8.12.08
16.11.08
adam's curse
We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
- w.b. yeats
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
- w.b. yeats
15.11.08
reminiscence
We all revisit chapters of our lives once in a while. Perhaps you too, like me, in one of those quiet nights, wonder about past lovers. How is he now? What is he busy with? Should I get in touch with him again? Or even, why the hell did I get involved with him in the first place?
The night then turns into a haunting one, marked by ghosts of decisions you’ve made, words you’ve said and things you’ve done. Events unfold in your mind, like how one paragraph informs another, and how one sentence leads to the next.
You may reproach yourself, admit you’ve blundered horribly in your quest for perfection, and brood over what are now interpreted as “regrets.” Before trying to console yourself with clichés such as “we all make mistakes.”
When the memories get too uncomfortable, you try to shut them out, convinced that certain chapters of your life are best not revisited for now.
The quiet night gets quieter. Seconds ticks by. Life feels like a book that can’t be put down. You can only keep on reading.
And sometimes, there’s really nothing else left to do but flip the page.
The night then turns into a haunting one, marked by ghosts of decisions you’ve made, words you’ve said and things you’ve done. Events unfold in your mind, like how one paragraph informs another, and how one sentence leads to the next.
You may reproach yourself, admit you’ve blundered horribly in your quest for perfection, and brood over what are now interpreted as “regrets.” Before trying to console yourself with clichés such as “we all make mistakes.”
When the memories get too uncomfortable, you try to shut them out, convinced that certain chapters of your life are best not revisited for now.
The quiet night gets quieter. Seconds ticks by. Life feels like a book that can’t be put down. You can only keep on reading.
And sometimes, there’s really nothing else left to do but flip the page.
9.11.08
zouk
The world spins as you spin, beginning its transformation into a cacophony of senseless colors and lights. You wonder at the bodies moving on the dance floor, the bodies emptying their glasses, and the bodies uncertain of what to do. The alcohol hits you harder. Harder, as time flees, slipping out of your grasp and like an old photograph, gets forgotten. Distinctions melt to the pounding music, as distances get reduced, and the bodies dissolve into one.
Then, you see nothing.
Except for colors and lights. Still colliding into one another.
Then, you see nothing.
Except for colors and lights. Still colliding into one another.
10.10.08
turn me on
Photo credit: Sit Weng Sanweng san and i collaborated to make a lamp last week. it's on show at Objectifs (12A liang seah st) till oct 24. the work is called "turn me on."
support if you're free!
20.9.08
...
Is it too much to say I’m tired?
I hate using the word tired, as much as I loathe the smell of hospitals. It has been used too often by alienated individuals who are sick of their work.
First, there’s the cancer, next up is the blur vision problem that has not been resolved, then coming in the picture without any warning are the kidney stones. The kidney stones… That phrase has a rather rock and roll ring to it, isn’t it? Think The Rolling Stones. Maybe The Rolling Kidney Stones sounds better.
But what’s the use of saying you’re tired? I mean, so what?
Weeks ago, when my dad was talking about how oily the birthday treat I’ve given him was, and wondering why suppliers don’t provide healthy food, I snapped. I said suppliers don’t or can’t sell healthy food because the world is overpopulated, and that they are only after money. I don’t want to keep listening to him talk about food. I don’t like to keep watching my diet. This is fear. I hate this feeling. We’re living in fear. I am sick of fear.
He shouted too that he hopes I’ll get kidney stones too so that I’ll understand, and that he doesn’t mean this as a curse.
I understand what he meant, of course. But still, I got out of the car and went home. When my dad was home too, I continued the shouting in the kitchen. Do you really think looking at what’s happening to you and mum is not affecting me? I don’t need more reminders of how I should act with regard to food.
He ignored me. I went to my bedroom and we didn’t talk for the rest of the day.
Imagine holding your mum’s hand before she was wheeled into the operation room. Imagine telling her things are fine, even though you think they are not. Imagine seeing her trip on uneven floors. Imagine her stepping on your dog’s tail. Imagine her carelessly knocking into people. Imagine accompanying your dad at the hospital thrice over the span of nine days. Imagine alternating between yelling at and pleading with the (useless) GP and his assistants to see your father first. Imagine apologizing to the other patients for jumping the queue. Imagine recalling how your own dad did the same for you a long time ago, when you had gastric and were trying to get an MC so that you can skip an exam. Imagine yourself at the driver’s seat in front of the emergency block of the hospital, while your dad sits at the pavement, clutching his stomach, waiting for you to get a parking space so that you can bring him in. Imagine you have no other sibling to turn to. Imagine how every second feels like a minute, and how every minute feels like an hour.
Of course, life is not all bad, and I think things are not that overwhelming. I think life is pointless however, and I don’t mean this in a depressing way. I think this is reality. If illness/death comes, it comes. There’s really not much you can do to stop that. What matters are the things you do or didn’t do before illness/death. It can be your own, or others. We all just try to make the situation bearable for everyone, suspending that feeling of emptiness and going about doing things we believe (or make ourselves believe) are important – even for a while.
I am tired. Is this too much to say?
---
"Being happy? That's hard," I said, during the interview.
"I don't mean happy. I don't know what the hell that means," he replied.
I hate using the word tired, as much as I loathe the smell of hospitals. It has been used too often by alienated individuals who are sick of their work.
First, there’s the cancer, next up is the blur vision problem that has not been resolved, then coming in the picture without any warning are the kidney stones. The kidney stones… That phrase has a rather rock and roll ring to it, isn’t it? Think The Rolling Stones. Maybe The Rolling Kidney Stones sounds better.
But what’s the use of saying you’re tired? I mean, so what?
Weeks ago, when my dad was talking about how oily the birthday treat I’ve given him was, and wondering why suppliers don’t provide healthy food, I snapped. I said suppliers don’t or can’t sell healthy food because the world is overpopulated, and that they are only after money. I don’t want to keep listening to him talk about food. I don’t like to keep watching my diet. This is fear. I hate this feeling. We’re living in fear. I am sick of fear.
He shouted too that he hopes I’ll get kidney stones too so that I’ll understand, and that he doesn’t mean this as a curse.
I understand what he meant, of course. But still, I got out of the car and went home. When my dad was home too, I continued the shouting in the kitchen. Do you really think looking at what’s happening to you and mum is not affecting me? I don’t need more reminders of how I should act with regard to food.
He ignored me. I went to my bedroom and we didn’t talk for the rest of the day.
Imagine holding your mum’s hand before she was wheeled into the operation room. Imagine telling her things are fine, even though you think they are not. Imagine seeing her trip on uneven floors. Imagine her stepping on your dog’s tail. Imagine her carelessly knocking into people. Imagine accompanying your dad at the hospital thrice over the span of nine days. Imagine alternating between yelling at and pleading with the (useless) GP and his assistants to see your father first. Imagine apologizing to the other patients for jumping the queue. Imagine recalling how your own dad did the same for you a long time ago, when you had gastric and were trying to get an MC so that you can skip an exam. Imagine yourself at the driver’s seat in front of the emergency block of the hospital, while your dad sits at the pavement, clutching his stomach, waiting for you to get a parking space so that you can bring him in. Imagine you have no other sibling to turn to. Imagine how every second feels like a minute, and how every minute feels like an hour.
Of course, life is not all bad, and I think things are not that overwhelming. I think life is pointless however, and I don’t mean this in a depressing way. I think this is reality. If illness/death comes, it comes. There’s really not much you can do to stop that. What matters are the things you do or didn’t do before illness/death. It can be your own, or others. We all just try to make the situation bearable for everyone, suspending that feeling of emptiness and going about doing things we believe (or make ourselves believe) are important – even for a while.
I am tired. Is this too much to say?
---
"Being happy? That's hard," I said, during the interview.
"I don't mean happy. I don't know what the hell that means," he replied.
12.9.08
Al-Ghoussein, Tarek Talat
"Sit down. Or I'll turn violent," the 47 year old Palestinian artist-photographer Tarek insists.
"No, you won't." I laugh, and try to pay for his bill again.
"Yes, I will. Don't you know, my people are very violent. We beat up women." He jokes, a snide reference to the stereotypical image of an Arab the Western media often portrays. I sit down anyway, amused by this man who has said he can't do an interview without a cookie, and who has snitched a bite of my beehoon.
A charmer definitely, Tarek has another side to him. And it shows in his photographs. Dark and thoughtful, dwelling into issues of identity. And I'm captivated, by both sides.
We continue to talk for a short while, even after I've ceased recording the conversation. About teaching, his works, Raymond Carver and Kafka. He recommends Carver's book What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.
Personally, I am drawn to the ideas behind Tarek's works, and the responses they've prompted, which include landing him a spot in the police station in Jordon. Talking to him was inspiring. And if you're interested to find out more about his photography, do spare a few minutes to read a well-written article about him by Seth Thompson.
"No, you won't." I laugh, and try to pay for his bill again.
"Yes, I will. Don't you know, my people are very violent. We beat up women." He jokes, a snide reference to the stereotypical image of an Arab the Western media often portrays. I sit down anyway, amused by this man who has said he can't do an interview without a cookie, and who has snitched a bite of my beehoon.
A charmer definitely, Tarek has another side to him. And it shows in his photographs. Dark and thoughtful, dwelling into issues of identity. And I'm captivated, by both sides.
We continue to talk for a short while, even after I've ceased recording the conversation. About teaching, his works, Raymond Carver and Kafka. He recommends Carver's book What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.
Personally, I am drawn to the ideas behind Tarek's works, and the responses they've prompted, which include landing him a spot in the police station in Jordon. Talking to him was inspiring. And if you're interested to find out more about his photography, do spare a few minutes to read a well-written article about him by Seth Thompson.
Well worth your time, I assure you.
21.8.08
Get Drunk!
Be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans,
or rolls,
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"
- Charles Baudelaire
20.8.08
waiting
My classmate and I were walking along the corridor after class ended, when he said he wanted to base his research on people waiting at bus stops. I nodded, intrigued, chatted a little, but could not say anything smarter than, “That’s interesting.”
It was only a few minutes after we parted ways, and as an afterthought, that I realized how significant waiting is.
Waiting, I think, is doing nothing meaningfully.
The “nothing” in my previous sentence refers to all the things we do while waiting, but which appears naught in the face of waiting. Say, you are on your bed, with a big, silly grin on your face because you just got the number of a guy you are interested in. After moments of anxiety and inner dilemma, with his face etched in your mind, you drop him an sms.
Then, you wait. (Slowly realizing in horror the wait is more nerve-wrecking than your decision to text.)
You look at your phone blankly or stare into open space. You may even try to distract yourself by reading or working. But he is always, and persistently, at the back of your head. The activities you are engaged in lose importance, becoming nothing next to what you’re really doing. Which is waiting for his (goddamn) reply.
Despite this slippage of what you’re doing into meaninglessness, this state of being is also made meaningful because of the wait. Every minute that passes by means something. If he replies almost immediately, you wonder if it’s a sign of interest. If he doesn’t, you question if he finds you an irritant. Either way, waiting has meaning.
More complicated and longer-term examples include waiting for a new job, waiting for a holiday, waiting for brighter prospects, waiting for the right time, waiting for opportunities, waiting to be rich, waiting for the right one and waiting to be happy. We wait, and we wait and we wait some more.
Perhaps, waiting is inevitable in life. And if – as I have argued – waiting is doing nothing meaningfully, we shouldn’t keep looking at the future.
It was only a few minutes after we parted ways, and as an afterthought, that I realized how significant waiting is.
Waiting, I think, is doing nothing meaningfully.
The “nothing” in my previous sentence refers to all the things we do while waiting, but which appears naught in the face of waiting. Say, you are on your bed, with a big, silly grin on your face because you just got the number of a guy you are interested in. After moments of anxiety and inner dilemma, with his face etched in your mind, you drop him an sms.
Then, you wait. (Slowly realizing in horror the wait is more nerve-wrecking than your decision to text.)
You look at your phone blankly or stare into open space. You may even try to distract yourself by reading or working. But he is always, and persistently, at the back of your head. The activities you are engaged in lose importance, becoming nothing next to what you’re really doing. Which is waiting for his (goddamn) reply.
Despite this slippage of what you’re doing into meaninglessness, this state of being is also made meaningful because of the wait. Every minute that passes by means something. If he replies almost immediately, you wonder if it’s a sign of interest. If he doesn’t, you question if he finds you an irritant. Either way, waiting has meaning.
More complicated and longer-term examples include waiting for a new job, waiting for a holiday, waiting for brighter prospects, waiting for the right time, waiting for opportunities, waiting to be rich, waiting for the right one and waiting to be happy. We wait, and we wait and we wait some more.
Perhaps, waiting is inevitable in life. And if – as I have argued – waiting is doing nothing meaningfully, we shouldn’t keep looking at the future.
Because if we wait too long, we’ll never live in the now.
19.8.08
a poem I found while sorting my emails
Suddenly I desire to be an empty house
In an isolated village.
It should be bare and empty.
But pleasant,
With a fragrance long preserved,
And waiting for someone to move in.
An empty house
As clean and tide as it might be,
Yet open and simple,
From whence I can see the sky and the stars.
Someday
Its master will open the door and enter,
Softly saying, with a smile, “Oh I really like it.”
It is clean and lovely as I desire it to be.
In an isolated village.
It should be bare and empty.
But pleasant,
With a fragrance long preserved,
And waiting for someone to move in.
An empty house
As clean and tide as it might be,
Yet open and simple,
From whence I can see the sky and the stars.
Someday
Its master will open the door and enter,
Softly saying, with a smile, “Oh I really like it.”
It is clean and lovely as I desire it to be.
17.8.08
9.8.08
Herbert Marcuse, One Dimensional Man
"The distinguishing feature of advanced industrial society is its effective suffocation of those needs which demand liberation - liberation also from that which is tolerable and rewarding and comfortable - while it sustains and absolves the destructive power and repressive function of the affluent society. Here, the social controls exact the overwhelming need for the production and consumption of waste; the need for stupefying work where it is no longer a real necessity; the need for modes of relaxation which soothe and prolong this stupefication; the need for maintaining such deceptive liberties as free competition at administered prices, a free press which censors itself, free choice between brands and gadgets.
Under the rule of a repressive whole, liberty can be made into a powerful instrument of domination. The range of choice open to the individual is not the decisive factor in determining the degree of human freedom, but what can be chosen and what is chosen by the individual. The criterion of free choice can never be an absolute one, but neither is it entirely relative. Free election of masters does not abolish the masters or the slaves. Free choice among a wide variety of goods and services does not signify freedom if these goods and services sustain social controls over a life of toil and fear - that is, if they sustain alienation. And the spontaneous reproduction of superimposed needs by the individual does not establish autonomy; it only testifies to the efficacy of the controls."
Under the rule of a repressive whole, liberty can be made into a powerful instrument of domination. The range of choice open to the individual is not the decisive factor in determining the degree of human freedom, but what can be chosen and what is chosen by the individual. The criterion of free choice can never be an absolute one, but neither is it entirely relative. Free election of masters does not abolish the masters or the slaves. Free choice among a wide variety of goods and services does not signify freedom if these goods and services sustain social controls over a life of toil and fear - that is, if they sustain alienation. And the spontaneous reproduction of superimposed needs by the individual does not establish autonomy; it only testifies to the efficacy of the controls."
27.7.08
A morning chat
We stand at the corridor, looking at the narrow street below, with cups of warm coffee in our hands. My bags lie largely ignored at the reception counter.
“The reflection of the sunrise on the van is beautiful. The colors.” I comment, knowing that you’re a dreamer as well, and that you will not think this statement odd.
You nod, and tell me about the place located in South Spain that you and Alicia are moving to next year. It has a small population of about 130, 000 people, with a river cutting through the land. You like rivers, you quip. They give a place character. And you take a sip of your coffee.
Things are simpler and quieter over there, you explain. I understand that desire.
I reply I like late nights. They seem calm and peaceful. The night is ideal for reading, writing or painting. The day is too busy.
You prefer dusks, when the city is just about to wake up with a big yawn and a long stretch. Like now. And while everyone sets off for work still half-asleep, you end work and go home with a big smile on your face.
We go on like this for a while, talking and joking randomly about bad books and good books, the rising cost of living in Barcelona, the worsening economy, how you have to change in order not to change, how you have to move in order to stay at the same spot, loved ones, our collaboration for your upcoming magazine, boring office work which we both avoid, freedom, time, and the big word happiness.
“Maybe we are happiest when we were children.” You say.
I wish I don’t agree.
We head back to the reception counter.
“Maybe we should just do whatever we want.” I steal your line, throwing it back at you. Just be.
You laugh and help me with my luggage, “Yeah.”
The cab soon arrives. We kiss each other on the cheeks goodbye. I board the cab, feeling a lump in my throat that refuses to go away for a long time. I always fare badly at farewells.
Travel guides are packed with information on where to go, where to stay, what to eat and what to do. What they forget, is that it is never tourist sites, but always people, that steal away pieces of you.
Remember to send me your second novel when it’s translated into English. All the best to you, Alicia, Laura and all the others I’ve met on this trip.
Ciao ciao.
“The reflection of the sunrise on the van is beautiful. The colors.” I comment, knowing that you’re a dreamer as well, and that you will not think this statement odd.
You nod, and tell me about the place located in South Spain that you and Alicia are moving to next year. It has a small population of about 130, 000 people, with a river cutting through the land. You like rivers, you quip. They give a place character. And you take a sip of your coffee.
Things are simpler and quieter over there, you explain. I understand that desire.
I reply I like late nights. They seem calm and peaceful. The night is ideal for reading, writing or painting. The day is too busy.
You prefer dusks, when the city is just about to wake up with a big yawn and a long stretch. Like now. And while everyone sets off for work still half-asleep, you end work and go home with a big smile on your face.
We go on like this for a while, talking and joking randomly about bad books and good books, the rising cost of living in Barcelona, the worsening economy, how you have to change in order not to change, how you have to move in order to stay at the same spot, loved ones, our collaboration for your upcoming magazine, boring office work which we both avoid, freedom, time, and the big word happiness.
“Maybe we are happiest when we were children.” You say.
I wish I don’t agree.
We head back to the reception counter.
“Maybe we should just do whatever we want.” I steal your line, throwing it back at you. Just be.
You laugh and help me with my luggage, “Yeah.”
The cab soon arrives. We kiss each other on the cheeks goodbye. I board the cab, feeling a lump in my throat that refuses to go away for a long time. I always fare badly at farewells.
Travel guides are packed with information on where to go, where to stay, what to eat and what to do. What they forget, is that it is never tourist sites, but always people, that steal away pieces of you.
Remember to send me your second novel when it’s translated into English. All the best to you, Alicia, Laura and all the others I’ve met on this trip.
Ciao ciao.
22.7.08
people
I am thinking of…
the two cute Spanish guys I bought ice cream from.
the teenager at the metro who passed me by and, for no apparent reason, whispered in my ear, “Go to hell.”
the theives who took my keys, opened my locker and stole my belongings while I was asleep.
the police officer who explained his calendar to me, and who smiled when I said the stuff I’ve lost is worth more than my bank account.
my professor’s niece Veronica who helped me out after the theft, treated me to delicious Spanish food and told me her story.
her husband who narrated his family history very impressively over dinner and put forth the thesis that the economy will crash in 2011.
her two Malaysian friends Shih Yang and Ben, who took me to Terragona, a Roman city outside Barcelona.
the old man in the wheelchair masturbating publicly on the street, oblivious to everything.
the gorgeous Brazilian lady who got her stuff stolen as well and had to travel to Madrid to make another passport.
the good-looking writer part-timing at the hostel Miguel, who saw my work and asked if I would like to contribute to his upcoming magazine.
the pretty Alicia, who also works at the hostel, and who always exudes a bohemian air around her.
the American guy who tried my method of eating ice-cream and I think, nearly choked.
the NZ girl who I explored Park Guell with.
the owner of the clothing store who winked.
the elderly woman wearing bright red lipstick at the Plaza Reial.
the Red Cross guy who I met outside a hospital but who could speak only Spanish.
the suspicious guy with dread locks who tried to offer me incense.
the Pakistani in front of the contemporary art museum who said ¨Ni Hao!” endlessly.
the cheats near the metro station.the train conductor who went “Konichiwa?” when he saw me, spoke to e Spanish passengers besides me and then did a jiggly, butt-shaking dance that lasted for about three seconds.
the guy who has ran around the hostel in only his red underwear twice already.
my Londoner friend Frank who I am supposed to meet at Ibiza but can’t.
the naked man walking on the street calmly, with an outline of an underwear tattooed on his ass.
the illegal hawkers who harass tourists to buy their bags and shades, and who run away when the police harass them.
Laura, the owner of the hostel who I can talk for hours with, who loves my hand lotion, and who has put me up at her place tonight.
Barcelona is turning out to be rather unpredictable.
15.7.08
all boxed up
I guess to be able to think out of the box, you've to be able to see the box first.
I'm trying to see the box i've grown up in.
I'm trying to see the box i've grown up in.
8.7.08
6.7.08
30.6.08
free
The bird has its eyes to the sky, wanting to be free and live, like other birds soaring past. But its body is too rigid, and the burden tied to its legs, too heavy. And so it spreads its wings wide, hoping to kiss the white clouds, but stays unmoving, forever still.
29.6.08
a stranger
You sit on the floor, with your hands resting on the bench, wearing a royal blue, velvetly jacket with a ridiculous amount of lace at its collar and sleeves.
There's something about you that I can't pinpoint.
"What's your name?" I ask. You reply, looking back calmly, your eyes betraying intelligence. That gaze. Alert, self-assured and a little guarded, imbued with a sense of danger that only a non-conformist or a rebel possesses.
"And yours?" You hold out your hand.
"Huixian." I shake it, drawing back faster than I should, a little too aware of the clamminess of mine. Suddenly conscious of the cameras, lights and people around us, I get to what I'm supposed to do.
And the spell breaks.
That gaze.
There's something about you that I can't pinpoint.
"What's your name?" I ask. You reply, looking back calmly, your eyes betraying intelligence. That gaze. Alert, self-assured and a little guarded, imbued with a sense of danger that only a non-conformist or a rebel possesses.
"And yours?" You hold out your hand.
"Huixian." I shake it, drawing back faster than I should, a little too aware of the clamminess of mine. Suddenly conscious of the cameras, lights and people around us, I get to what I'm supposed to do.
And the spell breaks.
That gaze.
27.6.08
23.6.08
starts and loose ends
I've started exercising. Swam with Justin and JH last week and I'm hoping it's a start to exercising weekly - or okay - bi-weekly, depending on how lazy I feel. CC, Woon Woon and I are thinking of wakeboarding or something. That'll be fun.
Just fed my nygh and hcjc notes to the recycle bin. Mitosis, quantum physics and weird-looking mathematical formulas - things I can't recall anything about. But the significance of these papers lies in the scribbles by my friends and I, the cartoons we drew (there's no stopping YJ when she's drawing her bball fairy everywhere), the tic-tac-toes, the cheesy chinese song lyrics and more... These'll have to stay in my memories. Too much nostalgia results in cockroach eggs and incessant nagging.
It occurs to me I can't get rid of all e clutter in my room and inside me at one go, but regular spring-cleaning may just give myself a little more space.
Prompted by a friend, I've joined this networking website called Tagged. Besides all the "hi" messages (including one by a bisexual female), I've got one asking if I'm interested to be a social escort. "Don't waste your youth," the sender says, "all the guys are screened carefully and are below 32." And to up the draw of her offer, she further assures me "looks doesn't matter." I'm not quite sure if that's an insult.
Oh, Zouk has renewed my membership, despite my not-very-impressive attendance. And I have a whole list of remote/new spots I want to check out. Drinks, perhaps?
Just fed my nygh and hcjc notes to the recycle bin. Mitosis, quantum physics and weird-looking mathematical formulas - things I can't recall anything about. But the significance of these papers lies in the scribbles by my friends and I, the cartoons we drew (there's no stopping YJ when she's drawing her bball fairy everywhere), the tic-tac-toes, the cheesy chinese song lyrics and more... These'll have to stay in my memories. Too much nostalgia results in cockroach eggs and incessant nagging.
It occurs to me I can't get rid of all e clutter in my room and inside me at one go, but regular spring-cleaning may just give myself a little more space.
Prompted by a friend, I've joined this networking website called Tagged. Besides all the "hi" messages (including one by a bisexual female), I've got one asking if I'm interested to be a social escort. "Don't waste your youth," the sender says, "all the guys are screened carefully and are below 32." And to up the draw of her offer, she further assures me "looks doesn't matter." I'm not quite sure if that's an insult.
Oh, Zouk has renewed my membership, despite my not-very-impressive attendance. And I have a whole list of remote/new spots I want to check out. Drinks, perhaps?
19.6.08
back alleys
The chairs sit at the back alleys, kept out of sight from the busy main streets. Here, they contemplate, braving both the sun and the rain that leave traces of aging on their bodies. Sometimes, they stand a metre, two, or more apart. And sometimes, they are only separated by a few centimetres. Yet, each is never close enough to touch another, and never, close enough to share the very same sun rays and rain drops that pour down nonchalently. Differences in spatial location render the distance-in-between always existent, and futile attempts to communicate, always too apparent. In this situation, the chairs live on alone, and not alone.
11.6.08
4.6.08
Facebook musings
Updating profiles, uploading photographs and videos, playing games, commenting on (almost) everything and scrawling inane messages on friends' walls. These are just some activities marking another unremarkable day in the Facebook world. Facebook is - according to its inventors - a "social utility that connects people." And connect people it does, for it even has a live feed informing you on what's happening with your friends and acquaintances. Information about people you know gets delivered straight to your computer screen in real time, or as soon as the relevant parties make a move in this virtual world anyway.
You know going-ons without asking. You stay connected with people without really being connected (unless you want to). You watch. You are being watched. You are entertained. You are also entertainment.
Interaction is mediated, and interaction - by requiring a password and a username - is also at your own convenience.
You know going-ons without asking. You stay connected with people without really being connected (unless you want to). You watch. You are being watched. You are entertained. You are also entertainment.
Interaction is mediated, and interaction - by requiring a password and a username - is also at your own convenience.
29.5.08
26.5.08
concentration camp
The air is dry. The only light is at the end of the long corridor. Flowers lie on the floors of individual cells in this empty prison barrack. Some seem to have been carelessly scattered, and others, merticulously placed. But they are all fake, plastic and very dead.
Tales of torture during WWII in this Sachsenhausen concentration camp flood through the grey, ugly audio guide hung around my neck. Chaos was the norm, and peace, the exception. Death... might be a relief.
Don't be sad. Don't feel. Don't reveal any form of vulnerability. I say to myself, wishing for a moment the stories I'm hearing are fiction.
The audio guide plays an interview snippet with an ex-convict, who relates how prisoners were given ropes and told to hang themselves. When asked why he didn't comply, he replies, "If they (the SS officers) want that done, they have to do it themselves."
The prison barrack suddenly seems warmer and colder at the same time.
Tales of torture during WWII in this Sachsenhausen concentration camp flood through the grey, ugly audio guide hung around my neck. Chaos was the norm, and peace, the exception. Death... might be a relief.
Don't be sad. Don't feel. Don't reveal any form of vulnerability. I say to myself, wishing for a moment the stories I'm hearing are fiction.
The audio guide plays an interview snippet with an ex-convict, who relates how prisoners were given ropes and told to hang themselves. When asked why he didn't comply, he replies, "If they (the SS officers) want that done, they have to do it themselves."
The prison barrack suddenly seems warmer and colder at the same time.
21.5.08
go on, shout
Sometimes i feel like i am stuck in the pages of a trashy lifestyle magazine. everyone is shouting to be heard but noone - including myself - is saying anything extremely interesting.
8.5.08
that empty feeling
life is meaningless. you give it meaning.
and sleeping feels so good sometimes that i wish i'm awake to enjoy it.
and sleeping feels so good sometimes that i wish i'm awake to enjoy it.
1.5.08
andreas slominski
Sometimes, bits and pieces of conversations or events come together after the moments are gone, only making (more) sense with hindsight.
I was writing an essay a few weeks ago about Foucault and Habermas when I decided to use an art work by Slominski to illustrate one of my points. Basically, the work is called Streetlight with Tyre (1996) and consisted of a bicycle-tyre laid around the base of a street lamp. Instead of simply tossing the tyre over the lamp however, the artist has hired a team of workmen to uproot the light and disconnect all the cables, before ceremonially placed the tyre around the lamppost from below. After all that effort, what one can see is only a deflated tyre around the lamp. The tyre was stolen after two days.
Some has credited the work for revolving around the principle of "maximum effort for minimum effect," turning our usual reasoning of efficiency on its head. Instrumental reasoning has been resisted, in short.
When my friend told me about this work in the middle of the night about thirteen months ago, I frowned, not comprehending one bit.
Now, the work seems more interesting, even making its way into my essay. And this blog post is for memory's sake.
I was writing an essay a few weeks ago about Foucault and Habermas when I decided to use an art work by Slominski to illustrate one of my points. Basically, the work is called Streetlight with Tyre (1996) and consisted of a bicycle-tyre laid around the base of a street lamp. Instead of simply tossing the tyre over the lamp however, the artist has hired a team of workmen to uproot the light and disconnect all the cables, before ceremonially placed the tyre around the lamppost from below. After all that effort, what one can see is only a deflated tyre around the lamp. The tyre was stolen after two days.
Some has credited the work for revolving around the principle of "maximum effort for minimum effect," turning our usual reasoning of efficiency on its head. Instrumental reasoning has been resisted, in short.
When my friend told me about this work in the middle of the night about thirteen months ago, I frowned, not comprehending one bit.
Now, the work seems more interesting, even making its way into my essay. And this blog post is for memory's sake.
22.4.08
the ant
The ant crawls onto my hand. I watch it curiously, distracted by this sudden intruder and enjoying the slightly ticklish sensation as it strolls across my skin. Walking to the back of my hand, the ant pauses.
On a usual day, I would have flicked the ant away unthinkingly.
Standing on its two hind legs, the ant stretches out its front legs and starts to clean itself, with its antenna waving in the air. I guess it feels safe.
Such small pleasures are littered everywhere. Take for example, the smell of a flower, the coldness of ice cream as it slips down your throat, the ever-changing form of cigarette smoke, the warmth of sunshine, the coolness of a breeze and the tenderness of a touch. They're life's tiny joys that deserve more attention than they're getting.
And I flick the ant away, returning to my reading.
On a usual day, I would have flicked the ant away unthinkingly.
Standing on its two hind legs, the ant stretches out its front legs and starts to clean itself, with its antenna waving in the air. I guess it feels safe.
Such small pleasures are littered everywhere. Take for example, the smell of a flower, the coldness of ice cream as it slips down your throat, the ever-changing form of cigarette smoke, the warmth of sunshine, the coolness of a breeze and the tenderness of a touch. They're life's tiny joys that deserve more attention than they're getting.
And I flick the ant away, returning to my reading.
21.4.08
thank you
Today, I received the biggest rose ever in my 26 years. It was a shock. Thank you, my sweet cousin. :) You've made my day.
OK, damn, thank you for the photo of yourself as well.
~~
I like this photo of chaptain. One of the few ones in which he doesn't look melancholic. Maybe it's because he's eating here.
~~
Exams and essays always make me feel guilty. Many times, I'll skip meals and study/write till morning. And it is family members like my parents, or close friends like angie, who buy me food, drive me to school, nag me to sleep or drop me a text just to check on me. And I realise, I have a lot to be grateful for.
These are the people who keep me grounded despite my lack of discipline, short attention span and last minute preparation for almost everything. And I still don't do enough for them. Not enough.
14.4.08
being conscious
Once in a while, you get those moments in which everything seems strange. And now, sitting at my messy workspace, with cds, books and papers strewn all over, a JVC radio at my side, an electric guitar on the floor and a small, dark-colored lizard in the kitchen, I feel that way.
You feel... contingent, struck by a sudden realization of your own mortality, which is something you know all along but never feel much about. You sense everything in this room around you is disappearing moment by moment, and that one day, that cunning time will steal whatever you take for granted now right under your nose. It's that feeling that you're small, very small, pulled by invisible strings and living in a massive world where several major and very important events are going on as you draw your next breath.
Maybe it's reading Ulrich Becks that is making me feel this way. His talk of rethinking modernity and globalization is a little too incomprehensible for a girl who lives in a cramped HDB flat, struggles desperately to write and understand, and exploits hardworking taxpayers' money by trying to study.
It's that state of not understanding that throws you into a heightened state of consciousness about the inconsequentiality of your understanding.
But I must say, these intellectuals... They impress.
You feel... contingent, struck by a sudden realization of your own mortality, which is something you know all along but never feel much about. You sense everything in this room around you is disappearing moment by moment, and that one day, that cunning time will steal whatever you take for granted now right under your nose. It's that feeling that you're small, very small, pulled by invisible strings and living in a massive world where several major and very important events are going on as you draw your next breath.
Maybe it's reading Ulrich Becks that is making me feel this way. His talk of rethinking modernity and globalization is a little too incomprehensible for a girl who lives in a cramped HDB flat, struggles desperately to write and understand, and exploits hardworking taxpayers' money by trying to study.
It's that state of not understanding that throws you into a heightened state of consciousness about the inconsequentiality of your understanding.
But I must say, these intellectuals... They impress.
4.4.08
wallpaper
I should be taking part in a student photo exhibition.
Will try to print my stuff and send it over soon.
I'm just an amatuer, but if you wanna drop by Objectifs on April 17, 730pm, great.
It's the opening. :)
The show is till May 16.
night shift
Just came back fr prata with angie. Awesome is that mini drum beat gadget she brought with her.
Late night suppers, conversations, cruising and singing along (maybe horribly, but who cares) to the song set on play. I love moments like these.
Jordin Sparks - Tattoo
No matter what you say about love
I keep coming back for more
Keep my hand in the fire
Sooner or later, I'll get what I'm asking for
No matter what you say about life
I learn every time I bleed
That truth is a stranger
Soul is in danger, I gotta let my spirit be free
To admit that I'm wrong
And then change my mind
Sorry but I have to move on
And leave you behind
I can't waste time so give it a moment
I realize, nothing's broken
No need to worry 'bout everything I've done
Live every second like it was my last one
lalala......................
Late night suppers, conversations, cruising and singing along (maybe horribly, but who cares) to the song set on play. I love moments like these.
Jordin Sparks - Tattoo
No matter what you say about love
I keep coming back for more
Keep my hand in the fire
Sooner or later, I'll get what I'm asking for
No matter what you say about life
I learn every time I bleed
That truth is a stranger
Soul is in danger, I gotta let my spirit be free
To admit that I'm wrong
And then change my mind
Sorry but I have to move on
And leave you behind
I can't waste time so give it a moment
I realize, nothing's broken
No need to worry 'bout everything I've done
Live every second like it was my last one
lalala......................
25.3.08
are you happy?
Happiness is everywhere in a capitalist society. Well, almost anyway. Think advertisements. After all, the main emotion they are selling is happiness. It's an over-hyped emotion that has been packaged and flaunted in shopping centers, on the streets and in between your favorite TV programs.
Perhaps, because happiness is advertised and shoved into our faces so much, we become sad. For every corner we turn, we are reminded of the disjuncture between the ideal of happiness and our own innermost emotional state, and that makes us feel worse about ourselves. Happiness is a model state of being that we are not experiencing, can't seem to reach, and is supposedly, the default mode of feeling - if nothing is wrong and everything is well, okay.
So if you're not happy, something must be wrong. Which may not be true. The fact that you're not happy doesn’t necessarily mean you're sad either.
In sum, maybe advertisements should feature the melancholic and the depressed. That way, we'll won't feel the need to be happy, or think something is lacking when we're not. In fact, we might just feel much better about ourselves. Happier, even. I'm not quite sure whether the products being advertised will sell then, but the possibility is there. After all, a lot of people are attracted to sadness, and sometimes, even seem to want to be sad. (That is perhaps why sad songs in general always sell better than happy ones.) But this draw may be because sadness has been repressed too much by a society that has overemphasized happiness. If ads showcase depressed people instead of happy ones, it may dilute or disappear.
But anyway, bring on the frowns. Don't try too hard to smile. We might all be happier.
Perhaps, because happiness is advertised and shoved into our faces so much, we become sad. For every corner we turn, we are reminded of the disjuncture between the ideal of happiness and our own innermost emotional state, and that makes us feel worse about ourselves. Happiness is a model state of being that we are not experiencing, can't seem to reach, and is supposedly, the default mode of feeling - if nothing is wrong and everything is well, okay.
So if you're not happy, something must be wrong. Which may not be true. The fact that you're not happy doesn’t necessarily mean you're sad either.
In sum, maybe advertisements should feature the melancholic and the depressed. That way, we'll won't feel the need to be happy, or think something is lacking when we're not. In fact, we might just feel much better about ourselves. Happier, even. I'm not quite sure whether the products being advertised will sell then, but the possibility is there. After all, a lot of people are attracted to sadness, and sometimes, even seem to want to be sad. (That is perhaps why sad songs in general always sell better than happy ones.) But this draw may be because sadness has been repressed too much by a society that has overemphasized happiness. If ads showcase depressed people instead of happy ones, it may dilute or disappear.
But anyway, bring on the frowns. Don't try too hard to smile. We might all be happier.
22.3.08
pulling strings
Must the show go on?
There must be some mistake
I didnt mean to let them
Take away my soul.
Am I too old, is it too late?
Where's the feeling gone?
Will I remember the songs?
The show must go on
Pink Floyd
21.3.08
thanks
"I love you but I never thought of owning you."
Of course, you have her. Funny how something - for the last three years - always end around my birthday.
"Thank you, but sorry who is this?"
Maybe this is the decision.
Of course, you have her. Funny how something - for the last three years - always end around my birthday.
"Thank you, but sorry who is this?"
Maybe this is the decision.
12.3.08
split it 3 ways
My heart wishes me to be a simple person with faith, and my mind tells me there's no valid reason to believe in religion, while my body ignores everything and goes about its bodily functions.
So maybe my heart will go to heaven and sing Hallelujah with the angels, and my mind will get roasted by devils sporting little red horns in hell, while my body decomposes six feet under and befriends maggots.
Just a bit down.
-------------
On a separate note, I wish I'm not so shy and anti-social...
So maybe my heart will go to heaven and sing Hallelujah with the angels, and my mind will get roasted by devils sporting little red horns in hell, while my body decomposes six feet under and befriends maggots.
Just a bit down.
-------------
On a separate note, I wish I'm not so shy and anti-social...
8.3.08
words
These days, I read everything except my readings. And write anything except academic essays. If this sounds familiar, perhaps you too, are well versed in the life of a professional student.
Maybe you are also, like me, the kind of student who misses deadlines (or meets them just in time), take ages to read and understand a paper, think books make hard pillows, and is convinced that the library is actually a very cold bedroom.
Don't be mistaken, I like where I am now. And am thankful for it. But come on, I bet you can relate to what I said in my previous paragraphs.
----------------------------------------------
On another note, a writer called Walter Benjamin has won me over with his book One Way Street and Other Writings recently. Was reading him just for fun. Here are some excerpts:
"Each morning the day lies like a fresh shirt on our bed; this incomparably fine, incomparably tightly woven tissue of pure prediction fits us perfectly. The happiness of the next twenty-four hours depends on our ability, on waking, to pick it up."
"Pilfering child. - Through the chink of the scarcely open larder door his hand advances like a lover through the night. Once at home in the darkness, it gropes towards sugar or almonds, sultanas or preserves. And as the lover, before kissing her, embraces his girl, his hand enjoys a tactile tryst with the comestibles before his mouth savours their sweetness. How inviting honey, heaps of currants, even rice yield to his hand. How passionate this meeting of two who have at last escaped the spoon."
"He who observes etiquette but objects to lying is like someone who dresses fashionably but wears no vest."
Maybe you are also, like me, the kind of student who misses deadlines (or meets them just in time), take ages to read and understand a paper, think books make hard pillows, and is convinced that the library is actually a very cold bedroom.
Don't be mistaken, I like where I am now. And am thankful for it. But come on, I bet you can relate to what I said in my previous paragraphs.
----------------------------------------------
On another note, a writer called Walter Benjamin has won me over with his book One Way Street and Other Writings recently. Was reading him just for fun. Here are some excerpts:
"Each morning the day lies like a fresh shirt on our bed; this incomparably fine, incomparably tightly woven tissue of pure prediction fits us perfectly. The happiness of the next twenty-four hours depends on our ability, on waking, to pick it up."
"Pilfering child. - Through the chink of the scarcely open larder door his hand advances like a lover through the night. Once at home in the darkness, it gropes towards sugar or almonds, sultanas or preserves. And as the lover, before kissing her, embraces his girl, his hand enjoys a tactile tryst with the comestibles before his mouth savours their sweetness. How inviting honey, heaps of currants, even rice yield to his hand. How passionate this meeting of two who have at last escaped the spoon."
"He who observes etiquette but objects to lying is like someone who dresses fashionably but wears no vest."
6.3.08
immobilised by two pins
And I yelled - even before he inserted a needle into an acupuncture point near my ankle.
My knees felt weak and my legs didn't feel like mine. I stayed still, at the mercy of two tiny pins, while recalling an earlier conversation with the doctor.
"Will it hurt?"
"No, it doesn't. You'll only scream, that's all."
Now, consider that a prophecy came true.
5.3.08
4.3.08
state of mind
Denial. It's an easy mode to live in. Like now, I'm thinking but only unrelated words come and then go, dissolving into incoherency and ambiguity. I'm missing people but I don't want to know who I'm missing, preferring to hide in a state somewhere between clarity and uncertainty, all the while getting by by believing it's the former and that it's all about control.
Try to be cautious, and you slip into moments of impulsiveness. Try to be nonchalant, and suddenly you miss the times where nothing matters except now.
Imagination and reality. Forgetting and remembering. Moving on and hanging on. Believing, and then sweeping it all away. Maybe life is always, somewhere in between - while you get on with behaviors that make up the everyday and try to escape from yourself.
Try to be cautious, and you slip into moments of impulsiveness. Try to be nonchalant, and suddenly you miss the times where nothing matters except now.
Imagination and reality. Forgetting and remembering. Moving on and hanging on. Believing, and then sweeping it all away. Maybe life is always, somewhere in between - while you get on with behaviors that make up the everyday and try to escape from yourself.
27.2.08
breakfast and arguments
My dad prepares the same breakfast almost everyday. And he sure has a way to make me eat. Even though I protest all the time.
That morning, I was adamant I would not stuff any of his cooking into my mouth.
"I don't want to eat."
He kept quiet.
"I don't want to eat." I said again, louder this time. "Can't you give me a break?" I have to eat the same breakfast for nearly 365 days a year. Even civil servants have 21 or 28 days of leave a year.
Still silent. I began to suspect I've made him angry.
I headed to the kitchen to stare at a plate of potatoes and broccoli, slightly guilty. I knew my dad went to some lengths to make breakfast.
"Don't finish it if you don’t want to. Just eat the potatoes." He appeared at the kitchen’s door.
"Most of it are potatoes. But okay." I did as told. The broccoli looked lonely without the potatoes, so I just ate them as well, not wanting to waste more energy arguing with my dad. I was running late.
There were still a tomato and a suspicious and dangerous-looking mixture of egg and cereal left.
That morning, I was adamant I would not stuff any of his cooking into my mouth.
"I don't want to eat."
He kept quiet.
"I don't want to eat." I said again, louder this time. "Can't you give me a break?" I have to eat the same breakfast for nearly 365 days a year. Even civil servants have 21 or 28 days of leave a year.
Still silent. I began to suspect I've made him angry.
I headed to the kitchen to stare at a plate of potatoes and broccoli, slightly guilty. I knew my dad went to some lengths to make breakfast.
"Don't finish it if you don’t want to. Just eat the potatoes." He appeared at the kitchen’s door.
"Most of it are potatoes. But okay." I did as told. The broccoli looked lonely without the potatoes, so I just ate them as well, not wanting to waste more energy arguing with my dad. I was running late.
There were still a tomato and a suspicious and dangerous-looking mixture of egg and cereal left.
"Eat the tomato. Leave the rest to me."
"What? No! The tomato is so big! I will be finishing everything!"
My dad started talking about how he cut the tomato to make it resemble a flower and how that one tomato costed two dollars.
I pointed out how the tomato seeds looked like the centre of a flower, joining in the fun. And took a bite of the tomato.
"You’re ruining the 'flower' by taking a bite at a time. Put the whole thing into your mouth."
"Everything looks the same when it comes out anyway." I grumbled, but ate the whole tomato.
And while I was eating, he went out of the house. Leaving me with the egg and cereal.
Mean.
--------------
Today, he said, "Help me keep the bread."
I put it into my bag. And forgot to give him back.
It became my lunch.
-----------------
I was complaining about breakfast one day when my dad sighed and said, "I'm very frustrated. I have a wife who is diagnosed with cancer and eats too much unhealthy stuff, a daughter who refuses to eat anything, and a dog with heart problems and which eats everything."
This coming from a man who thinks he looks like Bruce Lee. Call me unsympathetic, but I laughed like crazy. You have to agree it was a good summary of his situation.
21.2.08
jack and jill went up the hill
Here's an adaptation of the classic Jack and Jill that I found at Facebook:
cute.
20.2.08
15.2.08
there's no present. because once you think/say it, it has already slipped into the past.
there's no everyday. because its very definition presupposes a whole which can never be grasped - we can only perceive it in moments.
taken this way, both the present and the everyday are illusionary concepts we live by, and perhaps, can't live without.
------
the "me" and the "i" - george herbert mead
the self is made up of "I" and "me". the "I" is the part of the self that emerges out of the process of social interaction. it is that which is revealed when an interaction is taking place. [eg. when you talk to someone, you don't form sentences in your mind before you speak (assuming you're familiar with the language), you just speak. tt's where freudian slips, saying the wrong things, making mistakes in pronouciations etc come in.]
the "me" is the social self. it is the reflexive part of the self which reflects on the actions of "I" and others on hindsight.
considering the spontaneity of the "I", there is always a certain amount of risk and unpredictability involved in social interactions. things can go wrong, takes a different direction than what you intended, or just, become more exciting.
http://psychclassics.yorku.ca/Mead/socialself.htm
http://www.utm.edu/research/iep/m/mead.htm#SH3c
wah lau eh.
so much i need to catch up on/learn.
there's no everyday. because its very definition presupposes a whole which can never be grasped - we can only perceive it in moments.
taken this way, both the present and the everyday are illusionary concepts we live by, and perhaps, can't live without.
------
the "me" and the "i" - george herbert mead
the self is made up of "I" and "me". the "I" is the part of the self that emerges out of the process of social interaction. it is that which is revealed when an interaction is taking place. [eg. when you talk to someone, you don't form sentences in your mind before you speak (assuming you're familiar with the language), you just speak. tt's where freudian slips, saying the wrong things, making mistakes in pronouciations etc come in.]
the "me" is the social self. it is the reflexive part of the self which reflects on the actions of "I" and others on hindsight.
considering the spontaneity of the "I", there is always a certain amount of risk and unpredictability involved in social interactions. things can go wrong, takes a different direction than what you intended, or just, become more exciting.
http://psychclassics.yorku.ca/Mead/socialself.htm
http://www.utm.edu/research/iep/m/mead.htm#SH3c
wah lau eh.
so much i need to catch up on/learn.
9.2.08
It's the lunar new year, and like every other year, it comes with the obligatory temple visits with relatives. Today, that ritual is reenacted at a temple at Boon Lay.
Sitting on a wooden bench waiting, I wonder why people pray or burn joss sticks, papers etc. In that religious space, these objects embody prayers, thanks and hopes, setting themselves between the worldly and the divine.
Pardon my imprudence. But I bet most devotees are requesting the deities for something when they stick their incense into the ash. The whole scenario seems to me, at its very core, to be an exchange relationship. Even if it is one imagined in the minds of people.
Isn't god all-loving? In that case, he doesn't need reminders to do good. Who knows, he probably find all the smoke because of the burning a little too uneco-friendly for his taste. Isn't god giving? Then he doesn't need anything in return. Isn't god all-knowing? Surely, he should know what we need without us asking.
I don't know. Only questions and no satisfactory answer. Religion comes accompanied with sets of morality and meanings that I'm uncertain about. But faith - whether in god or in religion (yes, I think they are different) - is itself blind.
You simply believe. Or not.
because then you.
fall out of the system.
"don't sell your time to anyone"
i m out of sorts in too many ways.
a danger i can't resist.
"don't sell your time to anyone"
i m out of sorts in too many ways.
a danger i can't resist.
3.2.08
30.1.08
I went to prof today, very frustrated.
He's right. I can't hurry things, not when it comes to matters like that. There's no need to keep trying to cheer her up. Just let her speak her mind, and keep reassuring her. Talking and venting is better than bottling it up. Worrying about ironing clothes is better than worrying about the illness. And worrying is acknowledgement – it's better than laughing and denying reality.
I slowly calmed down and tried to see things his way.
This time, I guess, he just gave me a lesson on patience. And on the futility of certain acts when it comes to grief, or depression.
He's right. I can't hurry things, not when it comes to matters like that. There's no need to keep trying to cheer her up. Just let her speak her mind, and keep reassuring her. Talking and venting is better than bottling it up. Worrying about ironing clothes is better than worrying about the illness. And worrying is acknowledgement – it's better than laughing and denying reality.
I slowly calmed down and tried to see things his way.
This time, I guess, he just gave me a lesson on patience. And on the futility of certain acts when it comes to grief, or depression.
15.1.08
How should you react when a doctor tells you one of your close family members is carrying a time bomb in her body? In a more abstract sense, with life counting down to death, aren't we all?
How do you detach yourself from yourself so that you can seem strong on the outside for someone else? And deal with the problem as rationally as possible?
How do you swallow the lump in your throat when strangers offer you their help?
How do you stop yourself from snapping at strangers just because they speak English, a language your family member doesn't understand?
How do you stop pain?
-----------------
I’m touched by the way virtual strangers - the nurse and the support group volunteers - have come forward to lend a hand, even giving us their mobile numbers. Things would have been harder without them, or my relatives for that matter. I admire their courage for staring at suffering straight in the face day after day. And I realized their jobs are more meaningful than those who look at numbers all day, or who adorn themselves with a tie and shake their legs in air-conditioned offices.
Because at the end of the day, disregarding social propriety, demarcations and material wealth, aren't we all just a common bunch of pathetic creatures subjected helplessly to similar experiences in life? As the things we hold on to dismantled into meaninglessness, only love (even to strangers) steps forward.
-------------------
I think the medical treatment of major illnesses is premised on barbaric practices. Something wrong? Cut it off. Oh, or shall we try using injecting chemicals into you, or do you prefer electricity?
The management of physiological processes, even by yourself, is always messy. For minor events, think urine tests. For major events, think bloody operations. Think the helplessness you feel when you can't control your own body. Think the losing of independence.
Fighting an illness is like battling with an invisible enemy hidden within yourself.
The human body is more trouble than it's worth. And hope can be a very cruel thing.
Who is this speaking now? Fear?
----------------
Don't say sorry, the fight isn't over. I'm sure she'll get better.
The most important thing now is to be strong, isn't it? Being depressed, anxious or excessively worried won't help things one bit.
For the question here isn't whether you can cope, or if you're struggling to cope. The question here is how you fucking cope.
How do you detach yourself from yourself so that you can seem strong on the outside for someone else? And deal with the problem as rationally as possible?
How do you swallow the lump in your throat when strangers offer you their help?
How do you stop yourself from snapping at strangers just because they speak English, a language your family member doesn't understand?
How do you stop pain?
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I’m touched by the way virtual strangers - the nurse and the support group volunteers - have come forward to lend a hand, even giving us their mobile numbers. Things would have been harder without them, or my relatives for that matter. I admire their courage for staring at suffering straight in the face day after day. And I realized their jobs are more meaningful than those who look at numbers all day, or who adorn themselves with a tie and shake their legs in air-conditioned offices.
Because at the end of the day, disregarding social propriety, demarcations and material wealth, aren't we all just a common bunch of pathetic creatures subjected helplessly to similar experiences in life? As the things we hold on to dismantled into meaninglessness, only love (even to strangers) steps forward.
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I think the medical treatment of major illnesses is premised on barbaric practices. Something wrong? Cut it off. Oh, or shall we try using injecting chemicals into you, or do you prefer electricity?
The management of physiological processes, even by yourself, is always messy. For minor events, think urine tests. For major events, think bloody operations. Think the helplessness you feel when you can't control your own body. Think the losing of independence.
Fighting an illness is like battling with an invisible enemy hidden within yourself.
The human body is more trouble than it's worth. And hope can be a very cruel thing.
Who is this speaking now? Fear?
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Don't say sorry, the fight isn't over. I'm sure she'll get better.
The most important thing now is to be strong, isn't it? Being depressed, anxious or excessively worried won't help things one bit.
For the question here isn't whether you can cope, or if you're struggling to cope. The question here is how you fucking cope.
10.1.08
nus
I was waiting outside Prof Tong’s office when I saw this outside an empty office room. Objects placed by a graduate student on a low coffee table.
Later, I realized, it’s been exactly one year since a teacher of mine passed away.
... The room may be empty and your nametag may not be on its door, but you are still remembered.
Thank you for your time, your approachable attitude and your smiles.
5.1.08
Musings on the extremely brand conscious
The sad thing about wearing clothes or shoes with brand names or logos splashed all over is that you can’t help but feel like a goddamn walking advertisement.
The funny thing about feeling that way is that you enjoy it.
The funny thing about feeling that way is that you enjoy it.
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