A girl had a bad headache which got worse every night.
She felt like something inside her head was pulling her two temples together, being wound tighter, and tighter.
It turned out that it wasn't just a feeling, but that her head was really being clamped tight by an invisible clamp put in place by an invisible troll, who came to her to tightened it every now and then.
Ho, until her head was so tightly pressed together that her eyes popped out of her sockets one day. That was when they found out about the invisible troll, when they heard him say,
"Hey,
There they go!
Finalley!
Hello!"
He liked rhymes.
Friday, 8 April 2011
Friday, 11 March 2011
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
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
Thursday, 20 January 2011
Hierarchy
The hair on the left leg of a human being did not get along well with the hair on the right leg. The two groups of hair would compete to get ahead of the each other, and in doing so, try to make their opponent fall behind. In other words, there was sabotaging, espionage, war, strife.
Things got especially exciting when the human being went dancing. The competition was fierce. The human being took two steps forward, one step back. Things got especially rowdy when the human being sat on the swing - it would be windy and the legs would be swung around rather violently.
They didn't know that their competition was futile, since they were destined to never get that far ahead of each other. They were just obsessed with the competition. It was all they lived for.
They did not know that the pubic hair, residing between the legs, observed their strife for sport, and laughed at their foolishness.
The pubic hair, however, too, took their perspective for granted.
As the groups of left and right armpit hair watched the pubic hair watch the leg hair's unrest - they thought about the meaning of life and philosophised on what they were meant to understand. They thought about whether there were any other groups of hair up there watching them watching them. Sometimes they would think they were close to understanding everything, until they remember it was impossible for them to ever know for sure. Both groups of left and right armpit hair would never know of the other's existence.
The hair on the human being's head couldn't be bothered with all the gossip and politics with the groups of hair below, being too busy with getting dyed, groomed, cut, done-up for off-showing to other human beings and whatever. The hair on the head was too busy with being concerned about being watched by other human beings to do any watching.
Things got especially exciting when the human being went dancing. The competition was fierce. The human being took two steps forward, one step back. Things got especially rowdy when the human being sat on the swing - it would be windy and the legs would be swung around rather violently.
They didn't know that their competition was futile, since they were destined to never get that far ahead of each other. They were just obsessed with the competition. It was all they lived for.
They did not know that the pubic hair, residing between the legs, observed their strife for sport, and laughed at their foolishness.
The pubic hair, however, too, took their perspective for granted.
As the groups of left and right armpit hair watched the pubic hair watch the leg hair's unrest - they thought about the meaning of life and philosophised on what they were meant to understand. They thought about whether there were any other groups of hair up there watching them watching them. Sometimes they would think they were close to understanding everything, until they remember it was impossible for them to ever know for sure. Both groups of left and right armpit hair would never know of the other's existence.
The hair on the human being's head couldn't be bothered with all the gossip and politics with the groups of hair below, being too busy with getting dyed, groomed, cut, done-up for off-showing to other human beings and whatever. The hair on the head was too busy with being concerned about being watched by other human beings to do any watching.
Sunday, 26 December 2010
The Chilli sauce and Ketchup at Jack's Place
The chilli sauce and ketchup met on Table 29 in Jack's place.
Standing side-by-side,
day-in-and-out,
in the dimly-lit restaurant,
with slightly too-cold air-conditioning...
It was hard for them to not to fall in love
Against the checked
green-and-white plastic table cloth,
they made an attractive
couple.
They longed for the next time
to be poured on or beside each other
on the same corner of a plate
or a dedicated saucer,
so that
they could swirl
into
one
another
and
make
hot
sweet
love.
Standing side-by-side,
day-in-and-out,
in the dimly-lit restaurant,
with slightly too-cold air-conditioning...
It was hard for them to not to fall in love
Against the checked
green-and-white plastic table cloth,
they made an attractive
couple.
They longed for the next time
to be poured on or beside each other
on the same corner of a plate
or a dedicated saucer,
so that
they could swirl
into
one
another
and
make
hot
sweet
love.
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.
Sunday, 3 October 2010
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.
Monday, 6 September 2010
Liger
You might have seen this creature before, perhaps having been on a package tour to Korea, like I have, and even having captured a better picture than this one.If you haven't seen it, surely you must have had heard of it before.
It's a liger - an offspring from a parent who is a lion and another, a tiger.
I make it sound so trivial - when I discuss it like that.
But really, take a good look at it, and tune out the cheap voices and act-smart perspectives that ring in the shallower parts of our minds... and realise that the world is a beautiful place for ligers to exist.
Maybe out there are fish made of sea-cucumbers, or parrots shaped like donkeys...
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.
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Little Red Riding Hood went to visit the witch
"Go eat a little piece of shit," said the witch to Little Red Riding Hood, who asked back,
"But why?" in her act-innocent manner.
"You said you wanted to bewitch the wolf, right? Since you are in love with him?"
"Well, I wouldn't say I'm in love with him, but yes... I want him to fall for me."
"Then go and eat a little piece of shit. I mean his shit. It's actually a fairly economic spell, you know."
"That's disgusting! I asked you for a love potion!"
"Gee," said the witch as she lit up another cigarette and thought about how it didn't pay to be kind, "As if you'd know more than me. You must have been reading too much stupid teenage novels or what. Anyway, if you really want it in potion form, then pay me about a thousand bucks or so, and I'd give it to you in potion form. Liquid, right? In your little world, all potions have to be in liquid form, right?"
"They tend to be... It's something for me to put in his food, right?" Little Red wanted to start devising a plan.
"No, you'd have to take it yourself. Why would you think the problem is with him? For not being in love with you? Of course you are the one who needs the potion, to make you better, so that he'd fall for you."
"Tsk," The Little Red pulled up her riding hood over her head. She did not like the idea that she was not good enough for the wolf. She was also disappointed at how straight forward the affair would be, and she wouldn't have to devise of any schemes to show off her deviousness. Yet she couldn't forget how the wolf snubbed her. Who was he to give her the cold shoulder, right? What the fuck? She must make him love her.
"So?" the witch exhaled her smoke into Little Red's face, "Will it be the potion for you, or not? It usually cost a thousand and six hundred and sixty-six. But since you're so cute as to wanna do it with a wolf, I'd let you have it for a discount."
"How much?"
"Maybe ten percent? You'd have to pay sixty percent as deposit first though. If you're okay with it, then just fill out this form, and sign here. You gotta give me his correct name and address so I don't get the wrong wolf, yeah? And any descriptors or whatever. You wouldn't want the wrong wolf falling for you."
"Don't worry I'd show you his photo. How much would it cost for having two wolves fall for me then?"
"Woah! Woah!" The witch widened her eyes, "You're kind of a sick little girl eh. You really didn't look like it."
"Tsk. Just answer the question."
"As separate potions or combined into one? You want them to fall for you at the same time, or..."
"At the same time."
The witch inhaled deeply and looked towards the ceiling, "It'd cost twice as more."
"No discount?"
"Same. Ten percent."
"Lend me your calculator," Little Red asked. She thought it would be nice to let the wolf have some competition and experience some jealously. She had roll-out a clever scheme somehow. The total came up to be 4,500 after discount, but instead she proposed: "How about three wolves for 4,000?"
"Woah. Little Red... Three? At the same time? Now, now, don't be hasty..."
"Tsk. I'm not being hasty. How about it?"
"Okay. Okay. I'm not one to judge," the witch took over the calculator and pretended to do some maths. "Nope, it'd have to be at least 4,500. It's complicated now that it's 3 wolves. And at the same time! I might get found out. 4,500 is already the discounted price."
"Fine, whatever then," Little Red started to fill out the form, "I have no specific preference which 2 other wolves it should be, but just make sure they are handsome, eligible, and preferably sought after. Can I trust you to do that for me?"
"Do you like them old or young? Big or small sized?"
"As long as they're handsome, then it's fine. At least, they should be as good looking as the first one. Here's his picture," Little Red showed the picture of the wolf on her phone to the witch, who agreed that he was quite a handsome wolf.
As she was making her payment, Little Red was plotting a cheesy, Korean-drama-style, love story between the three wolves and her. Little did she know that the witch's potion would make them want to have sex with her so much that they would eventually rape her, because that was just what all love potions were meant for - to let the other party want to make love to the potion consumer. In her case, the other parties would come after her. Lesser did she know that the potion was really going to be made of three little pieces of shit from the three wolves.
And perhaps some chocolate syrup. The witch thought. And some Ribena. To musk the taste. And tequila. To musk the smell. And to give it the 'kick'. Little Red would probably think that potions should have a kick...
Going around to collect and melt the three pieces of shit would be horrid, but 4,500 is good money. The witch briefly wondered if Little Red, being so open-minded, would make a good apprentice (she was thinking of hiring one), but nah, Little Red was probably too romantic to get anything done properly. The witch made a mental note to save any extra ingredients, since Little Red seemed like the type to come back for seconds.
"But why?" in her act-innocent manner.
"You said you wanted to bewitch the wolf, right? Since you are in love with him?"
"Well, I wouldn't say I'm in love with him, but yes... I want him to fall for me."
"Then go and eat a little piece of shit. I mean his shit. It's actually a fairly economic spell, you know."
"That's disgusting! I asked you for a love potion!"
"Gee," said the witch as she lit up another cigarette and thought about how it didn't pay to be kind, "As if you'd know more than me. You must have been reading too much stupid teenage novels or what. Anyway, if you really want it in potion form, then pay me about a thousand bucks or so, and I'd give it to you in potion form. Liquid, right? In your little world, all potions have to be in liquid form, right?"
"They tend to be... It's something for me to put in his food, right?" Little Red wanted to start devising a plan.
"No, you'd have to take it yourself. Why would you think the problem is with him? For not being in love with you? Of course you are the one who needs the potion, to make you better, so that he'd fall for you."
"Tsk," The Little Red pulled up her riding hood over her head. She did not like the idea that she was not good enough for the wolf. She was also disappointed at how straight forward the affair would be, and she wouldn't have to devise of any schemes to show off her deviousness. Yet she couldn't forget how the wolf snubbed her. Who was he to give her the cold shoulder, right? What the fuck? She must make him love her.
"So?" the witch exhaled her smoke into Little Red's face, "Will it be the potion for you, or not? It usually cost a thousand and six hundred and sixty-six. But since you're so cute as to wanna do it with a wolf, I'd let you have it for a discount."
"How much?"
"Maybe ten percent? You'd have to pay sixty percent as deposit first though. If you're okay with it, then just fill out this form, and sign here. You gotta give me his correct name and address so I don't get the wrong wolf, yeah? And any descriptors or whatever. You wouldn't want the wrong wolf falling for you."
"Don't worry I'd show you his photo. How much would it cost for having two wolves fall for me then?"
"Woah! Woah!" The witch widened her eyes, "You're kind of a sick little girl eh. You really didn't look like it."
"Tsk. Just answer the question."
"As separate potions or combined into one? You want them to fall for you at the same time, or..."
"At the same time."
The witch inhaled deeply and looked towards the ceiling, "It'd cost twice as more."
"No discount?"
"Same. Ten percent."
"Lend me your calculator," Little Red asked. She thought it would be nice to let the wolf have some competition and experience some jealously. She had roll-out a clever scheme somehow. The total came up to be 4,500 after discount, but instead she proposed: "How about three wolves for 4,000?"
"Woah. Little Red... Three? At the same time? Now, now, don't be hasty..."
"Tsk. I'm not being hasty. How about it?"
"Okay. Okay. I'm not one to judge," the witch took over the calculator and pretended to do some maths. "Nope, it'd have to be at least 4,500. It's complicated now that it's 3 wolves. And at the same time! I might get found out. 4,500 is already the discounted price."
"Fine, whatever then," Little Red started to fill out the form, "I have no specific preference which 2 other wolves it should be, but just make sure they are handsome, eligible, and preferably sought after. Can I trust you to do that for me?"
"Do you like them old or young? Big or small sized?"
"As long as they're handsome, then it's fine. At least, they should be as good looking as the first one. Here's his picture," Little Red showed the picture of the wolf on her phone to the witch, who agreed that he was quite a handsome wolf.
As she was making her payment, Little Red was plotting a cheesy, Korean-drama-style, love story between the three wolves and her. Little did she know that the witch's potion would make them want to have sex with her so much that they would eventually rape her, because that was just what all love potions were meant for - to let the other party want to make love to the potion consumer. In her case, the other parties would come after her. Lesser did she know that the potion was really going to be made of three little pieces of shit from the three wolves.
And perhaps some chocolate syrup. The witch thought. And some Ribena. To musk the taste. And tequila. To musk the smell. And to give it the 'kick'. Little Red would probably think that potions should have a kick...
Going around to collect and melt the three pieces of shit would be horrid, but 4,500 is good money. The witch briefly wondered if Little Red, being so open-minded, would make a good apprentice (she was thinking of hiring one), but nah, Little Red was probably too romantic to get anything done properly. The witch made a mental note to save any extra ingredients, since Little Red seemed like the type to come back for seconds.
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