One evening, as my father fell asleep in front of the television he pretended to watch, I overheard a news report on how revenues from the casinos "exceeded expectations".
Not having written anything in a long time, I thought of putting something about the casinos together.
So, for a few days after that, I went out of my way to read the newspapers, as a kind of research. I don't usually read the newspapers, you see. I'd do it if I were expecting to be tested on current affairs, like at an interview, and when it would be too complicated to explain why I don't read newspapers. I don't read the news because I find it quite uncomfortable to know so much about what happens in other people's lives. It gives me a headache to imagine. It makes me apathetic.
Anyway, I came across this article about someone being caught for breaking the law in order to finance his gambling debts. His wife had left him, taking his kids with her. His parents did not show up when he stood for trial, and were cited to have given up on him. He was jailed.
I wondered if this guy would have messed up through some other means, if not for having gambled too much. Perhaps he would have messed up anyway. But since he already messed up and his life was changed for ever... we shall not know what would have happened if he didn't gamble too much.
The casinos bring money to our economy. They help to sustain our economic prosperity and progress, which will in turn enable us to live better lives, have better teachers in better schools for our children, have better banks for us to put our money in, appreciate and create better art, read and write better writing. We would have better medical things, longer life-expectancy, re-employed to work until I don't know when... And more fireworks to watch every now and then.
Fireworks are always nice. They are pretty and generally... celebratory.
That's a whole lot of good, for a bit of bad, isn't it?
Tell that to someone who had messed up his life at the casinos?
But it was his own fault? He had a choice not to go? He could have spent his spare time volunteering as a Director of Traffic at his children's school instead of gambling? He was adequately informed of the ills of gambling?
This reminds me of the recent SARS epidemic, when everyone was told to wash their hands properly. And the elderly were especially cautioned to exercise extra care as they were more susceptible to the virus. When the elderly, or anyone else, did fall sick, we had heros who helped them get better. The victims did not have fingers pointed at them. Neither were they told that it was their fault for not locking themselves up in a ziplock bag.
Were those who were more susceptible to the gambling addiction adequately warned? And even if they were, is it entirely their fault if they get addicted? If it's not their fault, then is it ours?
Who is responsible anyway?
Who's responsible for the future SARS victims if we don't have better healthcare ready for them? Who's responsible if we have a shorter life-expectancy? Who's responsible for lesser fireworks?
And then, who is responsible for a higher suicide rate?
This is like asking who or what was responsible for the opium wars.
Where do we draw the line?
I have a headache imagining all this. Here I am, on a weekday, sitting up in my bed, writing on a laptop resting on a pink nine dollar plastic breakfast tray
Showing posts with label Essays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Essays. Show all posts
Friday, 11 March 2011
Friday, 22 October 2010
On Art and Writing
(My Studies)
I have been a rather serious student about art in the recent few years. My “serious” efforts include putting myself through related courses and undertaking other forms of research.
My interest in the arts started with my chance discovery of the Surrealists. I was surprised to find how they articulated what I was intuitively doing with my stories then. For example, Rene Magritte was explaining his concept of mystery: “The mind loves the unknown. It loves images whose meaning is unknown, since the meaning of the mind itself is unknown.” I could relate to this with my story about a bear with a biscuit face (close to Magritte's painting of men with apples blocking their features from the viewer). A bear with a biscuit face was also a curious juxtaposition of elements, which is a surrealist theme. I was already practising automatic writing, a technique which I later came to learn was Surrealist as well.
Learning what they were consciously doing helped me realise better what I was unconsciously doing with my writing. For example, I was interested with how in different readers’ mind, the phrase “bear with a biscuit face” conjured up in some the image of an oreo biscuit, or chocolate biscuit, as opposed to my image of a “ritz bitz” biscuit. The minimalist writers were writing with sparse descriptions so that the audience's imagination would fill in the gap (e.g. they would articulate these things in an article or interview). The critiques of the Surrealist movement would also point out limitations of the way I was writing in (e.g. it was likely to be obscure and taken as random arbitrariness). In this way, I was able to quickly develop and evaluate my approach or concepts.
Wanting to know more about other art theories, I attended Dr Sian Jay's appreciating western art course (at NUS extension) thinking it would be a crash course to “download” the knowledge into my head – as opposed to reading 300 books myself. Through this course, I gained confidence in my way of interpreting art and art theories, and learnt how to think about art more systematically and effectively – in other words, I learnt how to learn better.
(On Art and Writing)
As writing becomes more important to me, and developing my writing gains higher priority, I try to learn more about art and explore new concepts.
Prior to this attempt, I have never tried to explain how art influences my writing in words – not even my private journals, not even in my conscious thought. It had been a very organic process, which I hope it would still largely remain to be.
I take in what I learn, I absorb what I can, and it becomes a part of my brain. It's like how I eat a plate of char kway teow and it becomes a part of my body (as in the nutrients and fats would fuse with my cells and become a part of my body forever after). In the same way all the char kway teow I’ve ever eaten in my life will come to affect the way my heart beats – my art education (or any other experience) will fuse into my thoughts and state of mind, affecting the way I produce anything and what I produce.
Honestly, I'm not sure if putting this process into words would ruin it. If the words are ill-chosen, the idea would be “set” in the wrong way. If ideas were gems, then words that articulate these ideas would be the gold or silver that encases and frames ideas to highlight their brilliance. Passages and poems are crafted jewelleries, then. My role as the writer is akin to the jeweller – we’re both craftsmen, and we both have to search for materials – ideas and words or gems and metal – that we can be inspired by and will (here, i want to use "will" like "wield" because I think it's a better verb to mean "wield").
Rather ironically, the above two analogies in my “disclaimer” already hint at how art affects my writing. When I study the arts (like the art of char kway teow or the art of jewellery making), I study the philosophies or states of mind of the artists (who are also like the cooks and jewellers) that may distinguish them and affect their paintings or sculptures (like their char kway teow or jewelleries).
When I look at a painting from an artist, I try to imagine what he's thinking, appreciate his sense of aesthetics, and decide where I agree or disagree with him. From these processes, I develop ideas and my aesthetic sense. In addition, having “consumed” the painting, it will affect my thoughts and state of mind, which will in turn affect what I produce.
(On Ideas, Reality, Images and Words)
Another concept that I have is in part influenced by Michel Foucault’s This is not a pipe where he discussed some theories on the relationships between reality, images, and words, with reference to Magritte’s paintings; that is, words (being just words) and images (being just images) only refer to the idea of what that is real; the idea is also distinct from that which is real. The word “pipe” refer to the idea of a pipe which refers to a real tangible pipe.
It brings us to the question then, what is it that a painting is trying to conjure? And how that compares to what is it that a written story is trying to conjure?
In my haste, I could over-simplify and say a painting and a written story are similar in both trying to conjure ideas in the audiences’ mind. The idea in the audiences’ mind – becomes new and different altogether – being neither the reality, the image, nor the written story, nor my idea in the first place. And this process is another very important factor of a story – not that which is described explicitly with words – but the ideas it intends and manages to conjure in the audience’s mind.
(On state of Mind, Soul, Heart)
And how effectively the art work (story or picture) conjures up an idea in the audience’s mind and heart can also be affected by the quality of the art work’s soul or heart – which is in turn, affected by the state of mind, soul, or heart of the artist.
I know I’m being confusing, suddenly introducing more elusive things like “heart” and “soul” here. But “state of mind” seems to only refer to the intellect and reason, which is somewhat lacking. I am really referring to the heart and soul, which besides the mind, are faculties capable of creating ideas, albeit of a different nature, property, and cultivation.
This is where the char kway teow analogy is effective. Have you tasted the char kway teow of a master who fry his kway teow with heart, with concentration and sincerity? Compare his kway teow to another that’s fried by his son while chatting to his friend about going to the casino? The difference in the taste between both plates of noodles is just the stuff of how state of mind and heart of the artist affects the soul of his work.
(On Chinese Art)
In a way, tasting char kway teow cooked with heart (referring to how we say in Chinese, to use one’s heart to do something, and not how Westerners say “I heart New York”), would help to cultivate my sensibilities and discernment. In a similar way, studying the arts and contemplating how artists paint with their heart, helps the cultivation of my heart. I hope you know what I mean, these matters are very difficult to explain.
In the process of cultivating myself, I also turn to Japanese, Chinese and Southeast Asian art. To me, the artist’s heart is especially prominent in Chinese ink paintings, perhaps due to how they’re created. Usually a painting would begin with spontaneity and completed in a single sitting. Because of the properties of the paper, every stroke or dash is irreversible. When things are created spontaneously, implying that it comes instinctively, there is less room for planning ahead, and the heart takes over. Because there is no room to retract any move, the heart must be skilful, not to make mistakes and will (wield) the ink skilfully.
Moreover, my Chinese lifestyle and environment predisposes my ideas, aesthetic sense, and my general state of mind, to be similar to those of Chinese artists. Despite using English as my writing and reading language and consuming a lot of American and European culture and education, I realised that there was a large part of me who can’t empathise with Western culture. I really have an Asian soul, you know. If I die and become a ghost, I will be a Chinese ghost (who can speak in English), but I will have the properties of a Chinese ghost (which seem to differ quite a bit in properties of being from that of an Ang mor ghost). Of course, there is still much to learn from the Surrealists and the other Angmors, but say Chinese ink painting really relates to the part of me that has been fed by the soya sauce that I’ve eaten all my life (and really, there’s soya sauce in everything in our diet, including char kway teow). Surrealism is really like French food, or mayonnaise, which, frankly, I still don’t quite understand because my grandma doesn't know how to use it in her cooking. It’s interesting, but cannot take the place of soya sauce in my life.
Being in caught in the mundane East-West conundrum of modern Asia, I need to amalgamate East-West ideas. But what that is more important than how East-West are conflicting and complementary, is that after I’ve consumed them, they’re a part of me, and they’re no longer just East or West – they’re my left or right brain, right or left lung, and I only have one heart.
(In summary)
So, I write, then I learn things, I change, and then I write about different things differently. Being aware of how this process works helps me grasp the concepts and learn and change faster. For example, being aware of how art affects my writing enables me to use art better. For another example, thinking about how ideas, reality, and images differ helps me understand how ideas, reality, and words differ. My stories conjure ideas in the readers’ mind which are different from my idea. How effectively my stories (or essays) conjure these ideas in my readers’ minds also depend on the cultivation of my state of mind, heart, and soul. (This summary, for example, does not conjure the same ideas as what was explained above with analogies and details.) Studying Eastern and Western art cultivates my perspective and my heart from which I write.
I have been a rather serious student about art in the recent few years. My “serious” efforts include putting myself through related courses and undertaking other forms of research.
My interest in the arts started with my chance discovery of the Surrealists. I was surprised to find how they articulated what I was intuitively doing with my stories then. For example, Rene Magritte was explaining his concept of mystery: “The mind loves the unknown. It loves images whose meaning is unknown, since the meaning of the mind itself is unknown.” I could relate to this with my story about a bear with a biscuit face (close to Magritte's painting of men with apples blocking their features from the viewer). A bear with a biscuit face was also a curious juxtaposition of elements, which is a surrealist theme. I was already practising automatic writing, a technique which I later came to learn was Surrealist as well.
Learning what they were consciously doing helped me realise better what I was unconsciously doing with my writing. For example, I was interested with how in different readers’ mind, the phrase “bear with a biscuit face” conjured up in some the image of an oreo biscuit, or chocolate biscuit, as opposed to my image of a “ritz bitz” biscuit. The minimalist writers were writing with sparse descriptions so that the audience's imagination would fill in the gap (e.g. they would articulate these things in an article or interview). The critiques of the Surrealist movement would also point out limitations of the way I was writing in (e.g. it was likely to be obscure and taken as random arbitrariness). In this way, I was able to quickly develop and evaluate my approach or concepts.
Wanting to know more about other art theories, I attended Dr Sian Jay's appreciating western art course (at NUS extension) thinking it would be a crash course to “download” the knowledge into my head – as opposed to reading 300 books myself. Through this course, I gained confidence in my way of interpreting art and art theories, and learnt how to think about art more systematically and effectively – in other words, I learnt how to learn better.
(On Art and Writing)
As writing becomes more important to me, and developing my writing gains higher priority, I try to learn more about art and explore new concepts.
Prior to this attempt, I have never tried to explain how art influences my writing in words – not even my private journals, not even in my conscious thought. It had been a very organic process, which I hope it would still largely remain to be.
I take in what I learn, I absorb what I can, and it becomes a part of my brain. It's like how I eat a plate of char kway teow and it becomes a part of my body (as in the nutrients and fats would fuse with my cells and become a part of my body forever after). In the same way all the char kway teow I’ve ever eaten in my life will come to affect the way my heart beats – my art education (or any other experience) will fuse into my thoughts and state of mind, affecting the way I produce anything and what I produce.
Honestly, I'm not sure if putting this process into words would ruin it. If the words are ill-chosen, the idea would be “set” in the wrong way. If ideas were gems, then words that articulate these ideas would be the gold or silver that encases and frames ideas to highlight their brilliance. Passages and poems are crafted jewelleries, then. My role as the writer is akin to the jeweller – we’re both craftsmen, and we both have to search for materials – ideas and words or gems and metal – that we can be inspired by and will (here, i want to use "will" like "wield" because I think it's a better verb to mean "wield").
Rather ironically, the above two analogies in my “disclaimer” already hint at how art affects my writing. When I study the arts (like the art of char kway teow or the art of jewellery making), I study the philosophies or states of mind of the artists (who are also like the cooks and jewellers) that may distinguish them and affect their paintings or sculptures (like their char kway teow or jewelleries).
When I look at a painting from an artist, I try to imagine what he's thinking, appreciate his sense of aesthetics, and decide where I agree or disagree with him. From these processes, I develop ideas and my aesthetic sense. In addition, having “consumed” the painting, it will affect my thoughts and state of mind, which will in turn affect what I produce.
(On Ideas, Reality, Images and Words)
Another concept that I have is in part influenced by Michel Foucault’s This is not a pipe where he discussed some theories on the relationships between reality, images, and words, with reference to Magritte’s paintings; that is, words (being just words) and images (being just images) only refer to the idea of what that is real; the idea is also distinct from that which is real. The word “pipe” refer to the idea of a pipe which refers to a real tangible pipe.
It brings us to the question then, what is it that a painting is trying to conjure? And how that compares to what is it that a written story is trying to conjure?
In my haste, I could over-simplify and say a painting and a written story are similar in both trying to conjure ideas in the audiences’ mind. The idea in the audiences’ mind – becomes new and different altogether – being neither the reality, the image, nor the written story, nor my idea in the first place. And this process is another very important factor of a story – not that which is described explicitly with words – but the ideas it intends and manages to conjure in the audience’s mind.
(On state of Mind, Soul, Heart)
And how effectively the art work (story or picture) conjures up an idea in the audience’s mind and heart can also be affected by the quality of the art work’s soul or heart – which is in turn, affected by the state of mind, soul, or heart of the artist.
I know I’m being confusing, suddenly introducing more elusive things like “heart” and “soul” here. But “state of mind” seems to only refer to the intellect and reason, which is somewhat lacking. I am really referring to the heart and soul, which besides the mind, are faculties capable of creating ideas, albeit of a different nature, property, and cultivation.
This is where the char kway teow analogy is effective. Have you tasted the char kway teow of a master who fry his kway teow with heart, with concentration and sincerity? Compare his kway teow to another that’s fried by his son while chatting to his friend about going to the casino? The difference in the taste between both plates of noodles is just the stuff of how state of mind and heart of the artist affects the soul of his work.
(On Chinese Art)
In a way, tasting char kway teow cooked with heart (referring to how we say in Chinese, to use one’s heart to do something, and not how Westerners say “I heart New York”), would help to cultivate my sensibilities and discernment. In a similar way, studying the arts and contemplating how artists paint with their heart, helps the cultivation of my heart. I hope you know what I mean, these matters are very difficult to explain.
In the process of cultivating myself, I also turn to Japanese, Chinese and Southeast Asian art. To me, the artist’s heart is especially prominent in Chinese ink paintings, perhaps due to how they’re created. Usually a painting would begin with spontaneity and completed in a single sitting. Because of the properties of the paper, every stroke or dash is irreversible. When things are created spontaneously, implying that it comes instinctively, there is less room for planning ahead, and the heart takes over. Because there is no room to retract any move, the heart must be skilful, not to make mistakes and will (wield) the ink skilfully.
Moreover, my Chinese lifestyle and environment predisposes my ideas, aesthetic sense, and my general state of mind, to be similar to those of Chinese artists. Despite using English as my writing and reading language and consuming a lot of American and European culture and education, I realised that there was a large part of me who can’t empathise with Western culture. I really have an Asian soul, you know. If I die and become a ghost, I will be a Chinese ghost (who can speak in English), but I will have the properties of a Chinese ghost (which seem to differ quite a bit in properties of being from that of an Ang mor ghost). Of course, there is still much to learn from the Surrealists and the other Angmors, but say Chinese ink painting really relates to the part of me that has been fed by the soya sauce that I’ve eaten all my life (and really, there’s soya sauce in everything in our diet, including char kway teow). Surrealism is really like French food, or mayonnaise, which, frankly, I still don’t quite understand because my grandma doesn't know how to use it in her cooking. It’s interesting, but cannot take the place of soya sauce in my life.
Being in caught in the mundane East-West conundrum of modern Asia, I need to amalgamate East-West ideas. But what that is more important than how East-West are conflicting and complementary, is that after I’ve consumed them, they’re a part of me, and they’re no longer just East or West – they’re my left or right brain, right or left lung, and I only have one heart.
(In summary)
So, I write, then I learn things, I change, and then I write about different things differently. Being aware of how this process works helps me grasp the concepts and learn and change faster. For example, being aware of how art affects my writing enables me to use art better. For another example, thinking about how ideas, reality, and images differ helps me understand how ideas, reality, and words differ. My stories conjure ideas in the readers’ mind which are different from my idea. How effectively my stories (or essays) conjure these ideas in my readers’ minds also depend on the cultivation of my state of mind, heart, and soul. (This summary, for example, does not conjure the same ideas as what was explained above with analogies and details.) Studying Eastern and Western art cultivates my perspective and my heart from which I write.
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Buffalos at the Botanic Gardens
Lately, I've been reminded of weird things I did when I was a child. I find it weird now because I can no longer imagine where the time came from, especially if I compare to how children nowadays have to scurry around and don't do the things I had to do.
For instance, I spent considerable time with a bunch of stone buffalo sculptures at the Singapore Botanic Gardens. My father had some sort of official business with some committee at the Gardens, and he would bring my mother, brother, and myself along, to "wait a little while". I suspect the business was not so official, in that he wanted to go and say hi to friends and with fellow orchid hobbyists. In any case, we didn't question how else our time could be spent more constructively, and like good Confucian kids, dutifully entertained ourselves with whatever there was to do.
The meeting place was held at some corner of the Gardens, where there was a bungalow of sorts. In front of the bungalow, there was a field, which was often very muddy, much to the dismay of my mother as it caused damage to my pink patent mary-janes and sometimes the lacy white socks, which was fine because I really disliked those lacy white socks anyway because they were ticklish and uncool.
On the field, there were some great stone sculptures of water buffalos. Maybe like eight statues, or five? Some depicted buffalos standing, grazing, some lazing, some depicted mother-and-calf being together. They were black. And idyllic. And maybe not as big as real buffalos, but big enough for me to climb and sit on their backs.
I must have been three to four years old? Or it was at least before I began kindergarten, or it was at least before I learnt to complain that we would rather be watching TV at home or shopping or something.
There were no other kids there. It was tucked away. My mother would sit at the bungalow patio to watch us. My brother would show off how he's big enough to climb on one that was difficult to climb up on and that I could only climb on the safe "squatting" or "lying down" buffalos. Maybe at my pleads, he would then show me where to step and what to hold on to so to get myself up on something. But honestly, I can't quite recall what made it even fun for the first few visits.
But it was boring afterwards.
We would spend stretches of hours there. From the after lunch time to dinner time. A few times, we played until we couldn't anymore because it was late and we couldn't see. Maybe I exaggerate, because I didn't know how to tell the time anyway. I remember I couldn't tell the time because my family left it to the teachers from school to teach me that. And when school started, we didn't have weekend time to squander like that anymore, there was homework and tuition and blah blah constructive ways of spending time.
It must have been the repetition or the routine or the dread that etched the scene in my mind. It must be quite something, it has since been twenty years, after all! So I remember, like from a dream, the expanse of the field - or so it seems to a child at the age - and the stone buffalos.
And that was just one of the ways we squandered time, following my parents around where they wanted to go. My father also had a friend who sold dried goods (ikan bilis and other fishy smelling things) and we would go and visit the store so that he could chat with him for hours and hours...
Now, I see my friends, parents themselves, following their children around for their classes and so on. And I wonder if it was because I didn't have those classes to attend, or it was because... I don't know.
It's a weird memory - those water buffalos - quite out of place or time. But it is a precious and interesting memory. Thinking back, those water buffalos, and the boredom, probably meaningfully influenced my imagination and interest in the arts. Yet, my parents certainly didn't deliberately intend for it to become a part of my education.
For instance, I spent considerable time with a bunch of stone buffalo sculptures at the Singapore Botanic Gardens. My father had some sort of official business with some committee at the Gardens, and he would bring my mother, brother, and myself along, to "wait a little while". I suspect the business was not so official, in that he wanted to go and say hi to friends and with fellow orchid hobbyists. In any case, we didn't question how else our time could be spent more constructively, and like good Confucian kids, dutifully entertained ourselves with whatever there was to do.
The meeting place was held at some corner of the Gardens, where there was a bungalow of sorts. In front of the bungalow, there was a field, which was often very muddy, much to the dismay of my mother as it caused damage to my pink patent mary-janes and sometimes the lacy white socks, which was fine because I really disliked those lacy white socks anyway because they were ticklish and uncool.
On the field, there were some great stone sculptures of water buffalos. Maybe like eight statues, or five? Some depicted buffalos standing, grazing, some lazing, some depicted mother-and-calf being together. They were black. And idyllic. And maybe not as big as real buffalos, but big enough for me to climb and sit on their backs.
I must have been three to four years old? Or it was at least before I began kindergarten, or it was at least before I learnt to complain that we would rather be watching TV at home or shopping or something.
There were no other kids there. It was tucked away. My mother would sit at the bungalow patio to watch us. My brother would show off how he's big enough to climb on one that was difficult to climb up on and that I could only climb on the safe "squatting" or "lying down" buffalos. Maybe at my pleads, he would then show me where to step and what to hold on to so to get myself up on something. But honestly, I can't quite recall what made it even fun for the first few visits.
But it was boring afterwards.
We would spend stretches of hours there. From the after lunch time to dinner time. A few times, we played until we couldn't anymore because it was late and we couldn't see. Maybe I exaggerate, because I didn't know how to tell the time anyway. I remember I couldn't tell the time because my family left it to the teachers from school to teach me that. And when school started, we didn't have weekend time to squander like that anymore, there was homework and tuition and blah blah constructive ways of spending time.
It must have been the repetition or the routine or the dread that etched the scene in my mind. It must be quite something, it has since been twenty years, after all! So I remember, like from a dream, the expanse of the field - or so it seems to a child at the age - and the stone buffalos.
And that was just one of the ways we squandered time, following my parents around where they wanted to go. My father also had a friend who sold dried goods (ikan bilis and other fishy smelling things) and we would go and visit the store so that he could chat with him for hours and hours...
Now, I see my friends, parents themselves, following their children around for their classes and so on. And I wonder if it was because I didn't have those classes to attend, or it was because... I don't know.
It's a weird memory - those water buffalos - quite out of place or time. But it is a precious and interesting memory. Thinking back, those water buffalos, and the boredom, probably meaningfully influenced my imagination and interest in the arts. Yet, my parents certainly didn't deliberately intend for it to become a part of my education.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Gravekerbs
In the past, they used to bury the dead in either churches' yards or cemeteries located in outskirts of town.
Nowadays, the dead are usually cremated, and even if we want to bury them, we don't have enough space for everyone in our graveyards or cemeteries. This is not yet catering for the population boom and the aging population etc. etc. factors pointing to an impending demand increase.
Do you think they will ever consider putting up the dead in those patches of grass by the roads, as in, those little plots bounded by road kerbs, lying between the pavements and the roads?
This idea came to me when I contemplated how the frangipani plants are grown on road traffic islands and the above mentioned little plots of kerb-grass. You know, frangipanis used to be associated with graveyards, where they, well, grew. This led to me thinking about how graves are constantly being exhumed to give way to development, and then, why not let their existence integrate with ours and move them into our living spaces too?
In a way, this will help our community to integrate better. Oh you live in Jurong East St X, Block YYY? Wow. Cool! My grandpa's grandpa lives there too, near Block YYZ, by the road!
Being surrounded by the dead would also help remind us on the fragility of life and appreciate our limited time left.
It'd be interesting how the graves would be marked. I think headstones are necessary, out of respect, and so people know not to let their dogs poop over the remains of other people's grandpa's grandpa. Then some of the less fortunate may choose to rent out the back of those stones as advertising space.
Somehow, when my time comes, I think I'd rather be buried than cremated. There's something more comforting about decaying messily and returning to nature, than getting torched, powdered, and encased in a marble, or ceramic, jar to be kept on a shelf. Even if it means I'd get dog pooping on my remains every now and then, or that the back of my headstone would feature an ad, which I hope to be for Tiger Beer or something nice but not bras or slimming centres. Bra ads are kinda strange to look at, in my opinion.
Nowadays, the dead are usually cremated, and even if we want to bury them, we don't have enough space for everyone in our graveyards or cemeteries. This is not yet catering for the population boom and the aging population etc. etc. factors pointing to an impending demand increase.
Do you think they will ever consider putting up the dead in those patches of grass by the roads, as in, those little plots bounded by road kerbs, lying between the pavements and the roads?
This idea came to me when I contemplated how the frangipani plants are grown on road traffic islands and the above mentioned little plots of kerb-grass. You know, frangipanis used to be associated with graveyards, where they, well, grew. This led to me thinking about how graves are constantly being exhumed to give way to development, and then, why not let their existence integrate with ours and move them into our living spaces too?
In a way, this will help our community to integrate better. Oh you live in Jurong East St X, Block YYY? Wow. Cool! My grandpa's grandpa lives there too, near Block YYZ, by the road!
Being surrounded by the dead would also help remind us on the fragility of life and appreciate our limited time left.
It'd be interesting how the graves would be marked. I think headstones are necessary, out of respect, and so people know not to let their dogs poop over the remains of other people's grandpa's grandpa. Then some of the less fortunate may choose to rent out the back of those stones as advertising space.
Somehow, when my time comes, I think I'd rather be buried than cremated. There's something more comforting about decaying messily and returning to nature, than getting torched, powdered, and encased in a marble, or ceramic, jar to be kept on a shelf. Even if it means I'd get dog pooping on my remains every now and then, or that the back of my headstone would feature an ad, which I hope to be for Tiger Beer or something nice but not bras or slimming centres. Bra ads are kinda strange to look at, in my opinion.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Jazz and Recorders
I am writing this from Starbucks at Liang Court. They are playing jazz on the speakers.
I always thought that hard-core jazz was difficult to understand. By "hard-core jazz", I mean the music created with a piano, drums or bass perhaps, and a saxaphone or trumpet or both; I mean the jazz without Ella Fitzgerald or the boys from Ipanema or anybody singing in general; I mean the music without songs.
I vaguely wish that instead of making me learn how to play "three blind mice" on the bloody plastic recorder, my music teachers from school taught me how to appreciate jazz, or baroque, for that matter. Then again, it is only because they did, that I can take it for granted that I once knew, and have since forgotten, how to play the recorder.
I must remember this the next time I hear the neighbours' kid practising the recorder - that dreaded-elongated-whistle-of-a-thing. And I should be glad that there will always be some neighbours' kid practising the recorder. (Hey, I was "that kid" before.) And that maybe they are just trying very hard to teach me how to appreciate jazz.
I always thought that hard-core jazz was difficult to understand. By "hard-core jazz", I mean the music created with a piano, drums or bass perhaps, and a saxaphone or trumpet or both; I mean the jazz without Ella Fitzgerald or the boys from Ipanema or anybody singing in general; I mean the music without songs.
I vaguely wish that instead of making me learn how to play "three blind mice" on the bloody plastic recorder, my music teachers from school taught me how to appreciate jazz, or baroque, for that matter. Then again, it is only because they did, that I can take it for granted that I once knew, and have since forgotten, how to play the recorder.
I must remember this the next time I hear the neighbours' kid practising the recorder - that dreaded-elongated-whistle-of-a-thing. And I should be glad that there will always be some neighbours' kid practising the recorder. (Hey, I was "that kid" before.) And that maybe they are just trying very hard to teach me how to appreciate jazz.
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Farting Freely - A big plus point of Teleworking
I've read many articles about the pros and cons of teleworking. Mostly, these articles discuss how working from home saves commuting time, but threatens the family life. I think they leave out the most important point that makes working from home worthwhile - teleworking allows one to fart freely.
When one is at the office, one cannot fart freely, for fear of being laughed at, discriminated against, or nicknamed the 'fart boy/girl'. Although this causes not so much distress (as it's been a bane since young - when we had to go to school - except that we do not seem to have so much gas when we were younger), it is still a luxury for one to be able to fart freely, as loud as whatever, when one works from home. It is especially great, when you let out a loud fart, and then you realise it's a smelly one, and that it's one of those farts that make your stomach feel instantaneously lighter. Every time I fart one of those farts, I think to myself, wow, this is what makes teleworking worthwhile.
I tend to think that this mostly affects people who work in air-conditioned-high-rise-offices more than any other type of work. This is because we have the tendency to pretend that we're very serious and clean and picture perfect, and therefore, feel the most fart-conscious at work. As we have to be in the office for most part of our waking hours, farting freely is a luxury. Maybe if we all change our attitude on farts, it would make us less uptight.
The doctors and nurses have to be serious and clean and perfect, but they're educated in the biological working of the bodies, and so, are obliged to accept that farting is natural and not a big deal. I also suspect that it would be difficult to disapprove every fart as their patients won't really care and would fart anyhow, and disapproving every fart would make them unnecessarily busier. Thus, farting freely is not a big deal.
It's gotta do with the air-conditioning, I think, as not all hospitals are air-conditioned. Also, I suspect people working in the service-line at air-conditioned departmental stores will also feel the pressure to fart carefully, but they can't really work from home anyway, so well, let's not rub in it.
To digress a bit, I suspect rice-farmers, of all professions, will be the most cool about farting, because they're always bending down, and it is quite impossible to stifle or muffle farts in that butt-sticking-in-the-air position.
I wonder if people are motivated to climb the corporate ladder so that they can get their private rooms (and not share offices with others at work) so that they can fart whenever. And that explains why those "high up" are not so keen on teleworking, because being in their private rooms, they would no longer deem the freedom to fart as luxurious. Maybe when I find my way there and get a room to myself, and I get to fart big farts freely, I would think to myself, wow, this is what makes being a "Director" worthwhile.
In the meantime, I shall be satisfied with maintaining that farting freely is a big plus point of teleworking, or shall I say, it's a big Pro(ooT!) of teleworking.
If your family is also disapproving on your loud farts, then this 'pro of working from home' doesn't apply for you. Sorry then, that it sucks to be you.
The above arguments should also apply to the freedom to dig one's nose.
When one is at the office, one cannot fart freely, for fear of being laughed at, discriminated against, or nicknamed the 'fart boy/girl'. Although this causes not so much distress (as it's been a bane since young - when we had to go to school - except that we do not seem to have so much gas when we were younger), it is still a luxury for one to be able to fart freely, as loud as whatever, when one works from home. It is especially great, when you let out a loud fart, and then you realise it's a smelly one, and that it's one of those farts that make your stomach feel instantaneously lighter. Every time I fart one of those farts, I think to myself, wow, this is what makes teleworking worthwhile.
I tend to think that this mostly affects people who work in air-conditioned-high-rise-offices more than any other type of work. This is because we have the tendency to pretend that we're very serious and clean and picture perfect, and therefore, feel the most fart-conscious at work. As we have to be in the office for most part of our waking hours, farting freely is a luxury. Maybe if we all change our attitude on farts, it would make us less uptight.
The doctors and nurses have to be serious and clean and perfect, but they're educated in the biological working of the bodies, and so, are obliged to accept that farting is natural and not a big deal. I also suspect that it would be difficult to disapprove every fart as their patients won't really care and would fart anyhow, and disapproving every fart would make them unnecessarily busier. Thus, farting freely is not a big deal.
It's gotta do with the air-conditioning, I think, as not all hospitals are air-conditioned. Also, I suspect people working in the service-line at air-conditioned departmental stores will also feel the pressure to fart carefully, but they can't really work from home anyway, so well, let's not rub in it.
To digress a bit, I suspect rice-farmers, of all professions, will be the most cool about farting, because they're always bending down, and it is quite impossible to stifle or muffle farts in that butt-sticking-in-the-air position.
I wonder if people are motivated to climb the corporate ladder so that they can get their private rooms (and not share offices with others at work) so that they can fart whenever. And that explains why those "high up" are not so keen on teleworking, because being in their private rooms, they would no longer deem the freedom to fart as luxurious. Maybe when I find my way there and get a room to myself, and I get to fart big farts freely, I would think to myself, wow, this is what makes being a "Director" worthwhile.
In the meantime, I shall be satisfied with maintaining that farting freely is a big plus point of teleworking, or shall I say, it's a big Pro(ooT!) of teleworking.
If your family is also disapproving on your loud farts, then this 'pro of working from home' doesn't apply for you. Sorry then, that it sucks to be you.
The above arguments should also apply to the freedom to dig one's nose.
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Days of Thunder
A couple of days ago, I bought a copy of Days of Thunder on VCD for only 1 dollar. Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman starred in that movie. I watched it a few times when I was a kid - from tv-re-runs.
When I first saw the VCD and the screaming yellow gaudy price label, I thought to myself, wow, as lowly as VCDs are regarded nowadays with the threat of high-def DVDs and blue-ray DVDs that they say are not really DVDs... 1 dollar is really too cheap to sell such a classic movie's VCD, right? Surely it was worth a little bit more. Maybe 2 or 3 dollars more perhaps?
After all, the one bad thing about VCDs are just that one has to get up in the middle of a movie to change from Disk 1 to Disk 2. Sure, sure, they say that the DVD visual and audio quality is way better, but really, how much quality does one need? Like how many languages are you going to read the subtitles in? Anyway, I'd rather save some dollars from this expenditure and spend it on increasing the thread-count of my pillow case.
I decided to buy the vcd. I thought that it might be nice to re-run it on my laptop on a casual evening and fall asleep watching the pretty faces fall in love. I remember reading from a magazine article about how when Tom Cruise first met Nicole Kidman on the set of Days of Thunder, he was so smitten that he got his people to call up her people, and they dated, and fell in love, and got married, and attended many Hollywood gala-events together. It's a really great fairytale on-screen-couple becomes off-screen-couple kinda story.
Nevermind that her hair was all frizzy and he's actually shorter than her. Nevermind that they're both broken up, leaving us with that weird-but-not-weird-in-an-interesting-way-movie, Eyes Wide Shut, and are probably off sleeping with other people now. I figured that I could allow them to remain, in my impression, as in my childhood, and as in "Far and Away" (another movie starring them as a couple), in love and happily married to each other. It takes a little bit of denial, but it doesn't really hurt anybody and nobody cares, so I just indulged me.
When my computer couldn't read the VCD initially, I was understandably a little disappointed, even though it was just a dollar investment's - I had hyped myself up.
Yet (after re-starting my computer and successfully played the VCD), it was not as disappointing, as when I was watching the show mid-way into the Disk 2 when the disk suddenly jumped - from just when they were flirting to the part they were lying in bed together. My immediate thoughts were:
ALAMAK. No wonder (this VCDs) were sold for 1 dollar only. Nowadays still got censor out the sex scene one meh?
There weren't even the rolling around in bed. It just fast forwarded to the after-sex talk.
Precisely in realising that the censor standards were more stringent then than now, this incident then really drove home the point that the time now is different from before. The time has changed and so have I, for I am not just contented with romantic fairy-tales, and I am not accepting of abrupt censorship anymore. I am now an adult, and I want to watch unrealistically-beautiful people, whom I would never meet in real life, having hot passionate sex.
And I suppose this is part of growing up.
When I first saw the VCD and the screaming yellow gaudy price label, I thought to myself, wow, as lowly as VCDs are regarded nowadays with the threat of high-def DVDs and blue-ray DVDs that they say are not really DVDs... 1 dollar is really too cheap to sell such a classic movie's VCD, right? Surely it was worth a little bit more. Maybe 2 or 3 dollars more perhaps?
After all, the one bad thing about VCDs are just that one has to get up in the middle of a movie to change from Disk 1 to Disk 2. Sure, sure, they say that the DVD visual and audio quality is way better, but really, how much quality does one need? Like how many languages are you going to read the subtitles in? Anyway, I'd rather save some dollars from this expenditure and spend it on increasing the thread-count of my pillow case.
I decided to buy the vcd. I thought that it might be nice to re-run it on my laptop on a casual evening and fall asleep watching the pretty faces fall in love. I remember reading from a magazine article about how when Tom Cruise first met Nicole Kidman on the set of Days of Thunder, he was so smitten that he got his people to call up her people, and they dated, and fell in love, and got married, and attended many Hollywood gala-events together. It's a really great fairytale on-screen-couple becomes off-screen-couple kinda story.
Nevermind that her hair was all frizzy and he's actually shorter than her. Nevermind that they're both broken up, leaving us with that weird-but-not-weird-in-an-
When my computer couldn't read the VCD initially, I was understandably a little disappointed, even though it was just a dollar investment's - I had hyped myself up.
Yet
ALAMAK. No wonder (this VCDs) were sold for 1 dollar only. Nowadays still got censor out the sex scene one meh?
There weren't even the rolling around in bed. It just fast forwarded to the after-sex talk.
Precisely in realising that the censor standards were more stringent then than now, this incident then really drove home the point that the time now is different from before. The time has changed and so have I, for I am not just contented with romantic fairy-tales, and I am not accepting of abrupt censorship anymore. I am now an adult, and I want to watch unrealistically-beautiful people, whom I would never meet in real life, having hot passionate sex.
And I suppose this is part of growing up.
Saturday, 20 February 2010
White hair and Pulp fiction
Today, I changed my hair-parting a bit and discovered that I had new strands of white hair. I knew that they were growing on my head from around that spot, and I would like to believe that they were the ones I had plucked out, say maybe last month, but they're probably new, for mainly two reasons.
One, the ones that I had plucked out were about the same length as the ones I spotted today. I don't think my hair can grow so fast.
And two, I plucked out two strands of hair last month, now there seems to be more than two. I don't exactly know how many more there are, but there seems to be more than two. This, to my dismay, means that if we let the number of strands of white hair on my head presently be "X", then altogether, the strands white hair on my head = "X"+2.
I just rolled my eyes at myself. I know you couldn't see it, so I thought I would tell you I just rolled my eyes. You would think that one would need a mirror to roll one's eyes at oneself, but since the rolling of eyes doesn't require the receiving party to witness the eye-rolling, I didn't need to see myself to roll my eyes at myself.
Well, anyway, at a time when I was feeling less sensible, I formulated a theory that since it must be caused by something that my head was constantly being overexposed to (whoever heard of white armpit hairs?), and that I spend most of my time in the office or generally indoors... Fluorescent lighting might just be the cause of these things.
My parents, on the other hand, will recall with pride that when they were about my age - which is under 30 years old, they didn't have problems with white hair growing. And then, with concern, and instead of subscribing to my theory, they would say that white hair grows because life is generally more stressful now than before, and that I'm ageing, faster.
Come to think about it, that sounds rather strange too, actually. How could I possibly be ageing faster? It suggests that not only I can travel faster than they travelled, I can grow to a biological age in a shorter time than what they took to grow to the same biological age.
I haven't read Einstein's theory of time or relativity or magic enough to even know if it's remotely related to the topic at all or not, but... the idea that people are ageing faster than they were before, sounds like a spark of a plot for a futuristic movie starring Christopher Lloyd.
Christopher Lloyd, incidentally, also has a head full of white hair and thus, he would be perfect for the movie. Perhaps, it would feature how, into the distant future, babies might be born one minute and then pass away of old age in the next hour.
Maybe it would not be so much of a Physics-fiction movie but a Bio-fi type. (I'm also thinking they should start being more specific than just calling all of them "sci-fi" movies.) Perhaps, we could have one scientist, who's into stem-cell research or whatever else there is to research on, postulate that the fluorescent lights caused the super-ageing process; and there'd be another scientist, maybe a pretty psychiatrist, who would try to attribute it to stress. Then Christopher Lloyd's character could be yapping around and pretend to explain some scientific thing. Then, just to throw in some moral to the story, Master Pai Mei would come by and say that white hair is due to having too much pride. In the olden times, only old people would have white hair because it's a sign of being too filled with their own ideas, and that now even youngsters have white hair, and that's really too bad.
I know I could have saved us a lot of bullshit if I had just changed my parting again to hide all the white hair on my head, and honestly treasure my life better and spend it more wisely, before the time comes for me to be unable to hide white hairs by changing partings. It's just like how I know I could change my take on any experience and make it moralistic and learn from it and be wiser and develop myself better; say for example, in this case, I could learn to be less proud and self-obsessed about the white hair. But really, even if I saved up on the bullshit, I would spend it on other bullshit anyway. And then eventually, I'd just grow old and die. (White hair is an obvious symbol for the transience of life.)
Maybe Samuel L Jackson could cameo in the movie, sporting a black suit and a crown of brown hair in tight curls, reprising his role as Jules Winnfield from Pulp Fiction and kill everybody.
Himself included. Just for a dash of dramatic irony.
It sounds like a good B-rate movie already.
One, the ones that I had plucked out were about the same length as the ones I spotted today. I don't think my hair can grow so fast.
And two, I plucked out two strands of hair last month, now there seems to be more than two. I don't exactly know how many more there are, but there seems to be more than two. This, to my dismay, means that if we let the number of strands of white hair on my head presently be "X", then altogether, the strands white hair on my head = "X"+2.
I just rolled my eyes at myself. I know you couldn't see it, so I thought I would tell you I just rolled my eyes. You would think that one would need a mirror to roll one's eyes at oneself, but since the rolling of eyes doesn't require the receiving party to witness the eye-rolling, I didn't need to see myself to roll my eyes at myself.
Well, anyway, at a time when I was feeling less sensible, I formulated a theory that since it must be caused by something that my head was constantly being overexposed to (whoever heard of white armpit hairs?), and that I spend most of my time in the office or generally indoors... Fluorescent lighting might just be the cause of these things.
My parents, on the other hand, will recall with pride that when they were about my age - which is under 30 years old, they didn't have problems with white hair growing. And then, with concern, and instead of subscribing to my theory, they would say that white hair grows because life is generally more stressful now than before, and that I'm ageing, faster.
Come to think about it, that sounds rather strange too, actually. How could I possibly be ageing faster? It suggests that not only I can travel faster than they travelled, I can grow to a biological age in a shorter time than what they took to grow to the same biological age.
I haven't read Einstein's theory of time or relativity or magic enough to even know if it's remotely related to the topic at all or not, but... the idea that people are ageing faster than they were before, sounds like a spark of a plot for a futuristic movie starring Christopher Lloyd.
Christopher Lloyd, incidentally, also has a head full of white hair and thus, he would be perfect for the movie. Perhaps, it would feature how, into the distant future, babies might be born one minute and then pass away of old age in the next hour.
Maybe it would not be so much of a Physics-fiction movie but a Bio-fi type. (I'm also thinking they should start being more specific than just calling all of them "sci-fi" movies.) Perhaps, we could have one scientist, who's into stem-cell research or whatever else there is to research on, postulate that the fluorescent lights caused the super-ageing process; and there'd be another scientist, maybe a pretty psychiatrist, who would try to attribute it to stress. Then Christopher Lloyd's character could be yapping around and pretend to explain some scientific thing. Then, just to throw in some moral to the story, Master Pai Mei would come by and say that white hair is due to having too much pride. In the olden times, only old people would have white hair because it's a sign of being too filled with their own ideas, and that now even youngsters have white hair, and that's really too bad.
I know I could have saved us a lot of bullshit if I had just changed my parting again to hide all the white hair on my head, and honestly treasure my life better and spend it more wisely, before the time comes for me to be unable to hide white hairs by changing partings. It's just like how I know I could change my take on any experience and make it moralistic and learn from it and be wiser and develop myself better; say for example, in this case, I could learn to be less proud and self-obsessed about the white hair. But really, even if I saved up on the bullshit, I would spend it on other bullshit anyway. And then eventually, I'd just grow old and die. (White hair is an obvious symbol for the transience of life.)
Maybe Samuel L Jackson could cameo in the movie, sporting a black suit and a crown of brown hair in tight curls, reprising his role as Jules Winnfield from Pulp Fiction and kill everybody.
Himself included. Just for a dash of dramatic irony.
It sounds like a good B-rate movie already.
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Hedonistic Sunday (for Mr Akutagawa) Part 3 of 3 - "Gentle Ghosts"
In Spinning Gears, Mr A drank whisky, and was on medication for insomnia (from which an overdose killed Akutagawa). I do not understand why though, he didn’t seem to drink some more. He didn’t seem to abuse alcohol. I’m saying this from my impression of him from the stories, and I have not yet researched on how he lived his life. While not advocating that alcohol use is for everyone, I think he could have given it a go before killing himself, even as a short-term solution of sorts.
For me usually just two pints of Kilkenny would do to silence the voices in my head. Voices? Alright. It’s not that I hallucinate hearing people talking, or anything serious like Mr A’s condition, but I do think too much about this and that, and I have my ghosts. Ghosts, for example, that help me think in my sleep about my mother after the alarm interruptions and decide for me to get up to change clothes. Ghosts that make me run around in my dreams and that don’t allow me rest enough to appreciate a good night’s rest. Ghosts, I would say that are gentle, and can be quietened with a bit of Killies or drinks drunk in the proper way.
I wonder if anybody had introduced Mr Akutagawa to the proper way of drinking.
Now, I am not an expert at drinking, really, really; but, even I note that there are roughly two ways to drink.
One way to drink is the “drowning-one’s-sorrow-way”. This is not the proper way. But, anyway... before drinking, one prepares by marinating one’s temperament with sense of self-righteousness and self-pity. Then, before drinking each drink, one must visualise that the drink is infused with the validation of self-righteousness. One may choose to season the drinks with a dash of spite or self-destructiveness. This may help to increase the sense of self-pity. Since drinking this way, would lead to more depressive and lonely feelings, letting one become a worse sourpuss and more dislikeable, it is recommended to only drink like this with people whose friendships one wants to put to the test.
The second way to drink is the “proper way”. This is the way I would want to recommend to Mr Akutagawa. One begins with planting a magic seed of the desire to escape from the real world in one’s heart before drinking; after which, one must allow the alcohol to nurture this little seed. When it begins to germinate, one may notice how things surrounding the little seedling become warped, illogical, and trivially amusing. That is the power of the magic seed. Shower the seedling with delight, smiles, and some more drinks. When it grows big enough for one to climb onto a branch and swing around when the wind blows, one should slow down on the drinks, but still drink enough to sustain the tree so that it doesn’t wither and die.
After drinking the proper way, one would likely find oneself drifting off to sleep, having been rocked like a baby on a tree top. Well, at least until the branch breaks, all is well. Maybe, Mr Akutagawa would have liked that for a while, and be less hard on himself.
I didn’t write the above for Mr Akutagawa to read, because I know that he is dead, and I’m not delusional like that. I do dedicate this to Mr Akutagawa, even though I’m not sure why, perhaps it is out of my respect for him, or perhaps, it’s some sort of thank you or hello. I may wonder if what I wrote is good enough to be dedicated to him, but I must stop myself from pursuing the matter, for it is inconsequential.
What is more consequential, is that I wrote the above for you to read, in case you have not been properly introduced to anything I had just elaborated upon, and you needed to be introduced. As usual, I hope that it was enjoyable to you to read.
What is most consequential, may be that I wrote it mainly for myself, in case I forget myself, for a lot of things can happen in seven years.
For me usually just two pints of Kilkenny would do to silence the voices in my head. Voices? Alright. It’s not that I hallucinate hearing people talking, or anything serious like Mr A’s condition, but I do think too much about this and that, and I have my ghosts. Ghosts, for example, that help me think in my sleep about my mother after the alarm interruptions and decide for me to get up to change clothes. Ghosts that make me run around in my dreams and that don’t allow me rest enough to appreciate a good night’s rest. Ghosts, I would say that are gentle, and can be quietened with a bit of Killies or drinks drunk in the proper way.
I wonder if anybody had introduced Mr Akutagawa to the proper way of drinking.
Now, I am not an expert at drinking, really, really; but, even I note that there are roughly two ways to drink.
One way to drink is the “drowning-one’s-sorrow-way”. This is not the proper way. But, anyway... before drinking, one prepares by marinating one’s temperament with sense of self-righteousness and self-pity. Then, before drinking each drink, one must visualise that the drink is infused with the validation of self-righteousness. One may choose to season the drinks with a dash of spite or self-destructiveness. This may help to increase the sense of self-pity. Since drinking this way, would lead to more depressive and lonely feelings, letting one become a worse sourpuss and more dislikeable, it is recommended to only drink like this with people whose friendships one wants to put to the test.
The second way to drink is the “proper way”. This is the way I would want to recommend to Mr Akutagawa. One begins with planting a magic seed of the desire to escape from the real world in one’s heart before drinking; after which, one must allow the alcohol to nurture this little seed. When it begins to germinate, one may notice how things surrounding the little seedling become warped, illogical, and trivially amusing. That is the power of the magic seed. Shower the seedling with delight, smiles, and some more drinks. When it grows big enough for one to climb onto a branch and swing around when the wind blows, one should slow down on the drinks, but still drink enough to sustain the tree so that it doesn’t wither and die.
After drinking the proper way, one would likely find oneself drifting off to sleep, having been rocked like a baby on a tree top. Well, at least until the branch breaks, all is well. Maybe, Mr Akutagawa would have liked that for a while, and be less hard on himself.
I didn’t write the above for Mr Akutagawa to read, because I know that he is dead, and I’m not delusional like that. I do dedicate this to Mr Akutagawa, even though I’m not sure why, perhaps it is out of my respect for him, or perhaps, it’s some sort of thank you or hello. I may wonder if what I wrote is good enough to be dedicated to him, but I must stop myself from pursuing the matter, for it is inconsequential.
What is more consequential, is that I wrote the above for you to read, in case you have not been properly introduced to anything I had just elaborated upon, and you needed to be introduced. As usual, I hope that it was enjoyable to you to read.
What is most consequential, may be that I wrote it mainly for myself, in case I forget myself, for a lot of things can happen in seven years.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Hedonistic Sunday (for Mr Akutagawa) Part 2 of 3 - "Mr Akutagawa"
I picked up a collection of Akutagawa’s stories. This is the first serious fiction book that I was finishing since a long time. I was down to the last story, which I read this morning, as my too-hot cup of coffee was cooling to the just-right temperature for me to drink big mouthfuls. I like very much to drink coffee like that.
The last story, Spinning Gears, apparently was an autobiographical account on Akutagawa’s neurosis and growing madness. This reminds me to confess that I used to spell neurosis as “neutrosis”. I think I was dyslexic, but many of my friends disagreed with this, which made me think that I had put in a commendable effort to pretend that I was not. No matter. This, too, I suppose, is inconsequential. I must remind myself that nobody is going to cut me any slack because I am a recovering dyslexic, or confused with being an ex-extrovert or whatever.
In the story, Mr A described the nature of his neurosis and paranoia. He described seeing translucent spinning gears, hence, the title of the piece. In real life, Akutagawa killed himself at the age of 35. That’s seven years away from how old I am now. When I first heard of Akutagawa and that he was a prodigious author who killed himself at the age of 35, I thought he was another one of those indulgent authors who had no responsibility towards their families and exhausted themselves with velvety chocolate melancholia, and who could not empathise with the rest of us, proletariats, who have to work for a living.
When I am through with the second story of the collection, though, I knew that I was wrong, and his melancholia had to be more sophisticated than I thought. He wrote about some endearing characters, among those who are horrifying. This shows that he must have recognised some very endearing aspects of life, just that it was not enough to sustain him. A man who could write with such precise and delicate sensitivity shouldn’t have been easily misled nor disillusioned by the mere superficial hypocrisy of his time. He must have tried very hard to find a philosophical way out of his hell.
The last story, Spinning Gears, apparently was an autobiographical account on Akutagawa’s neurosis and growing madness. This reminds me to confess that I used to spell neurosis as “neutrosis”. I think I was dyslexic, but many of my friends disagreed with this, which made me think that I had put in a commendable effort to pretend that I was not. No matter. This, too, I suppose, is inconsequential. I must remind myself that nobody is going to cut me any slack because I am a recovering dyslexic, or confused with being an ex-extrovert or whatever.
In the story, Mr A described the nature of his neurosis and paranoia. He described seeing translucent spinning gears, hence, the title of the piece. In real life, Akutagawa killed himself at the age of 35. That’s seven years away from how old I am now. When I first heard of Akutagawa and that he was a prodigious author who killed himself at the age of 35, I thought he was another one of those indulgent authors who had no responsibility towards their families and exhausted themselves with velvety chocolate melancholia, and who could not empathise with the rest of us, proletariats, who have to work for a living.
When I am through with the second story of the collection, though, I knew that I was wrong, and his melancholia had to be more sophisticated than I thought. He wrote about some endearing characters, among those who are horrifying. This shows that he must have recognised some very endearing aspects of life, just that it was not enough to sustain him. A man who could write with such precise and delicate sensitivity shouldn’t have been easily misled nor disillusioned by the mere superficial hypocrisy of his time. He must have tried very hard to find a philosophical way out of his hell.
Saturday, 30 January 2010
Hedonistic Sunday (for Mr Akutagawa) Part 1 of 3 - "Sunday"
Last night, I drank about two pints of Kilkenny (or Killies) at an over-priced pub. I knew that the Killies were overpriced, they were not the extremely tastiest beer I could have gotten, and I should probably have saved that money to give to my god-mother for the Chinese New Year. (My family’s tradition has it that children should give parents money for necessary preparation of CNY.) But, after the first pint, being mid-way of a contemplative discussion and nowhere in sight of reaching a conclusive-enough-revelation to advance my world-view, I wanted to drink more to nurture my growing drunken stupor. So, I got my friend to agree to order one more pint to share, following which, at my implicit insistence, we ordered one more pint.
I said I drank about two pints of Killies, but I probably drank closer to three. That was because my friend did not like them as much as I did. I suspect it was not because he disliked its taste, but just a sign of protest against how I theorise that drinking ales is less fattening than drinking lagers (his first pint was a Heineken). It would, however, be more convenient for the both of us, if we just attribute his abstentions to his social responsibility for having to drive us home afterwards, thus, I did not, and shall not, pursue the matter.
When I reached home, I fumbled for my keys as quietly as possible. I did not want to wake up the dog, which would surely then rush excitedly towards me for a pat on its head, which would in turn encourage it to jump up, and possibly scratch me with its nails. I wanted to avoid it since that might then remind me of the errands I had to run in the real world, such as having to bring the dog for a pedicure or something like that.
Luckily, I was quick and quiet enough, and made it to my bedroom without alarming anyone.
I did not bother to switch on the lights nor change out of my uncomfortable going-out-clothes. I simply laid on my bed, on my left side, and fell asleep.
I did not dream, or perhaps, I did and do not recall my dreams. Either way, it was a pleasant night’s rest. I never understand why I always feel the need to clarify how I might have merely forgotten my dreams, when I just want to say I did not dream.
The radio alarm clock sounded from about 6 am until it gave up trying to wake me up at about 7 am. Just as I was about to lift my hand to hit the “snooze” button, I distinctly heard it going out by itself. At this point, having built up too much potential energy, I turned to lie on my other side. I was satisfied that my childish-lethargy won over the adult-intention to start work early. (I had brought some work home to do over the weekend, maybe I will do them later today.)
About one hour later, I got up to change into my home-clothes. I had been thinking in my sleep, since the alarm episode, about changing. I thought about how my mother would occasionally, usually on Sunday mornings, come to nag at me for sleeping in or about some other mundane thing. I decided not to let her to find me still wearing yesterday’s going-out-clothes, for she might think that I had gotten so drunk that I couldn’t change myself. She wouldn’t have understood, even if I had tried to explain, that it wasn’t so much that I couldn’t, but rather, it was because I didn’t want to change at all. Falling asleep in going-out clothes can be very comfortable sometimes. It may be as comfortable as going back to sleep after breakfast, or falling asleep in one’s school uniform after coming back from school, or sleeping-in despite the alarm-clock’s blah-blah.
After changing to my home-clothes, I slept again, until about 10.30 am, when I had enough sleep and got up properly. I could tell from the quietness in the house that my parents have gone out. I asked R (our domestic helper) to make me a cup of coffee.
When I wake up, I like to drink coffee immediately, and before I brush my teeth. When I wake up, I also don’t like to talk to people before my senses have warmed up. Then again, maybe I just don’t like to talk to people, regardless of my senses. Lately, I have been wondering if I was truly introverted, though I’ve thought of myself as being a typical extrovert. It is inconsequential, I suppose. As I am writing this on a Sunday morning, I can’t think of anybody who would care if I’m extroverted or introverted, myself included.
I said I drank about two pints of Killies, but I probably drank closer to three. That was because my friend did not like them as much as I did. I suspect it was not because he disliked its taste, but just a sign of protest against how I theorise that drinking ales is less fattening than drinking lagers (his first pint was a Heineken). It would, however, be more convenient for the both of us, if we just attribute his abstentions to his social responsibility for having to drive us home afterwards, thus, I did not, and shall not, pursue the matter.
When I reached home, I fumbled for my keys as quietly as possible. I did not want to wake up the dog, which would surely then rush excitedly towards me for a pat on its head, which would in turn encourage it to jump up, and possibly scratch me with its nails. I wanted to avoid it since that might then remind me of the errands I had to run in the real world, such as having to bring the dog for a pedicure or something like that.
Luckily, I was quick and quiet enough, and made it to my bedroom without alarming anyone.
I did not bother to switch on the lights nor change out of my uncomfortable going-out-clothes. I simply laid on my bed, on my left side, and fell asleep.
I did not dream, or perhaps, I did and do not recall my dreams. Either way, it was a pleasant night’s rest. I never understand why I always feel the need to clarify how I might have merely forgotten my dreams, when I just want to say I did not dream.
The radio alarm clock sounded from about 6 am until it gave up trying to wake me up at about 7 am. Just as I was about to lift my hand to hit the “snooze” button, I distinctly heard it going out by itself. At this point, having built up too much potential energy, I turned to lie on my other side. I was satisfied that my childish-lethargy won over the adult-intention to start work early. (I had brought some work home to do over the weekend, maybe I will do them later today.)
About one hour later, I got up to change into my home-clothes. I had been thinking in my sleep, since the alarm episode, about changing. I thought about how my mother would occasionally, usually on Sunday mornings, come to nag at me for sleeping in or about some other mundane thing. I decided not to let her to find me still wearing yesterday’s going-out-clothes, for she might think that I had gotten so drunk that I couldn’t change myself. She wouldn’t have understood, even if I had tried to explain, that it wasn’t so much that I couldn’t, but rather, it was because I didn’t want to change at all. Falling asleep in going-out clothes can be very comfortable sometimes. It may be as comfortable as going back to sleep after breakfast, or falling asleep in one’s school uniform after coming back from school, or sleeping-in despite the alarm-clock’s blah-blah.
After changing to my home-clothes, I slept again, until about 10.30 am, when I had enough sleep and got up properly. I could tell from the quietness in the house that my parents have gone out. I asked R (our domestic helper) to make me a cup of coffee.
When I wake up, I like to drink coffee immediately, and before I brush my teeth. When I wake up, I also don’t like to talk to people before my senses have warmed up. Then again, maybe I just don’t like to talk to people, regardless of my senses. Lately, I have been wondering if I was truly introverted, though I’ve thought of myself as being a typical extrovert. It is inconsequential, I suppose. As I am writing this on a Sunday morning, I can’t think of anybody who would care if I’m extroverted or introverted, myself included.
Saturday, 23 January 2010
Observations (Jan 10)
- The bigger the leaves a particular species of bamboo has, the louder and slightly more bassy the rustling sound the bamboo makes when the wind passes by.
- When one first hears the trees sway in a strong gust of wind, it will take a moment, or two, for one to feel the wind in one's hair. The time between, as I have decided, is the definitive span of how long "a moment's time", or two, should be.
- The cicadas' songs sound like tinnituses - which are ringing or buzzing sounds in the ears that are not caused by external stimuli, such as the ringing sound one hears in bed after spending a night too long and near loud music speakers at a disco - except that they are more pleasant to listen to.
- On a pleasant enough day, the smell of dog shit may be bearable, as is the smell of one's own smelly feet. The smell of smelly feet has a salty quality, similar to that of the smell of salted fish. The smell of dog shit has a musky quality.
- The smell of one's own farts is usually bearable; when it is particularly smelly - then it may be even amusing. On the other hand, the smell of other people's farts is never ever bearable; and when it is particularly smelly, it may be amusing or annoying depending on whether one is in a good mood or if one enjoys the farter's company.
- A person with big nostrils may have developed them from the habit of digging one's nose with the index fingers. I have once seen a man with one nostril twice the size of the other and wondered if he had dug the smaller nostril by putting his finger through the bigger one, reaching in the smaller one from behind (through the pass where naughty little boys sometimes try to stick a piece of spaghetti across).
- They say people with "hooked-noses", or "parrot-noses" as the Chinese call them, tend to be devious and untrustworthy. I have, however, never once heard any one of them denying this. In this way, at least, they must be honest, if they are indeed devious and untrustworthy.
- When it is breezy, birds tend not to fly straight. They may fly in horizontal or vertical zig-zags, or in spirals or circles, almost as if their paths have become loopy because of the wind. Perhaps, they are playing. This does not seem to apply to larger birds. Incidentally, larger birds give me the impression that they are more serious and less inclined towards playing anyway.
Saturday, 5 December 2009
22 Nov 09 - Mostly Cloudy with NW Winds at 14.something kph
When I was young, they would say, that Singapore had only two kinds of weather - it was always either sunny or rainy. "It's boring," they would say, and I would echo, "to only have Spring and Summer." So what if the birds would migrate to Sungei Buloh to hide from the cold? And our equatorial climate supported growth of the spices - precious commodities that the Ang Mors had to come here to trade for. I wished that I lived somewhere that had the four seasons - four seasons like what I saw on the TV, in movies, in books. If you also grew up reading Archie comics, I'm sure you'd empathise with how I felt left out reading about the snow sculpture competitions (Jughead would almost always be making a sculpture of a hamburger and Betty of Archie) and how Lil' Jinx might be making snow angels...
Having two kinds of weather was boring, because it meant that I didn't have the chance to put on more clothing or see the trees change colour or have a childhood with snow angels. If you also grew up reading Archie comics, I'm sure you'd empathise with how left out I felt - to be growing up in Singapore.
In Singapore, it might have been possible to lie down in the sand pit on the playground to make sand angels - but it's not quite tempting. The occasional beer bottle cap poking out of the sand was usually enough to set our imaginations on the defensive mode - that the sand is clean enough to run about barefooted and not to think about what else could be living in the sand. Besides, having grazed my knees on the sand deterred the idea of lying down and rubbing my limbs around on the ground... (Now, snow angels must seem even more remote because playgrounds are tiled with those sissy spongey cushions.)
Another common reason to wish for the four seasons was the imagined entitlement to a wider variety of clothes. Autumn and Winter clothing in fashion magazines always look great. They promise to hide body flaws and make everyone look more pensive and melancholic. With autumn, anyone could have the rights to sensibly own three dozen scarves and a blue coat just like Paddington Bear's. One could have twenty-seven cool sensible hats and seventy-two sensible sweaters in a variety of styles. One would even have a pair of sensible ice-skates...
Yet, today, I'm not sure if you noticed anything... but today, the weather was a little bit strange. It might have started last night, but in the morning, the winds were already blowing hard. It seemed, that the winds were from different directions - sometimes from the East and sometimes from the North or West. The trees, if you had the chance to look at them properly, were swirling. It's really interesting, you know! Swirling trees.
Sure, other countries might have swirling trees too, but would they have swirling bougainvilleas from overhead bridges next to swirling iron tree hedges next to swirling pong pong trees? Would they have trembling orchid plants and jasmine plants outside your neighbour's home in the common corridor?
It was all quite cute to take note.
And I realised that having only two seasons doesn't make any place any more boring than a place with one million seasons.
Then again, perhaps a million seasons are quite hard to beat... but what I mean is, happiness lies in the details, and we all just need to know what works for us so we know where to look.
Honestly, do I wish for Singapore to have autumn and winter? So that I could match a colourful South American woollen poncho with a black turtle neck top and my new Uniqlo jeans? No, and why not? Because I know how expensive it would be to maintain a wardrobe for four seasons and how much more wardrobe space I would need. What a hassle it would be to manage all that?
I'd much rather be spending my afternoons watching the wind.
Having two kinds of weather was boring, because it meant that I didn't have the chance to put on more clothing or see the trees change colour or have a childhood with snow angels. If you also grew up reading Archie comics, I'm sure you'd empathise with how left out I felt - to be growing up in Singapore.
In Singapore, it might have been possible to lie down in the sand pit on the playground to make sand angels - but it's not quite tempting. The occasional beer bottle cap poking out of the sand was usually enough to set our imaginations on the defensive mode - that the sand is clean enough to run about barefooted and not to think about what else could be living in the sand. Besides, having grazed my knees on the sand deterred the idea of lying down and rubbing my limbs around on the ground... (Now, snow angels must seem even more remote because playgrounds are tiled with those sissy spongey cushions.)
Another common reason to wish for the four seasons was the imagined entitlement to a wider variety of clothes. Autumn and Winter clothing in fashion magazines always look great. They promise to hide body flaws and make everyone look more pensive and melancholic. With autumn, anyone could have the rights to sensibly own three dozen scarves and a blue coat just like Paddington Bear's. One could have twenty-seven cool sensible hats and seventy-two sensible sweaters in a variety of styles. One would even have a pair of sensible ice-skates...
Yet, today, I'm not sure if you noticed anything... but today, the weather was a little bit strange. It might have started last night, but in the morning, the winds were already blowing hard. It seemed, that the winds were from different directions - sometimes from the East and sometimes from the North or West. The trees, if you had the chance to look at them properly, were swirling. It's really interesting, you know! Swirling trees.
Sure, other countries might have swirling trees too, but would they have swirling bougainvilleas from overhead bridges next to swirling iron tree hedges next to swirling pong pong trees? Would they have trembling orchid plants and jasmine plants outside your neighbour's home in the common corridor?
It was all quite cute to take note.
And I realised that having only two seasons doesn't make any place any more boring than a place with one million seasons.
Then again, perhaps a million seasons are quite hard to beat... but what I mean is, happiness lies in the details, and we all just need to know what works for us so we know where to look.
Honestly, do I wish for Singapore to have autumn and winter? So that I could match a colourful South American woollen poncho with a black turtle neck top and my new Uniqlo jeans? No, and why not? Because I know how expensive it would be to maintain a wardrobe for four seasons and how much more wardrobe space I would need. What a hassle it would be to manage all that?
I'd much rather be spending my afternoons watching the wind.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Traffic Allergic to Rain
Recent studies suggests that the Singaporean traffic is allergic to rain.
The spokesperson from the relevant Department of Statistics described the phenomenon, saying, "It's almost like the Singaporean traffic is secretly solar powered, and when it rains, the express-ways will always be traffic-jammed up. Something - traffic accidents or fallen trees (peace be with all involved parties) - will inevitably cause traffic jams."
The public was advised to start their rainy days ahead of their usual times, especially to head out of their homes earlier than on non-rainy days. For people who tend to wake up late on rainy days, well, please refrain from doing that, as it is probably "bad for health". Also, the authorities remind people to wear suitable-rainy-day-clothes and drive steadily. It would be ideal, if the public could also try to keep out of my way, thanks.
The spokesperson from the relevant Department of Statistics described the phenomenon, saying, "It's almost like the Singaporean traffic is secretly solar powered, and when it rains, the express-ways will always be traffic-jammed up. Something - traffic accidents or fallen trees (peace be with all involved parties) - will inevitably cause traffic jams."
The public was advised to start their rainy days ahead of their usual times, especially to head out of their homes earlier than on non-rainy days. For people who tend to wake up late on rainy days, well, please refrain from doing that, as it is probably "bad for health". Also, the authorities remind people to wear suitable-rainy-day-clothes and drive steadily. It would be ideal, if the public could also try to keep out of my way, thanks.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Talcum moonwalk
When my brother and I were children, one of our games involved pouring lots of talcum powder on the floor until it's slippery enough for us to skate around the room.
Our grandmother who took care of us, and who was entrusted with the general responsibility of inculcating common sense in us, would pretend to be upset if she were to catch us wasting talcum powder and another person's efforts to have to clean it up afterwards. So, if we were to have a "skating-fest", we would have to sneak a chance - for example, when she was just starting to prepare a meal in the kitchen, or when she was going out to the market. To create a reason to account for traces of powder on the floor, since we weren't prepared to clean up after ourselves in any circumstances, we might have dashed some powders at our neck, to pretend that we had indeed intended to apply the powder properly, but "oops. How clumsy of us to spill so much powder."
I suppose it was a lame excuse, but at that time, it seemed like she bought it, as long as our excuses were elaborated enough. On hindsight, she might have thought that an elaborate excuse was indicative enough of a common-sensical understanding that pouring powder on the floor was unacceptable.
At times, we might have improvised, for example, to play a challenging game of pepsi-cola on the slippery floor, or compete on who could slide the furthest with one stride. Sometimes, we would have practised the moonwalk.
It was a time when Michael Jackson was cool and we would try to stand on our toes and tip the hats around and look for one glove to wear. We would also try to lean forward as far as possible while standing on a spot and pour talcum powder on the floor to do the moonwalk...
Well, now, Michael Jackson is dead.
I read an article about how he underwent some radical medical treatment to extend his life expectancy to 500 years...
If even Michael Jackson is dead, then I suppose it must be time for us to grow up.
Our grandmother who took care of us, and who was entrusted with the general responsibility of inculcating common sense in us, would pretend to be upset if she were to catch us wasting talcum powder and another person's efforts to have to clean it up afterwards. So, if we were to have a "skating-fest", we would have to sneak a chance - for example, when she was just starting to prepare a meal in the kitchen, or when she was going out to the market. To create a reason to account for traces of powder on the floor, since we weren't prepared to clean up after ourselves in any circumstances, we might have dashed some powders at our neck, to pretend that we had indeed intended to apply the powder properly, but "oops. How clumsy of us to spill so much powder."
I suppose it was a lame excuse, but at that time, it seemed like she bought it, as long as our excuses were elaborated enough. On hindsight, she might have thought that an elaborate excuse was indicative enough of a common-sensical understanding that pouring powder on the floor was unacceptable.
At times, we might have improvised, for example, to play a challenging game of pepsi-cola on the slippery floor, or compete on who could slide the furthest with one stride. Sometimes, we would have practised the moonwalk.
It was a time when Michael Jackson was cool and we would try to stand on our toes and tip the hats around and look for one glove to wear. We would also try to lean forward as far as possible while standing on a spot and pour talcum powder on the floor to do the moonwalk...
Well, now, Michael Jackson is dead.
I read an article about how he underwent some radical medical treatment to extend his life expectancy to 500 years...
If even Michael Jackson is dead, then I suppose it must be time for us to grow up.
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
I, its mealy bug
I bought a potted plant recently. It's a humble peperomia acuminata that cost me $2 - plastic pot inclusive. Enthusiastic about the new addition to my routine, I searched online for plant-caring tips.
They said that this plant (or some other plants I got mixed up with) tended to get infested by mealy bugs - which are little white cottony bugs that suck the life out of the plants. And that one's gotta go and scout them out and wipe them off with a cotton bud (the irony) soaked with rubbing alcohol. And that one has to go and repeat this over a few days because they might have laid eggs that would hatch later.
I switched on my book-light and poked around. Indeed, I spotted 2 of them.
For the past few days, I've been wondering if I should remove the bugs - to kill by spraying alcoholic perfume or wipe the plant with an alcoholic wet wipe - but killing's too cruel, so, perhaps I could snip off the leaves they're on (they're not fast bugs) and throw them in a park or on someone else's plants - so that they won't kill off my plant eventually. Yet, I can't reconcile that actually, the mealy bugs are quite just minding their own business, and playing out their part of the food chain, and look, really, it's not that big enough a deal to smite the mealy bugs for.
I mean, to the universe, what's the difference between a mealy bug and I? There're probably more similarities - perhaps, I don't work or eat or live on a leaf, but I work and eat and live in this time and space? Like, the world is my peperomia, and I, its mealy bug.
Well, I guess, I could adopt the bugs as pets.
(sneak.)
They said that this plant (or some other plants I got mixed up with) tended to get infested by mealy bugs - which are little white cottony bugs that suck the life out of the plants. And that one's gotta go and scout them out and wipe them off with a cotton bud (the irony) soaked with rubbing alcohol. And that one has to go and repeat this over a few days because they might have laid eggs that would hatch later.
I switched on my book-light and poked around. Indeed, I spotted 2 of them.
For the past few days, I've been wondering if I should remove the bugs - to kill by spraying alcoholic perfume or wipe the plant with an alcoholic wet wipe - but killing's too cruel, so, perhaps I could snip off the leaves they're on (they're not fast bugs) and throw them in a park or on someone else's plants - so that they won't kill off my plant eventually. Yet, I can't reconcile that actually, the mealy bugs are quite just minding their own business, and playing out their part of the food chain, and look, really, it's not that big enough a deal to smite the mealy bugs for.
I mean, to the universe, what's the difference between a mealy bug and I? There're probably more similarities - perhaps, I don't work or eat or live on a leaf, but I work and eat and live in this time and space? Like, the world is my peperomia, and I, its mealy bug.
Well, I guess, I could adopt the bugs as pets.
(sneak.)
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
The "O. H. P."
When I was a child, I was very interested with overhead projectors. They were more commonly referred to as the "O. H. P."s.
Perhaps it was because OHPs cast such clean shadows against the pulled-down screens, or that the technology was so seemingly simple, but impressively versatile. Or how the mirror on top must always be kept so clean and perfect and that it could be lifted open by the neat little lever on the metal cap.
I also intensely liked the transparencies that teachers gave out during group discussions. I liked the sound they made when they were handled, and I liked how they (at least the new ones) were clean and flawless.
The special marker pens for the transparencies that could be erased with a water-wet-tissue were quite cool too. Too bad that the teachers usually handed out only one to each group and that they too easily ran out of ink and that the felt tips were also too easily blunted and soggy from use. I felt that the group with the classmates who whipped out their private set of those markers (all 4 colours - black, blue, green, and red) was lucky to have them.
One of my pastimes was to try to re-create all that at home - all that as in the transparencies, the projections, all that.
First, I would sneak clear plastic bags from my grandmother's kitchen. I had to sneak around, because if I were to be found out, I would be told not to waste good plastic bags that could be better put to proper and practical use, for example, to keep food. Then, I would carefully slice the bags open into plastic sheets (usually with a scissors, or a penknife if I were feeling brave), and I tried my best not to wrinkle them too much.
I would write on these flimsy plastic things with a permanent marker - which were usually much fatter and less elegant than the proper transparency markers. I had to be extra careful not to make any mistakes because I couldn't undo any with a water-wet-tissue.
Next, I held up these sheets in front of a hand-held torchlight shining into the cupboard under my elder brother's fiberboard study table that I emptied beforehand. In this way, I "projected" the materials onto the back of the cupboard. The cupboard was small and had a fake-beechwood kinda finish. The opened cupboard door helped to shield my things from some light and the eyes of potential curious or ridiculing adults.
Actually, the projections kinda sucked. They weren't clear at all. The plastic bags were flimsy and murky and not exactly transparent. The torchlight was not bright enough, or perhaps the room wasn't dark enough. It wasn't really worth the trouble.
I probably read from the plastic ex-bag to pretend that I was reading off the images on the back of the cupboard.
Still, I remember doing this quite often. Perhaps, it was to add fun to studying for spelling tests.
Perhaps it was because OHPs cast such clean shadows against the pulled-down screens, or that the technology was so seemingly simple, but impressively versatile. Or how the mirror on top must always be kept so clean and perfect and that it could be lifted open by the neat little lever on the metal cap.
I also intensely liked the transparencies that teachers gave out during group discussions. I liked the sound they made when they were handled, and I liked how they (at least the new ones) were clean and flawless.
The special marker pens for the transparencies that could be erased with a water-wet-tissue were quite cool too. Too bad that the teachers usually handed out only one to each group and that they too easily ran out of ink and that the felt tips were also too easily blunted and soggy from use. I felt that the group with the classmates who whipped out their private set of those markers (all 4 colours - black, blue, green, and red) was lucky to have them.
One of my pastimes was to try to re-create all that at home - all that as in the transparencies, the projections, all that.
First, I would sneak clear plastic bags from my grandmother's kitchen. I had to sneak around, because if I were to be found out, I would be told not to waste good plastic bags that could be better put to proper and practical use, for example, to keep food. Then, I would carefully slice the bags open into plastic sheets (usually with a scissors, or a penknife if I were feeling brave), and I tried my best not to wrinkle them too much.
I would write on these flimsy plastic things with a permanent marker - which were usually much fatter and less elegant than the proper transparency markers. I had to be extra careful not to make any mistakes because I couldn't undo any with a water-wet-tissue.
Next, I held up these sheets in front of a hand-held torchlight shining into the cupboard under my elder brother's fiberboard study table that I emptied beforehand. In this way, I "projected" the materials onto the back of the cupboard. The cupboard was small and had a fake-beechwood kinda finish. The opened cupboard door helped to shield my things from some light and the eyes of potential curious or ridiculing adults.
Actually, the projections kinda sucked. They weren't clear at all. The plastic bags were flimsy and murky and not exactly transparent. The torchlight was not bright enough, or perhaps the room wasn't dark enough. It wasn't really worth the trouble.
I probably read from the plastic ex-bag to pretend that I was reading off the images on the back of the cupboard.
Still, I remember doing this quite often. Perhaps, it was to add fun to studying for spelling tests.
Sunday, 23 August 2009
Jie Qi
I bought a clock today. The winning feature of the clock is that, even though battery operated, the second hand ticks softly, much like an automatic watch's second hand. There isn't the reproachful "tick-tock" cry of time passing reprimanding me on how I might never recover every split consciousness I do not spend on progressing towards my life's goals, and instead, for example, on listening to a clock. In this way, I think this clock seems less Confucian, and somehow, more compassionate.
It's hanging on my wall now, in front of me. It's round, with a silver frame, black hands, and a white face - it looks almost serious - except its carelessly unevenly set black arial numbers let on on how casual it really is.
What nice qualities for a clock to have - compassionate and casual.
To think I bought it for 5 dollars only. The brand is "JIE QI" and it's made in China. It shall also serve to remind that the value of time is not measured by the price of the timepiece telling it.
And if it should malfunction anytime too soon, as is reasonable to suspect of anything costing only a quarter of what similar products cost, I would melt it over an open flame or in a microwave.
(sneak.)
It's hanging on my wall now, in front of me. It's round, with a silver frame, black hands, and a white face - it looks almost serious - except its carelessly unevenly set black arial numbers let on on how casual it really is.
What nice qualities for a clock to have - compassionate and casual.
To think I bought it for 5 dollars only. The brand is "JIE QI" and it's made in China. It shall also serve to remind that the value of time is not measured by the price of the timepiece telling it.
And if it should malfunction anytime too soon, as is reasonable to suspect of anything costing only a quarter of what similar products cost, I would melt it over an open flame or in a microwave.
(sneak.)
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Self-awareness
I accidentally trespassed some red ants' territory on Saturday. Now, I have ant bites on my right second littlest toe. I've tried, but I can't count how many distinct bites there are. I also don't know how many distinct ants bit on it, because I must have brushed them off too quickly. It's very itchy. I scrunch my toes on the carpet or rough ground every chance I get just to scratch it every chance I get.
There are certain parts of the body where one could get the most irritating itchy insect bites. They are:
Also, should one ever find oneself in a mosquito infested place, with only a little bit of insect repellent, one might know better where to apply it.
There are certain parts of the body where one could get the most irritating itchy insect bites. They are:
- On a toe,
- On a sole,
- Behind a knee,
- On a private part,
- On any part of the body beneath the elastic band of one's underwear, especially at the pelvis,
- On or around a nipple,
- At an armpit,
- On an elbow,
- On a palm,
- On a finger,
- On or near a knuckle,
- On a ear (front and back),
- On and inside a nose, and
- On an eyelid.
Also, should one ever find oneself in a mosquito infested place, with only a little bit of insect repellent, one might know better where to apply it.
Saturday, 7 February 2009
My Ex-Chinese Teacher
I saw a woman who looked like my high school Chinese teacher. I wondered whether they could have been related. Perhaps she was her cousin. Perhaps not. I don't know.
There was quite a lot of animosity between my Chinese teacher and I. As in, I didn't like her very much. She was in charge of my form class and a pain in my neck. She'd nag at how I should pack up my table and how I failed at Chinese.
Once, when I finally did pass one of my class test, she was surprised and sarcastic and remarked at how the sun might have risen from the west - meaning that it was an impossible and unlikely feat that I managed to pass. Never mind the fact that I probably cheated anyway, but that was not what a student who had finally passed something had wanted to hear. As much as I disliked her, I wanted her to say "well done" or something to that effect. I may still dislike her even if she commended me, but I still wanted to hear her commend.
She also told my mother at the parent-teacher meet that I wasn't going to get into a good school. Never mind that I eventually didn't. But her words really didn't help, and it pissed me off because it violated the expectations of what good teachers were supposed to be like. Good teachers as portrayed in school textbooks and advertisements for the teaching career. Nevermind that I wasn't a good student, I was a kid and I had room for improvement. On the other hand, all teachers should be good teachers, if not, then not a teacher at all.
I went to her funeral wake, after she passed away. I wonder why they call it a wake. The wake for the eternally asleep? It happened a few years after I graduated. She died of cancer, I think, one day. I wonder if she had suffered a lot. A few of my ex-schoolmates gathered to go to pay our respects. It was one of the first funeral wakes that I went to. At least a non-family-related one. As a kid, I was usually excused from attendance.
Prior to that, I had already heard that she was unmarried. As a cruel student, I had probably called her an old virgin woman, behind her back. I didn't understand what it really meant, until at the wake, I noticed that it was quiet. There were no children by the altar or many people around when I was there. I think that her only sibling was a brother, whom she lived with. Either that, or I might have remembered it wrongly, and I just thought it was quiet because I was quiet. I think the casket was opened, but I didn't go and see.
I dreamt of her. After she died. I dreamt of her, a few times. Once, several years ago, in a dream, she told me that I was a bad person, and that she was dead. As in, she told me that she was dead in my dream. So, I was pretty spooked and feeling pretty guilty. Was I really a bad person?
Perhaps I shouldn't have defied her so much while she was alive, and she was my teacher after all. But somehow I had developed a self-righteous attitude that I wouldn't respect anyone simply for her position of authority, and that she ought to convince me that she should deserve my respect. I don't know if I believe in that still. Anyway, I would think that if she were a good teacher, as portrayed in movies and television shows, she would have understood that I was just a kid who was feeling empowered to rebel against teachers, but was just really being stupid. Then again, she was not a good teacher. And may not have understood me, or might not have even cared.
Then who was she? She was a human being. And human beings die. So she's dead.
And does a dead human being care about being a good teacher? No, the dead don't care.
Who cares? The living. Not all of the living though. Only human beings. Not all living human beings though. Only stupid ones. Like me.
(For my Ex-Chinese teacher, and other dead ex-teachers, RIP.)
There was quite a lot of animosity between my Chinese teacher and I. As in, I didn't like her very much. She was in charge of my form class and a pain in my neck. She'd nag at how I should pack up my table and how I failed at Chinese.
Once, when I finally did pass one of my class test, she was surprised and sarcastic and remarked at how the sun might have risen from the west - meaning that it was an impossible and unlikely feat that I managed to pass. Never mind the fact that I probably cheated anyway, but that was not what a student who had finally passed something had wanted to hear. As much as I disliked her, I wanted her to say "well done" or something to that effect. I may still dislike her even if she commended me, but I still wanted to hear her commend.
She also told my mother at the parent-teacher meet that I wasn't going to get into a good school. Never mind that I eventually didn't. But her words really didn't help, and it pissed me off because it violated the expectations of what good teachers were supposed to be like. Good teachers as portrayed in school textbooks and advertisements for the teaching career. Nevermind that I wasn't a good student, I was a kid and I had room for improvement. On the other hand, all teachers should be good teachers, if not, then not a teacher at all.
I went to her funeral wake, after she passed away. I wonder why they call it a wake. The wake for the eternally asleep? It happened a few years after I graduated. She died of cancer, I think, one day. I wonder if she had suffered a lot. A few of my ex-schoolmates gathered to go to pay our respects. It was one of the first funeral wakes that I went to. At least a non-family-related one. As a kid, I was usually excused from attendance.
Prior to that, I had already heard that she was unmarried. As a cruel student, I had probably called her an old virgin woman, behind her back. I didn't understand what it really meant, until at the wake, I noticed that it was quiet. There were no children by the altar or many people around when I was there. I think that her only sibling was a brother, whom she lived with. Either that, or I might have remembered it wrongly, and I just thought it was quiet because I was quiet. I think the casket was opened, but I didn't go and see.
I dreamt of her. After she died. I dreamt of her, a few times. Once, several years ago, in a dream, she told me that I was a bad person, and that she was dead. As in, she told me that she was dead in my dream. So, I was pretty spooked and feeling pretty guilty. Was I really a bad person?
Perhaps I shouldn't have defied her so much while she was alive, and she was my teacher after all. But somehow I had developed a self-righteous attitude that I wouldn't respect anyone simply for her position of authority, and that she ought to convince me that she should deserve my respect. I don't know if I believe in that still. Anyway, I would think that if she were a good teacher, as portrayed in movies and television shows, she would have understood that I was just a kid who was feeling empowered to rebel against teachers, but was just really being stupid. Then again, she was not a good teacher. And may not have understood me, or might not have even cared.
Then who was she? She was a human being. And human beings die. So she's dead.
And does a dead human being care about being a good teacher? No, the dead don't care.
Who cares? The living. Not all of the living though. Only human beings. Not all living human beings though. Only stupid ones. Like me.
(For my Ex-Chinese teacher, and other dead ex-teachers, RIP.)
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