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.

Of a Lion and a Siren (Part II)

This went on for some time and the air was filled with sentiments of love and sadness that permeated the animal kingdom. After being taken aback by their beloved son's weird fetish for a fish, and getting over it, the royal lion family tried to source for solutions to bring the lovers together. Through some recommendations, they got to know a powerful witch, also known as Ponyo from the cliff, who came from the land of the rising sun.

Ponyo was touched by the love story between the Simba the lion prince and Ariel the giant arapaima fish, and it reminded her of when she was young and foolish in love. She asked the couple to choose whether she should turn Simba into an arapaima - an offer to which Ariel and the royal family strongly objected, or to turn Ariel into a lioness - an offer to which Simba strongly objected and Ariel quietly objected. They loved each other in their present forms, and while their love and beauty was beyond skin deep, it was also hard to deny how their appearances were an integral part of who they were and loved.

Ponyo teasingly offered to give Simba a tail and Arial, feet. The couple rejected this idea arguing that this would only unite them with both being freaks of nature as they would still be unable to consummate their love, which was really the crux of the issue.

Eventually, Ponyo, the benevolent, allowed them to have the magic to be lions one day and arapaimas the next, whatever was their choices. She warned them, however, that they should never make experimental love when one was a lion and the other a fish, no matter how kinky they might feel, and made them promise her with their favourite swear words. They shrugged and agreed quickly; at that point, they were not yet able to imagine why they would ever want to do that, since they were precisely begging for the ability to transform themselves to become a matching couple.

Thus, they lived happily ever after... until they gave birth to a son, who was a merlion, and who also had bad problems with his bowel movements and motion sickness and had to swim around but would vomit for hours on end when he came to land.

Simba and Ariel tried to approach Ponyo for help, instead they were reprimanded by Ponyo sternly, "I warned you! And you promised that you would not have done that! No, I shall not reverse it, you both should know better to love him for who he is." Simba tried to turn on his charm, but Ponyo slammed the door in his aged majestic face, almost trapping his drooping whiskers.

It was ironic that while the baby was still in his mother's womb, his parents had already announced that he was to be named him "Sireneo" - a combination of the word "Leo" that represented his paternal heritage and "Siren" that represented his mother. They felt doubly guilty that their son's name was mawkishly apt.

Sireneo was sensible and didn't blame his parents for his freakish looks, poor health, and complicated name that he had to almost always repeat twice whenever he was asked for it. He was okay with being a merlion really. He had a few good friends from school and work (he was the second son and not in line to inherit the throne) and generally lived meaningfully - going about his businesses and doing the things he wanted to do despite his poor health condition.

A few arapaimas and lionesses had crushes on him, but he expressed that he would rather be alone. His parents would secretly hope that he would one day fall in love so true that the love would too, move Ponyo to grant him the magic of transformation, but he never fell in love. When asked by them, he would shrug and reply, "some beings are like that" or "not everyone is like you two, always going on about love, blah, blah". Truthfully, he did not see the big deal about relationships, and was sick of being told of his parents' love stories; he usually thought to remain as a bachelor except for the rare occasions when he wondered if he just hadn't met the right person yet.

(sneak.)

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.

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.

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.
   

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.)

Grandmother (4)

外婆说， 当我们遇到挫折的时候，我们不可以说: "惨了!" 或者 "死了!" 之类不吉利的话.
因为这些话会衰.
如果有需要, 应该说:"发了!" 或者 "恭喜了!" 之类 的吉利话.

Yakult lover

She would set aside a task of the day that she did not feel like doing, and promise herself a bottle of Yakult for accomplishing the task. As a child, she did not like taking a shower, so her mother would give her a bottle Yakult to drink, as a reward for going to the shower without putting up a fight.

"Yakult is so nice to drink. The happy little bottles make a kid feel happy about being a kid because it fits so nicely in the palms of a kid. Adults look stupid drinking yakults, but it's so hard to resist. It's so nice to drink! Then the adult would feel happy like a happy little kid." She would tell her friends sometimes when she presented them with yakults for their birthdays or christmas gifts. On one such occasion, her friend tsked and remarked,

"Yakult should really pay you to do the copy-writing. Or for your marketing at least."

She applied for a job in Yakult as a taster.

And she got it.

And she tasted Yakult all day everyday (though she only drank up to the daily recommended serving) and had high job satisfaction and lived happily ever after.

The figure in the sky of the clouds has wings

Coffee and butter cookies

On Sunday, she made him a cup of instant “three-in-one” coffee, which she had bought especially for him since she did not have the habit to drink coffee herself. He personally did not mind cheap coffee like these, except that she tended to add too much water so that it tasted a little like the drain. She knew that he hated that. He had mentioned it to her several times before. Yet, she would do it again and again, on purpose. He would think that maybe she did it to revenge for a reason he was unaware of. She did not know why she wanted to do it on purpose. He guessed she did it just to get on his nerves, perhaps. She knew that she did it on purpose, though.

He brought her a packet of butter cookies that contained twelve pieces of cookies. She never quite did particularly like butter cookies but did not let him know. He was trying to explain to her the concept of eternity. She refuses to imagine how two lines may be converging for eternity yet never ever meet.

She could not understand or accept the concept of the idea. She could not even forgive the absurdity of the idea enough to ignore it, or to simply forget it. Perhaps, to her, the idea was vulgar and it was not that she could not, but rather, she would not allow it to pass and therefore was thoroughly irritated.

He, on the other hand, had always enjoyed speaking to her if not for the fact that she always tried to contain him and his ideas. It was in his preference to enjoy flicking away people’s assumptions about the world that were taken for granted, much like how one would flick away used toothpicks, but she would never allow him to do so with her. This sustained his interests, because it annoyed him tremendously.

“If your hair keeps growing white for all eternity, how can it never ever be completely white? Can you imagine that?” She said, attempting to present a counter-example which she thought would show that the logic is impossible, but only to show how she failed to understand.

He sighed loudly and hung his head by the neck, shaking it from side to side. He was exasperated. He took his thoughts away from the conversation for a moment as he watched a drop of coffee crawl down the side of its mug.

“If my hair grows white, and I’d still have you by my side, I won’t care if for all eternity, I’d have to drink diluted coffee.”

Upon hearing his surrender, she too abandoned her foolish indignation and they finally kissed.

Quality of Life

If only I can enjoy the jarring sounds of street constructions as wistfully as I listen to the vague sounds of crashing waves, I am sure my temperament shall be greatly improved, for in this time, it is definitely harder for me to find a shell cone randomly to put to my ear than to toss a nail or a screw in an empty coke can and jiggle it with persistent consistency.

I am sure my temperament shall be greatly improved, for in this time, it is so much more possible for me to go home to a neighborhood with some kids almost colliding with the orange cones around, squealing with undeserved pleasure, annoying the adults, over and above the some hammering or demolition around, than to go home to a neighborhood with kids running around on the beach, swimming for undeserved leisure, annoying the crabs, and worrying about what to eat for dinner.

If only I can enjoy the jarring sounds of street constructions as wistfully as I listen to the vague sounds of crashing waves, I am sure my temperament shall be greatly improved.

Friends, let us imagine the benefits that are so enormous, deliberate with me!

Too Perfect

Too perfect is less perfect than the perfect because the too perfect is more perfect than the perfect and the perfect is perfect.
So, ironically, too perfect is not too perfect really.

Worse

Worse possible scenarios can be worse than worst possible scenarios because the worse can get worse and the worst cannot.
So, ironically, worst possible scenarios are not worst possible scenarios really.

Beach

When was the last time we went to the beach together?

(sneak.)

The Happy Green Snake

There is a green snake, usually quite harmless, that lives in a strawberry field. As the strawberries ripen, and turn bright pink red, the green snake is happy as it slithers about saying "hee hee" to itself. Once in a while, the green snake will choose for itself, a strawberry of a right size, colour, and shape, and swallow it after two chomps ("chomp chomp"). The snake bothers nobody, and nobody bothers the snake. The snake will live and be happy forever until that day when his heart gets broken.

She

She walks quite carefully
With umbrella in one hand.
Her toes are wet quite thoroughly.
She smiles. They understand.