly, madness.

Battle Royale. My kind of action movie, complete with deep rooted questions and morals. I just wished that could play more heavily on the latter two. But it's already a two hour show. So.

*

Japanese culture has been flowing through me ever since I started (I say this with embarassment) playing cards with cute pictures on them along the corridors of Serene Centre about six years ago. I may not have any motivation to learn the language, but it seems that Murakami's writings has struck a chord in the innner Edward. Not to mention my liking for Kurosawa films. And strangely, I found myself following the pre- and post-election news in the Land of the rising sun, closely enough to know the spotlight on Japan Post is not about letters and parcels.

The Return, by Andrey Zvyagintsev

2005-09-19T00:03:00.000+08:00

Unbelievably intense, and yet so distanced.

Character Ivan/Vanya (Ivan Dobronravov) reminded me of Little Father Time. He was growing up too fast, too fast for his own good. His acting is stunning, simply because he just convinces you that he is that character.

Director Zvyagintsev might be too slow for regular movie go-ers used to fast-paced action and plot engagement. There were numerous instances where the footage was just left to the natural landscape. Personally, I felt background music would have made the movie more gripping, but the silence really left a morbid atmosphere and a deep sense of helplessness. The man is also a genius at shocking the audience - he managed to do it twice, catching me completely off guard. [spoiler alert on] Firstly at the scene where the shot is suddenly made to the father climbing up the edge of the tower, and before you could wonder how he got there and think of what next, he falls off the tower. Very quietly, but very tragically. The same pang of irony comes when Ivan calls out "Dad" loudly as his father's dead body floats out with the boat and sink; he never did acknowledge his dad, and doubted his position and the purpose of the trip. [spoiler alert off]

What Zvyagintsev has managed to do in his debut is worth saluting to. If ever there is a need in the classroom to depict what silence, subtleness and landscapes can do and how powerful these devices are, then The Return is an excellent lesson. It has a simple plot; the conflict and climax are easy to identify, but he has made something that tugs at your heartstrings, psychologically. Brillant.

Worth a read. The official website.

*

Excuse my horrible expression. Had a long time tidying up my room.

Another guy on the bandwagon.

2005-09-18T00:30:00.000+08:00

[i find the bandwagon a rather depressing ride, but revealing nevertheless. 1 2 3 4]

I'm that guy who refuses to grow up. That guy who still wants to be a kid, who believes there's a Calvin (that Calvin from Calvin & Hobbes) in each and every one of us. That guy whose eyes squints under sun, and only discovered the necessity of sunglasses recently. That guy who will dance in the rain in his yellow boots, if only it was allowed. That guy who loves the pouring rain, stormy nights and the enormous grace of the wind.

I'm the guy who grew up in a neighbourhood unsuitable for your children to grow up in. That guy who was baptised unknowingly at the age of one, attended eleven years of education with Catholic values. But I'm the same guy who still struggles to believe in the existence of an omnipotent and omnipotent God, and finds more peace in chanting Buddhist verses. I'm the guy who got knocked down in the sandbox, got a bloody lip but forgave the bully immediately. I'm that same innocent guy who smacked his good friend in the back, got caught and a few strokes of the cane from the principal. And the same guy who landed again in the principal's office for bullying another friend. Who was threatened with calling his folks down. Yes, I'm that guy who took something from a bookshop, got caught and severely reprimanded after going back (silly, yes) and still shrudder having to walk by the place.

I'm that guy who went to detention almost after every school day in the first year of secondary school education, from not submitting work to skipping swimming lessons. And I'm the same guy who regurgitated his history facts about the Ganges River and the first Emperor of China who got a near-perfect score for his examinations. That guy who went to the best class in the proceeding year. The guy who saw a peek into the world of success and got excited. The same geek who became next in line to the school's Computer Club presidency, who already knew HTML, C and Visual Basic by now.

I'm the guy who dismissed her as someone not worth a second look. The same guy who was bowled over, head and shoulders, after chatting with her for a few months. That guy who tried explaining about anti-virus softwares and how she needed to understand programming to try to edit the program meant as a Teacher's Day gift for our form teacher. The guy who enjoyed and hated free billards and pool games that was happily treated by another guy who was after her. Yes, I'm that guy who took so long to ask her out on a date. Dates that felt so magical that I haven't been able to experience again. That guy who was shown glimpses of how wonderful the world could be, the same guy who was told he needed to show more tact in his words. The guy whose heart broke upon hearing she was with his best buddy. That same guy who listened to their problems, helped them along and tried to patch things up when their relationship wasn't working out. The guy who thought initially their relationship wouldn't last, and saw their fairy tale love story from beginning happily ever after, to a tragic ending, to conclusion and even a sequel. Yes, I'm that guy who bled inside, but tried moving on.

I'm that guy who wanted to find a substitute. Someone similar to her, someone close to her, so that I wouldn't miss her. That guy who worked with her unknowingly, and eventually talking to over the phone every single night, helping her with the subject Social Studies. The guy who woke up early one Sunday morning just to take a twenty minute bus to her place, just because she needed foolscap paper with the school's badge. The same guy who didn't manage to start things right, and couldn't conclude matters politically correctly either.

I'm the guy who is afraid of change, frightened by new faces. That only guy who was studying in a class of the opposite sex and had to wait till break time to tell a guy's joke to a male friend. That same guy who clung on too tightly, too late and too forcefully. Yes, I'm that guy who thought she liked me, and thus depended, pinned my hopes on her, and cried his eyeballs out learning the lesson. The guy who learnt about cynicism, betrayal , depression and the feeling of hate. You, of all people, who told me you prefered my (other) best buddy to me. The feeling of deja vu. You who injected so much enthusiasm in my life that I still cannot believe how I could become so enthusiastic for that few weeks.

I'm that guy who thought I was growing up and maturing finally. Who fell in love with her. That guy who didn't want a relationship but was tortured so much at times not being in one with you. Who went studying with her but never really got the facts into his mind. The guy who had thoughts of you everytime he started daydreaming. That guy who sat alone at a Christian concert for a few hours just to see you for an hour afterwards, bought strawberry cakes for you so regularly that the staff could recognise him, begged his friend to let him use his kitchen to bake cookies, played reversi with you using black and white M&Ms at a hospital bedside table while accompanying you and sat on countless bus rides feeling like the most insecure person on earth. The same jerk who had so much silly debates, disagreements, quarrels and arguments with you. That guy who was said to have stupidly waited for so long for a relationship with you, waited some more, was rejected countless times, waited, waited and waited again. Yes, I'm the guy who stopped waiting because she told I didn't wait long enough comparatively. The same guy you went into a 'relationship' with for three days, and broke up because you couldn't take it. But I waited for a while more just to be sure. The guy who found out you were attached because he was promptly reminded by his friend, even though he saw it coming.

I'm that guy who believes numerical values have a gender: male, female, both and neither. That guy who lost fiction, overindulged in non-fiction and was relieved to have discover fiction again. The guy who prefers tea over coffee. Who is an internet whore. The same guy who believes marriage is a gamble, and is not prepared to throw the dice. Who dreams to become a social worker in his twenties, film maker in his thirties, local politician in his forties and a writer till he kicks the bucket. Yes, I'm that guy who believes life's misery and suffering can be avoided simply by running away to become a monk in Tibet, or take it head-on by emulating Mother Theresa in India (does Father Edward sounds good?). The same guy who thinks he can be (and might choose to be) a successful, popular preist/pastor, withholding the point that he has trouble believing in that God. Other that than, he can still continue to spread the gospel without really believing in it.

Yes, I was that guy. But who am I now?

*

2005-09-13T18:49:00.000+08:00

The song's ringing in my mind. Keep love as your golden rule. Keep love as your golden rule.

"Stressed? Let's see whether she's stressed when she's collecting the money when cashing in!" - Dad's very quick 'counter-argument' to any celebrity who complains about stress. I like sound bites like that.

*

Unbelivably egoistic thinking, but I have this hunch that bookstores are secretly following my reading list. Suddenly Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being (shu: please pass the book to Indran) is everywhere. In Kino, at Borders. The same thing occured after I started hunting for Murakami books. I'm aware a thousand and one cool dudes started reading Murakami even before I existed, but I cannot comprehend why Borders had a '3 for 2' sale of some of his books. After I paid full price (or the original price) for The Wind-up Bird Chronicle. Unacceptable in my point of view.

I have this other hunch that very soon, Janet Fitch's White Oleander will make a comeback. Or Jack Kerouax at the very least. In the best sellers, movie tie-ins or classics. Unbelievable.

I had a fun time today browsing through publications of local authors, poets and playwrights at Kino. I'm pretty much harbouring the dream of getting one of Stella Kon's play performed by a group of youths. The Substation seems like a pretty place. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I can knock this one off while still in slavery. Or the public performance shall mark the end of slavery. But right now, I would need to shell out sixteen-ninety to get a copy of the book. Or I could scour Knowledge Book Centre again (and clumsily knock down a few 'pillars' of books.)

Got to keep my thoughts up in a pocket of my brain. Got to have food now. Over and out now.

(Oh yes. I got my internet connection back up. Please tell me about the disadvantages of going wireless)

Multimedia message

2005-09-05T09:06:00.000+08:00

A bowling girl, a police officier, a gang boss, an aspiring miss-spa, a bankrupt man's daughter and a silly guy. Korean movies can never be funnier and more romantic than this. And what better way to spend a rainy, wet and cold sunday, watching the show with my dad.

It's like the korean version of the chinese movie 'Feel 100%', one show that captured my imagination years ago. Which invariably reminded of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

Ahh. The sweet smell of white oldanders. I'm totally sucked into Astrid's world. But more on that later. I need my lunch.

Living in a household without internet access. Tsk Tsk.

Multimedia message

2005-09-02T10:33:00.000+08:00

Sometimes I smile to myself. But I'm laughing at myself really, at how pathetic a figure I've been, how hollow my whole being has become. My mummy tells me not to be silly and be worried over how the weather will turn out to be.
My salvation shall lie upon the tasting of Peranankan dishes with my folks.

Bon appetie.

Of many relationships

2005-08-31T23:10:00.000+08:00

I am blogging partly due to the fact that my internet connection will cease in about forty minutes' time, ending my five years relationship with Pacific Internet, or affectionately called PacNet.

My dad, who has been responsible for paying my internet bills, has shown his frustration and hatred towards PacNet, and has bugged me a thousand times to discontinue this otherwise peaceful relationship. Unfortunately, my dad's strained relationship date back to more than twenty years ago, where he was still an adult working for a Dutch multinational company and had dealings with their parent company, Sembawang Corporation, whom he deems as money suckers. Or so he accuses them of.

As an act of filial piety and also to appease the spirits of my dad, I have terminated my internet account. Which is in my opinion a horrible thing to do. Horribly painful as well. It will take at least a week because I get my 'new' internet relationship with Singtel. At least a week. Edward doesn't own a laptop or notebook. Now I understand how notebook thieves are born. Maybe I can beg outside my favourite Coffee Bean with the sign: WILL BEG TO SURF

*

Something flashed across my mind while I was enjoying my college's play of Shakespeare's Othello. About how I was hopping around like a jealous green monster back then, during the very time we were reading that piece of text. The times I could relate so powerfully to Jude - empathy is the closest word I can find to describe - that my classmates probably thought I was half-mad. Those were the days. I think my fuse blew halfway during the run up to the As. But I'm still proud of the fact that nineteen century english literature still holds a special place in my heart. A kind of passion, even though it can be so remotely unreachable. The old America, that Age of Innocence. More so after I discovered the Great Gatsby. I haven't found someone who shares that kind of insanely imagination. Hah.

*

Oh yes. Have I mentioned that I'm so jealous that shu's blog was highlighted by the rather mad jac. The blog that I introduced and nagged at shu to read it, has now endorsed shu's blog, and not mine? Tsk tsk. The green seeds of the devil.

Ask me why I think it's such a wonderful time to be a sociologist in the S'pore and Southeast Asian context now and in the near future. We can have coffee and tea and talk over it.

Multimedia message

2005-08-31T11:26:00.000+08:00

Rojak gets me back to my cheerful self. Skillfully prepared Chinese Rojak that is.

Had two cups of black coffee today. After having two hours of sleep.

How i adore my rest.

Multimedia message

2005-08-29T14:38:00.001+08:00

Moody Sundays.

Today's Sunday has turned depressing as I inch myself nearer to camp, and finding myself in camp at the moment. I'm blogging using my phone, which's deemed as a contraband item. How absurb.

Maybe it was Sigmund Freud's discursion on civilisation. Or theme music from the Motorcycle Diaries. I feel so disconnected from the rest of the world.
Just like how Harry Lee (the character in Perth: the Geylang Massacre) wandered at times, the footage oh-so-resembles Mister Wong Kar-Wai.

Say a prayer for me. I wasn't so clearly in the emo state back home.

Catching up

2005-08-26T23:44:00.000+08:00

I've got loads of catching up to do.

After surviving one Hell month. It's almost over. Almost.

Lazy Sunday

2005-08-14T18:37:00.000+08:00

It has been such a lazy Sunday for me. I didn't get down to doing anything I had thought of, except walk to the nearest shopping mall to get my bills paid. Rotting in my bed half the afternoon and feeling so lazy. I spent the rest of the afternoon flipping through past issues of GQ (kindly sponsored by Shu), reading whatever that catches my attention.

I've realised how difficult it would be to save up. I must have spend the past few months in illusion, thinking I have pockets deep enough for me to spend on whatever I deem 'a good buy', and feeding whatever materialistic cravings I have. It's horrible, after being forced to spend zero dollars for more than a week last month, and it's frightening that my situation seems to be heading towards a deja vu. Where did it all go? And I never want to be caught in a vicious cycle of debt and poverty.

*

I do believe I've officially resigned myself to a role that requires brute strength and horsepower for the rest of my national enslavement. So much so that I may decide to be a good student who's on course this Hell month, be a proud example of all future mortar operators, and use that as bargaining power for off days as soon as Hell month freezes all over.

*

Saturday was a big enjoyment. Was laughing myself silly reading and catching up with blogs. I do think I have this voyeur instinct in me. How do you else explain a blogroll that's at least fifty blogs long, out of which I will always read at least fifteen. It's yet another obsession, another indulgement after a mundane week of work.

Ice skating was a breeze surprisingly. My sense of balance must have improved, all thanks to the magical effects of yoga. Somehow, upon looking a short clip on me skating around, I look like an old man trapped in a young man's body on skates. Not to mention how slow and safe I skate around.

The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald

2005-08-01T19:55:00.000+08:00

A little something I'm extracting from my Great Gatsby, which I find Fitzgerald describe with such emotional intensity and simply truthfulness, that I'm bowled over. It might be a little more than a week after I've completed the text, but better late than never. (here's the piece of text I wanted to share with you Shanice)

This is written by the narrator of the novel, describing Gatsby's relationship with Daisy and their past. Tom and Daisy have been married for years, but Gatsby, an old-time lover of Daisy, steps into the picture once again. I say it has a tragic ending, and it's certainly not what you would expect from a typical romance story.
*

"But he knew that he was in Daisy's house by a colossal accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously - eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took her because he has no real right to touch her hand."

"..., but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he let her believe that he was a person much the same strata as herself - that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of fact, he has no such facilities - he had no comfortable family standing behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government to be blown anywhere about the world."

"... He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn't realise just how extraordinary a 'nice' girl could be. She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby - nothing. He felt married to her, that was all."

*
The perspective now switches to Gatsby's life during and after he was called to war:

"He did extraordinarily well in the war... After the armistice he tried frantically to get home, but some complication or misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead. He was worried now - there was a quality of nervous despair in Daisy's letters. She didn't see why he couldn't come. She was feeling the pressure of the world outside, and she wanted to see him and feel hispresence beside her and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all."

"For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new tunes..."

"Throughtout this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with half a dozen men, and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and chiffon of an evening dress tangled among dying orhids on the floor beside her bed, and all the time something within her was crying for a decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately - and the decision must be made by some force - of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality - that was close at hand.
That force took shape in the middle of sping with the arrival of Tom Buchanan. There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and position, and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain struggle and a certain relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford."

The beauty of the piece of description goes on, but I'll not going to type somemore and spoil the story.

I updated my flickr! More than a dozen photos taken during my overnight stay at East Coast Park. Crystal decided to invite this intelligent game where we go around looking for alphabets of our name. My photography skills suck, but it has also got to do with the rush my youths had to put me through. Pity we didn't take a group photo.

Nothing beats a scrapbook and a pen

2005-07-18T20:06:00.000+08:00

Decided to do something different and write instead (haven't done so for ages - explains the handwriting). And blogs with comics are inspiring me so.
[click on scrapbook to enlarge]

180705 blog entry,
originally uploaded by footix24.

The Namesake by Jhumpha Lahiri

2005-07-09T14:08:00.000+08:00

Reading the last few chapters of the book really brought a stone to my throat; something so choking that it forced me to hold back my tears. Perhaps the writing would not sadden any other ordinary reader as much so, but I guess I was terribly affected by Gogol's (or Nikhil's) life.

I felt a little sense of disappointment when I started out reading the book, being consciously aware that it was Lahiri's first piece of novel, and the point that I had loved her short stories, that drew so much emotions about fidelity, marriage and living in a foreign land.

I wasn't disappointed at all by the time I reached the conclusion; she had packed in intriguing tales of the many different women that Gogol would encounter and share his life with.

The whole twist of the plot depresses me quite a fair bit. Maybe I've been naive all along, but I never probed into how unfaithful people could, at the ages of thirty and above. Being an easily convinced reader, it has saddened me to find such a conclusion a reality check, a depiction of how life really is, especially in the so-deemed free United States of America. It is depressing to an eighteen year old Singaporean kid who sees himself as liberal, and is told off to be 'still conservative' by friends.

Perhaps I was too caught up with the failures and inadequacy of marriage in the book, that I've ceased to appreciate why Lahiri set out to place the emphasis on the name and identity of Gogol.

*

Incidents dotting my six days long break has pushed me to delve more of my time thinking about abstract concepts, the silly beliefs and prejudices we hold, and how they shankle our lives far more hurtful than handcuffs do. I haven't felt more freedom during this short week, but I haven't encountered such aloneliness either. We may plead for more freedom, but I've come to realise we often fail to see the pitfalls it brings.

It's most likely that it was with such freedom that my mouth got me involved into a series of headaches and sleepless nights, and I return to the times back in school where I regretted not keeping my opinions to myself. Living with imperfections in life.

2005-07-07T01:33:00.000+08:00

Can't exactly get to sleep either. And Pearle's gone off to school and isn't online either. No really suitable soul to whine at and tell the world what I've discovered.

I'm in this pensive, half-dreary mood, like a half-hearted effort at pulling out weeds from the garden. It's this tremendous gloom that has decided to descend onto me, and make me a slave of emo. How I wish there was someone to shake me hard and ask me to "wake up your ideas!". My dad used to be excellent at doing that when I was a young kid, but that somebody now, has to be me. Cold, dreary eyes starring into the computer screen; that me.

I have no decision to explain and describe my mixed emotions now, so I'm just going to rattle and mumble on.

"Muss es sein?" ["Must it be?"]

"Es muss sein!" [It must be!"]

That two lines from the last movement of Beethoven's last quartet, just about sums up what my mind is asking and answering.

It's a big relief that I'm able to figure out and piece together what my subconscious mind was trying to tell me in that shockingly vivid dream of mine I had last Tuesday.

*

I'm tired. Is life really like what Kundera has written?

2005-07-06T23:05:00.000+08:00

The last thing on people's mind would be to connect happiness with Edward. Or me. I would like to think that I'm not normally a person who's equated with being happy.

But you see, I'm feeling pretty happy now.

Now that's a real rarity.

I guess life has been good to me. Been pleasant. So pleasant that I actually feel the urge to thank someone, somebody for it. An act of gratefulness I would so. So much so that I'm returning to what people do; searching for a omipotent God, and showing signs of gratefulness. But there is no real all-powerful, all-knowing God in Buddhism (unlike Christianity, Islam or Judaism) [I do realise I'm going to get a lot of religious flak for mentioning that], and thus, Karma (or spelt as 'Kamma') is responsible for 'twas. To which I translate to thanking myself, and a whole big ego trip.

*

I can't describe the bewilderment (and that 'glad' feeling) I'm having right now. It all begins with a complicated dream that shocked me, and a chain of events that have unfolded.

*

(Can't believe my mood has entirely changed. Which means I've lost my words to blog. Darn.)

Weekends. Blue.

2005-06-26T20:25:00.000+08:00

Something I wrote yesterday but ceased to finish; my thoughts got evaporated away:

So much to do, so much to catch up with.

My other lament today is that I've been missing so many people around, but I'm in reluctance to meet any of them. Each individual that falls in that category has their own personal story.

*

I had a memory lane rundown when I took the cab ride home, through the roads of my old neighbourhood. Where the walls are dirty, and so is the coarse language. One of the last flags standing, where the opposition party belongs. The opposition's main camp, secure (so it was) area where they were confident of a victory.

It's pretty undescribable. The place where you grew up in, and the only place you knew of. The familiar place. The place of my primary school. Most of all, the representation of my sanctuary. It's a place where I gather my past, pick from my memories, and decide how and where to move out to. Walking along the entire stretch, thinking about everything under the sun, happenings in my life, matters that mean something to me, and soup for the soul.

*

Sunday. I do get pretty blue when my weekends flashes by and I find myself having to book in to camp. It's like a rollercoaster ride. Your parents yank you out the moment you reach the station back again. A sharp, sudden jerk.

Had a nice time at the Scuplture Square. Don't Let Sleeping Andriods Lie. I still can't find the link to Phillip K. Dick's novel. Wouldn't mind returning there again and just spending some time there. Soaking in the video of about the perspective of the new southeast Asian men was a bit too much for me to take in. Overall, I must say the place had pretty quality exhibits. Wished it was bigger.

I'm just mumbling along. I can't really string together a coherent sentence with my thoughts since my attention's like everywhere. Like I'm thinking of little bits of different things.

*

I'll come back when I'm clearer. That would be two Wednesdays from now at least. Have got a four days field camp coming up next weekend. The prayers meant for me the last round worked. Haha. I'm going to miss my blog. And my Flickr account.

2005-06-26T01:51:00.000+08:00

So much to do, so much to catch up with.

My other lament today is that I've been missing so many people around, but I'm in reluctance to meet any of them. Each individual that falls in that category has their own personal story.

*

I had a memory lane rundown when I took the cab ride home, through the roads of my old neighbourhood. Where the walls are dirty, and so is the coarse language. One of the last flags standing, where the opposition party belongs. The opposition's main camp, secure (so it was) area where they were confident of a victory.

It's pretty undescribable. The place where you grew up in, and the only place you knew of. The familiar place. The place of my primary school. Most of all, the representation of my sanctuary. It's a place where I gather my past, pick from my memories, and decide how and where to move out to. Walking along the entire stretch, thinking about everything under the sun, happenings in my life, matters that mean something to me, and soup for the soul.

*

Of Kundera

2005-06-24T21:30:00.000+08:00

On a side note, my ears are currently tuned in to carole king. My new found voice.

Reading The Lightness of Being has turned me into a Milan Kundera fan. By just reading one of his novels. Yes. He brilliantly combines philosophy with love (however much the latter can be philosophised), and the best thing of all is the ever-presence of political-socio background of which his setting is based on. His sentences are constructed rather differently from your normal American paperback, but then again, it might be due to the nature of the translation. Come to think of it, I'm reading the translated versions of my favourite writers. Kafka, Murakami. And with much shame as an educated Chinese, I bought the translated version of Mo Yan's latest novel 'Big Breasts and Wide Hips'. It's much pity I have to enjoy the translated versions, but I don't really understand Czech, German or Japanese.

Kundera's sentences affect and touch me so deeply that I pause for a few moments after finishing one short chapter. His punchlines usually appear at the end. All this done while I'm reading in camp, when distractions are common. About how having one life means that there is no previous lifetime from which we can learn from, and no possible afterlife to change and make a better life. (please, no religious debate about karma, afterlife or heaven). About 'musical composition of life'; a concept I've struggled often to explain to the people around me. Mister Kundera just comes along, tells a simple story and effectively explains that concept in the while. That's why I would so love to quote him now and here, but I can't. I decided to leave the novel back in the drawer in camp, so I'll have some reading when I'm back.

*

Everything's in a whirl, and it happens everytime I return home from camp. I have to force my life's pace down deliberately; the weekend comes and passes and I have to be back in camp again. The new camp's of great history (in other words, really old), and one of my bunkmate described it as 'quaint'. I hope it's not too early to say this, but I pretty much like the place. I guess I have this natural inclination towards everything old and ancient (though not necessary crumbling). My primary and secondary schools have histories that date back before the Japanese decided to invade Asia (which I'm so proud of). Singapore might not have much of a history to boast of, but I've realised my new camp reminds me of my old neighbourhood. Hougang's opposition area. Or I call it the Brooklyn of Hougang. You could say it's old and ugly, and it's so old and ugly that it's beautiful.

*

People get pretty uptight when their weaknesses are exposed. I was just out from a taxi when a stranger approached me out of the blue and asked for twenty cents. Pretty peculiar, and I presume the man in his late thirties-early forties saw my purse in my hands. I shook my head, gave a weak smile, and told him I spent my money on the cab ride. Which is a pretty dumb thing to say. I guess I took a little pity on him and in my attempt to move on (and return home), I digged for twenty cents and gave it to him. I thanked him (my weird expression) and turned away. He asked for more, telling me it isn't enough for a bus ride. I got pretty irritated, gave him a saracastic smile and just walked away.

Then I recalled what I read in Kundera's novel. About weaknesses in men, and how we misinterpret them. I could have mistaken that I was irritated because he asked for more, but I wasn't. I couldn't be genuinely angry for a poor man (let's assume) asking for more. I was irritated because that stranger found my weakness - my inability to turn away anybody for help. I guess I'm a really big sucker at that. The smart man saw that, and deep down inside me, I probably cringed. If I was 'strong', I would have firmly said 'no', stuck with it and moved on without giving him any two cents. But I failed.