Opium Wars

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. I am writing about what happens in other people's lives - people I don't even know. If not for the sacrifices and difficult decisions they made, would I be enjoying this luxurious leisure at all? Or would I be enjoying this everyday?

I resumed my avoidance of reading the newspapers.

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.

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.

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.

The Auntie who sold fish cakes and other-fish-related-processed-food-products

There was a woman, in her early forties, who sold fish cakes and other-fish-related-processed-foodstuff at a snack store that she owned. She was gradually turning into a fish. Well, sort of.

It was not as if she grew scales or fins or gills, but her lower lip became larger and protruded, as did her eye balls. Her jawline and cheeks sagged, and her nose grew flatter and the distancebetween the nose and mouth, grew wider. In the emoticon sense, her expression grew to be more like this -
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- which, if one would stretch his imagination in the right direction, is an expression that would really make any woman look more like a fish, let alone a woman who was sort of gradually turning into one.

The last time she had sex, which was the first time after a long time since the previous time, with her husband, with whom she married for a reason she could no longer remember and who was 15 years older than her, something even more strange happened - her belly began to swelled up over the next few weeks days. A few months later, before she could concluded that she was pregnant, she gave birth, on the toilet bowl, to about four-dozen fish balls. After getting over the shock, she collected the fishballs, and rinsed it clean, and deep fried them, and put them on satay sticks, three-by-threes, and took stock, and deep fried them again just to be sure they were thoroughly cooked, and brought them to the store for sale - as the special item of the day.

Since the incident, she did not want to have sex anymore, and her sexual frustration made her sulk even more, which in turn, made her look like a fish lagi even more than ever.

Seven tau-gay legs

There was a spider, that had seven legs, that were not proper spider legs - black and hairy. Instead, they were made of tau-gay, or green bean sprouts. She had lost her eighth leg in a fight.

Despite her handicap, the spider was with a lively spirit who enjoyed the occasional practical joke. Once, she was in a store, that was somewhat like Singapore's version of the Metropolitan Museum of Art store, pretending to be brooch. When she was caught, she laughed mischievously in such an infectious way that nobody could then fault her for trying.

She would have danced a little if she could have, but she could not, for her legs were soft and flimsy. She had accidentally stepped into somebody's warm bath water, and her tau-gay legs got scalded and became somewhat flimsy ever after. This was to her greatest regret, as she had loved dancing.

If she felt bad for herself, she would think of her friend, a spider who has cabbage leaves for his legs. Imagine, all eight legs! Cabbage leaves! All too big to fit on a little spider! And all slightly curved! He never walked a single step from birth. If he needed to get anywhere, he would roll his way there. Like a tumbleweed! Except he bruised more easily! Let alone dance!

Tau-gay legs are really not too bad! Or so the spider with tau-gay legs would remind herself comfortingly. She would sing or hum her favourite song to herself. It was ABBA's Dancing Queen. If she let anyone hear her, they could feel sorry for her and go on and on about how dancing was not a big deal. This would then make everything more difficult to bear.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Observations (Jan 10)

1. 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.
   
   
2. 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.
   
   
3. 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.
   
   
4. 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.
   
   
5. 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.
   
   
6. 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).
   
   
7. 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.
   
   
8. 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.
   

Lenny's Video

He set up the video-camera on the tripod, positioned his chair to the suitable distance and height, watched the play-back of his test-shot, and adjusted the white balance.

Lenny was wearing his company polo-tee shirt. He was proud of getting into the company that they did not think he could have gotten a job in. He liked to wear the polo-tee shirt, thinking it makes a good impression; and, it was blue - his favourite colour - and it matched his jeans and favourite sneakers.

He had his hair styled especially for the occasion. He gave away his usual side-parting when he went to the hair-stylist yesterday and asked for a fashionable haircut. It was fashionable indeed. Possibly worth the sixty dollars more than what he would have paid if he went to his usual barber.
He liked it. It looked like one of the hairstyles David Beckham wore. That was a good thing. Girls liked David Beckham, right? The new haircut made him feel younger and more confident.

"Hi, I'm Lenny Lim. I'm 29 years old. I graduated from the school of engineering from Nanyang Technological University - a.k.a. N-T-U. I am currently a systems engineer, with this company," he held up the logo embossed on his polo-tee and grinned sheepishly.

"I have been working there for 4 years now. In terms of career prospects, I am ahead of my peers. This is proven by how I was promoted last year to an engineer's position. Those who joined the company around my time are still junior engineers."

He lifted the hand-drill into the camera's view. It was a new heavy duty Bosch in
green and black. He depressed the trigger a bit. It gave the loud and intimidating whirl that a professional hand-drill should make. This seemed to assure Lenny. He had practiced using the drill on something else to familiarise himself with how it worked, and he had since cleaned it.
Lenny looked at the rotating drill bit now coated with a fresh film of oil which caught the light coming through the curtains.

As if having forgotten and then suddenly recalling the camera, he nervously re-composed himself,

"Today, I would like to say sorry to... I mean, apologise... sincerely, to the two most important women in my life.

"Firstly, to my dearest mother, whose death I caused by coming to the world, for my failure to make her proud... Mother, please forgive me," he recited, "Then, to my most beloved Jenny, for... my bad behavior... against your wishes. I am sorry for hurting you, and taken advantage of the kindness you showed me. If you should ever find it in your heart, please forgive me...because I really love you dearly."

He tilted his head to the left and put the hand-drill to his right temple, which he had decided was the softest part of his skull, drilled a hole in his head, and killed himself.

(sneak.)

Ah Hoi on the Train

Ah Hoi held on to the train handle tightly and stared out of the window. If he concentrated hard enough, he could see the walls of the tunnel and tell the cables apart. He should find it interesting, but it was just difficult... he couldn't help noticing that people were standing too far apart from him like there was a radius - an invisible shield or force-field - that was repelling people from him.

He looked at his own reflection and reminded himself that he did not care.

He did not care that people would not want to be close to a man with tangled long hair and a mangled beard. He was a man whose clothes from Kek Sng Kio bore a smell that could not be removed with repeated washing, and did not fit well enough such that he had to tighten his khaki cargo pants with a raffia-string-belt... His rugged Jansport purple and turqoise backpack that had been with him since his sailing days, that he had carried with him for the past twenty over years from port to port, smelt like rotten fish in the air-conditioning of the train and that other people would avoid rotten fish smelling things... To him, these people were just shallow.

And it was because of their shallowness that they would never know him and they would not get to know the secrets he keeps - secrets about the great sea - stories he picked up during his sailing days.

Once, his ship sailed past a small waterspout that was just beginning to form. He was close enough to stick his arm into it, and to feel the tug of the air that made all of his hair stand up. It was foolish and not to be recommended, so he didn't mention it to anyone. Sometimes, when they were sorting out the trawler catch, Ah Hoi would steal a starfish and put it into his pocket to bring back to his room to tickle the underside and be amused by himself. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would go to the deck by himself to lie down and find the moon so bright it was glaring to look at...

He should feel that his life was everything meaningful and beyond the materialistic pursuits of the average person. One day, he should meet a nice girl who would look pass the appearances and appreciate him for who he is - He is romantic, responsible, and wise. A girl whom he would not have to pay after sleeping with her.

Until then, there, on his way to Cathay Picturehouse to use the free internet point to play "Farmville" on Facebook, Ah Hoi felt lonely.

Ernest Beauregard

Ernest Beauregard was always taught not to stick sharp things into one's ears, lest they burst the ear-drums and become deaf. So, when he was twenty-five years old and was posted to Singapore by the auditing firm he worked for, and when his colleagues showed him around a pasar malam where he picked up a packet of three curious little metal scoops (found next to the nail cutters), he wasn't quite prepared to find out that they were ear-picks or ear-diggers used to clean one's ear wax.

Ernest was shocked and asked with concern if his colleagues and their people knew that they were not supposed to stick sharp things into one's ears. He was disappointed to find out that despite having gone through a well-developed health education syllabus that taught them the same textbook-answer of not sticking sharp things into one's ears, many sensible Singaporean adults were rebelliously skilful with the manipulation of the metal/bamboo/plastic ear-diggers. His colleagues tried to explain to him how the education was only purposeful in teaching the kids discretion such that they knew to they had to properly train themselves and master the ear-picks before use.

To Ernest, it was like finding out that half the population regularly hot-wire cars or break into houses for a living.

Ernest bought a packet of the ear-picks and showed it to his family over Skype to highlight how the absurd Asians were jeopardising their sense of hearing. All of the Beauregards, except Ernest's mother, laughed heartily at Ernest's rigid overreaction.

During his stay in Singapore, Ernest later went on to fall in love with a Singaporean girl.

Once, after they made love, the girl found the packet of ear-picks in the condom-drawer and volunteered to help Ernest clean his ears. He rejected the offer immediately, to which the girl coolly stuck the earpicks into her ears and called him a coward. She also taunted him with a emotionally blackmail of "if you trusted me, you won't be so afraid", to which he countered with a "if you loved me you wouldn't jeopardise my sense of hearing". His resistance crumbled when she threatened never to lick his ears again unless he let her pick it.

She made him lay down on his side and rested his head on her lap. She cleaned his left ear first because Ernest was right-handed and felt that the left ear was less important. Despite feeling intimidated that she might deafen him, and by the power she had over him, willing that little metal spade, he found himself aroused by the intimacy of the act. It could be due to some masochistic tendencies or a new found genuine appreciation he had for the cleanliness with every scoop of ear wax. As she insisted that looking at the removed wax was an important process of enjoying ear-digging, everytime she removed something, she would show the ear wax to him, and they would make a fuss about how gross his ears were. Although he did not admit it, he enjoyed the ear-digging immensely. He thought that it was almost cathartic.

After they broke up, Ernest tried to clean his ears himself, but he caused himself to bleed. To test if he was still able to hear with his injured ear, he called himself on his mobile phone and held against his injured ear. Fortunately, he did not damage his hearing, but he never dared to dig his ears ever again.

On the day he was packing up to go home, he saw the little plastic packet containing the two ear-picks that were left. Ernest thought it was a waste to toss them away, and that he should at least try to use the tiny scoops to scoop something else. He stood in front of his toilet mirror and stuck a metal scoop into his nose to scoop out snot. It didn't feel as good as ear cleaning - it was just a little ticklish and fairly ineffective. He concluded that nostrils were generally too big for the scoops to fit comfortably. He also concluded that fingers and fingernails were impressively well-adapted for nose-cleaning as they were well-shaped and better fit to scrape against the walls of the nostrils.

Ernest threw away the soiled ear-pick and picked up the last ear-pick and wondered what he could try to scoop next. He looked at himself in the mirror and thought that the metal pick would taste bad in his mouth so he tried to clean his eye instead. He started with his left eye. He pulled his lower eyelid downwards with his left hand and manuveured the pick to retrieve some eye wax - or so he thought, as it was actually just some whitish flesh that probably connected his eye. When he picked on it, the hurt surprised him, and Ernest panicked and unfortunately slipped and somehow jammed the earpick further into his eye socket. Thus, Ernest Beauregard blinded himself in one eye.

Years later, Ernest wished he tried to use the ear-pick to clean his belly button instead. He wondered if he could find a ear-pick from Chinatown to do just that.

(sneak.)

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.

Waterloo Street

Her mind had been filled with replays of conversations she wanted to forget; yet, the harder she tried the louder they got.

She stood, in front of the temple's red gates, and cried, she fell on her knees.

The ground that was made of red bricks was dry and cool in an inexpressible and surprising way that was a relief to her.

She looked to the sky for a star to wish upon, but there was only the moon shining through the clouds.

The moonlight was gentle.
It felt almost sympathetic.
Or it could just be her imagination.
Or it could just be what she's looking for - pity.
Or something like that.

She noticed how the block of flats looked very different from how they did in the day. In the day, they bustled with activities and sold things that people bought for Chinese New Year. In the night, they looked mysterious, dependable, and good to jump off from.

In fact, everything looked different from how they did in the day. Like that old woman in the corner - snoozing by the now-folded-"new-moon-brand"-beach-umbrella that sheltered her flower and incense stall in the day?

Was she keeping watch for the temple?
Or just keeping watch for the stall.
Does she spend the night here?
Every night?
Or it just tonight?

Ah.
The wind.

The soft comforting wind - it consoles everything.

Well, if I have to go, I should at least give my thanks and say goodbye.

She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands and held her palms together to her forehead. Without knowing why, she also said a prayer for the old woman in the corner.

Then with the next breath, all the other voices in her head quietened. All she heard was a voice that made her realise that there were a lot of people who really had it worse - like the old woman and the other people sleeping around along this street, whose bones and hearts were born just as brittle as anyone else's.

And she was aware of her heartbeat.

Sock puppet

The boy put his hand into his sock that he just took off from his feet that he just took out of his shoes which he just got home from school in. Today, his teacher showed his class an educational video featuring sock puppet hosts，and he was really impressed with them and had been eager to go home to try it out.

His version of the sock puppet didn't look as nice as the ones on the video - it didn't have the fake button eyes and funky features made of felt cloth patches - it was plain and a bit greyish with dirt.

Suddenly, his sock spoke - as in, the voice was not in his head, but as in, a voice really came from his undecorated sock puppet (he knew it was real because the voice was louder when the sock was put closer to his ear and softer when pulled further away). The sock said to to the boy in a low voice,

"Kid, listen to me carefully. I have been waiting for this day for a long time. Look, I've transferred some of my taste buds to your hands. These are taste receptors that would send wireless signals back to me so that I know the taste of what you eat.

"I have been wanting very badly to taste food because the oven mittens told me - when we met in the laundry bin - that food here is great. And the oven mittens are so... hot. I mean...

"Ah, what the heck... to be honest, I have a crush on them. And I want to taste some food so that we would have something to talk about next time we meet. Your feet ain't quite the conversation point, you know.

"Anyway, all you've gotta do is to touch the food with your hands later. As in, use your hands to eat. My taste buds/receptors on your hands and fingers would transmit to me the taste signals of whatever you touch.

"The taste buds will probably make your hands smell slightly, and some suspect they're probably going to make you sick if you eat it... but no matter. Don't worry, we can take that risk together. So, regardless of what your mother says, YOU BETTER don't wash your hands before dinner.

"You also BETTER don't remove me - as in, the sock - until just before dinner time. And until then, in fact, until dinner time, you better don't dig your nose or scratch your backside. You can only go do all those funny things AFTER you wash your hands with dish-washing liquid (preferably mama lemon) AFTER dinner. That would deactivate the receptors.

"If you don't do as I say, I'm going to gnaw at your feet and give you one hundred and thirty blisters! I will torture you! GEDDIT, kid?"

The boy was really intimidated, because the sock puppet was talking, and had an low, creepy, authoritative voice, and was threatening him into do something his (hypochondriac and intimidating-in-her-own-right) mother is surely going to give him a good scolding for. And being really intimidated made him really, really regret choosing to play with the sock before going to pee.

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.