Saturday, August 28, 2004

Loving Somebody

For me, it's a lot like dancing.

Often, someone has to lead the dance. And when you do, you try your very best not to execute the wrong steps. You watch your partner twirling in your arms, glad to be dancing with you, and you feel satisfied that you're doing something right.

But as in all partner dances, there will be moments when synchrony is lost. The toughest part is when your partner then refuses to continue, even though the music's playing and the mood is not lost. You then realize that it seems as if your partner has lost interest in the dance for a long time already, and you're the last to know.

And when you retire to the sidelines temporarily to allow other couples to take to the dance floor, you find that even though the flesh is willing, your spirit's lost the rhythmn, the beat.

Whoever thought that dancing, such a simple, basic expression of humanity, could be so difficult, huh?

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

Death 3: Suicide

Someone killed himself in camp today.

When I hear things like this, I feel angry. I consider all the repercussions, the confused and hurt parents, the bewildered friends, the sense of loss the antagonizers and bystanders must feel. I wonder how some people can be so irresponsible.

Then I soften, and become heavy hearted. I put myself into their shoes ,and think about the helplessness they must have felt in their last moments, their sense of alienation in this world gone mad. And I wonder why others didn't reach out to these people in time.

I remember crying with a best friend who flirted with the idea once. I recall just screaming in his face, telling him I wouldn't forgive him if he just left me like that. I was so scared I was bawling.

When I see people fighting so very, very hard to keep their loved ones close to them, I feel like standing up and saluting them. I see pple at funerals, mourning and regretting for not making the best of yesterday, yet still soldiering on bravely. When you think about it, you live on not for youself, nor money or fame, but for the people around you who mean so much to you. Would you forgive them if they just left like that?

Don't let go of something so fast, just because you haven't learnt to appreciate it.

Death 2: Grandma

We were in a tour bus, circling some lush mountain in the Australian outbacks when my dad's cellphone rang. All horse-play between my brother and I ceased immediately, much like the way dancing stops when the music's cut off. No one ever calls my dad's roaming phone when we're overseas. No one. Except family.

And when the call ended and my dad told us, gravely, that grandma has taken a fall, something inside me just froze.

My brother kept crying over the next few days, despite my mother's best attempts to console us and tell us that we wouldn't know exactly how serious the situation was until we returned. When we did find out back home, I remember even my mother losing her energy to console us. As the doctor said, bone fractures, nervous attacks, viral assaults all yield to the healing qualities of time, but brain damage doesn't.

Many sleepless nights and countless false alarms later, my grandma passed away without ever awaking. Through his tears my brother angrily confronted me, asking me how was it that I didn't shed a tear at all.

But you see, I do. You just don't witness it.

Death 1 / Sunshine From The Past 4: Origami

The first time was in Primary Two. Too young to understand, but old enough to remember.

We were gathered at a corner of the canteen, around the phone booth. I recall it being a particularly warm afternoon, with dust from the barren playground swirling in with every gust of wind. There were four of us, Boy 1, Boy 2 (me), Girl 1 and Her. The years may have matured me, but they have taken the intricacies and details of my youth in return.

"What's that? A comic book?" Girl 1, ice-cream in hand, with sweaty strands of hair matting her forehead.

"From the book fair? You actually managed to buy something?" Boy 1 gestured to the mini book fair concentrated on the outer steps of the canteen. The crowds of eager children massed around the cashier reminded me somewhat of voracious ants around sugar, for some reason.

Daintily, She nodded. When She showed the cover to us, we saw but one solitary pink Origami crane, framed by obscure Katakana. And then She told us she was going to learn Origami over the holidays, and come back next term fully schooled in the art. She beamed when She noted our enthusiastic support.

Curiously enough, at the close of that last day of term, She passed the book to me. She spoke of how she was going to be busy, could I learn to do the crane and teach Her instead when school reopened? I agreed, of course. But for the life of me I cannot recall Her voice as she said it.

A month later, crane and book in bag, I went to class waiting to instruct Her. But that first day, She didn't come. Neither did she come for the second day, third, fourth, the rest of Primary school.

Maybe I should have plucked up enough courage to ask my Form teacher where She had gone to, that first day in school. But I don't think I could have, not when she was crying the whole day after meeting Her parents in the morning before assembly.

Monday, August 23, 2004

Silly Me

There are some times when I get a little too self-indulgent, and worry about too many things that ultimately do not matter.

I won't be writing much these few days. Work's heavy, but more importantly, I feel a bit ashamed. I mean, I looked back at the last three entries, and really, my worries are nothing compared to what others are going through.

I'll be thinking very hard over the next few days about something that happened to me last Saturday, and I'll be back a little less whiny and more resilient. =)

Friday, August 20, 2004

Shadowy Ruminations 3: If I'm Gone

I remember a beloved teacher asking us this peculiar question, in reference to the student organization we were part of. "If you suddenly disappear from the face of the earth, what difference will that make? How many people will miss you?"

She meant to ask us how we could make our organization more impactful, more meaningful to the students. But that question is still tainting the eternal sunshine of my mind.

The Hanting-shaped hole I will leave behind will be a minor inconvenience, at most. It's not a problem with self-esteem, it's self-assessment. I could have reached out to the world in a hundred billion different ways, inspired, moved, influenced, assisted, but I haven't. I have pursued a hundred billion different pointless endeavours, and in the process been unable to make a difference to the lives around me.

This sense of purpose is very important, do you not agree? Without it one is like a rudderless sampan, floating through life, 'chasing down every single temporary high'.

One life out of six billion.
One lifetime to make a difference - 20 years already down

Sigh.

Shadowy Ruminations 2: Faith

Why can I not find faith?

Is it that elusive? Am I not trusting enough? Why will my heart not be still until I find an answer to every question I have? Why is it that everytime I look for an avenue to unload my burdens I cannot find one? Why am I plagued with sceptism in all the wrong places?

Why do I feel like I'm blinding myself when I try to tell myself to simply just trust? Why do I see His hand in the flow of everyday events, yet still not believe? Why do I refuse to just make life so much simpler by yielding to the repeated invitations to be saved? Why do I worry that it is not His intended path for me?

Is faith really such a rare commodity?

Shadowy Ruminations 1: The Prologue

It happens to me, at the weirdest of times. Sometimes my brain just overloads.

I read about it on Charlotte's blog the other day, and how the brain can slip into this state of hyper-activity where the synapses fire off like it's National Day Fireworks 24/7. When it happens to me all I want to do is cut off all contact with the rest of humanity, sit somewhere quiet and basically escape.

The thoughts that run through my mind are simply bizarre. The fire-fighting I conduct, to attempt to return to the state of normalcy I understand society accepts, just cannot keep up all the time. From the best of my knowledge, I become a very, very different person.

How do I explain it?

I cannot. Neither can the approximately six other people who have observed me in one of my moods either.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

Buying Underwear

Aha. Buying underwear. Buying female underwear. Guess it had to happen sometime.

If you ever need to look for a divide between the sexes, look no further than the way men and women buy underwear. Men buy underwear in packs, and the cost is more important than the colours or the texture. I estimate a $15 pack of 5 briefs to contain enough cloth to spin 1000 sexy, er, panties, which would generate about $42500 in revenue. That's a freaking high labour and specialized skill cost, in my opinion.

Anyways, I was at OG with a friend who was buying a bra. In the same way some people wake up in a stranger's bed and have no idea how they got there, I had no idea how I came to be stranded in a sea of gauze, fluff and pink. Scream.

And when the dreaded question came, I was prepared. Or so I thought.

"Hanting, which should I choose, the black or the white?"

See, it's not that simple. Option 1 was to be cool about it. All I needed to do was answer honestly, supplement my reply with justification (I really think white complements your style, contrasts against your skin, and more importantly is much cheaper) and I would be done. Option 2 was to be really macho about the whole thing, ie. grunt some non-committal answer, behave awkwardly indifferent, act irritated and bothered.

Option 1 would have meant being constructively helpful, and definitely would have gotten me out of pink-Hell much faster. But to the prying eyes around, it would have suggested a hint of sensitivity, SNAG-ness, because much as the Sensitive New Age Guy is appreciated, somehow people still expect guys to be the stereotypical MAN. Would you think a guy who felt all at home in the lingerie department, gave constructive feedback about underwear unabashedly, and who didn't wear a perverted look was in full possession of the things God gave him?

I know, I know, it's a sweeping observation, but it's UNDENIABLE.

Option 2 wasn't such a simple alternative, either. People would simply leap at the opportunity to blast such a guy for being insensitive and uncaring. His guy friends would nod at his embodiment of manhood, but he would more likely be crucified by the rest of the world for being the classic Neanderthal.

Seriously, no one appreciated the fact that I was undergoing some major decision making in that five seconds of silence following my friend's innocent question.

But in the end I chose Option 2. Being macho is so much more natural.

Monday, August 16, 2004

Quirky Education

Quick! Consider this!

Are you familiar with the term 'feral human'? Coined by the creators of the X-Files series, it refers to humans who have been brought up in the world by foster animal parents, and apparantly there really have been such cases.

The interesting thing is, although these 'feral humans' were initially like you and I, capable of intelligent learning, conversing, playing and working, because of inadequate or improper education (by animals of the wild no less) they are unable to display all the behavioural or intellectual characteristics of a normal human being.

So, even though there's a whole planet full of 'normal' human beings, who have gone as far as devising ways to travel in space, these 'feral humans' are simply unable to attain their full potential due to the lack of proper education. (While it might be useful to husk a coconut with your feet and teeth, such a skill, versus... say... reading and writing, simply will not get you far in the corporate world.)

Can you see where I'm heading?

Yes, you're right! Horses, turtles, baboons, fish, are perhaps all latently super smart and capable too! If one day horses, for example, stumbled upon a secret conclave full of well-educated horses, it might learn how to speak in Horse, write in Horse, and even sing in Horse!

Education might be expensive, but proper education is priceless.

16th Again? So Fast?

If the previous 16ths were imbued with longing
Sadness, regret and sorrow
Let this one be absent of any frowning
And adopt a perspective much less narrow

Though I might not be there
Of your experiences I no longer share
Know that in some strange way I still care
To forget you entirely I wouldn't dare

So fare you well, fare you well
I'm but a call or a note away
I'm glad you're happy, as far as I can tell
Till another day then, another day

The Village

Well, it was not too bad a show. The plot twist, full of promises like the unfaithful boyfriend, left me feeling kind of cheated.

There was one part, though, that I somehow seem to remember over the rest. When the village elders gathered to discuss whether they should grant the heroine permission to travel through the woods (highly discouraged) in a bid to save her love (highly encouraged), they reflected on the possibility of the village forever remaining shielded from the rest of the world.

The belief was that as long as they enforced their segregation, they would be exempt from the corruption and suffering plaguing the rest of the world. However, it soon became apparant to them that this philosophy would be their own undoing, as they accepted that escapism would never be able to sustain their way of living.

And the one line that crystallized their paradigm shift? Though simple, it meant a lot. To me, at least.

"We have to face it, heartache is part of life."
- The Village, 2004

Thursday, August 12, 2004

Musical Periods 1: David Tao

I've found, to my curious delight, that I've been unconsciously attaching memories and feelings to music!

It's not the sort of minor recall you get when something rings a bell and you haul some dusty old memory up from the corners of your mind. For certain albums or songs I experience a whopping resurrection of the past, and I feel like I'm back in that particular point in my life, listening to that piece of music. Emotions swamp and amaze me with their undiluted intensity, and I often have to shake myself to regain my footing in the present.

For this entry I'll talk about David Tao's Collection CD. When his CD played today I recalled...

1. The smell of cadet bunks
2. The absence of responsibility in anticipation of officerhood
3. Friends screaming at me to shut the hell up (repeated the same song for an hour straight)
4. Those bustling, free nights when I would stream the CD down the corridors
5. Heartache, pure concentrated bittersweet heartache
6. Singing a bit in the toilet, then going back to the bunks to find other people singing it too
7. Long, aimless MRT rides to nowhere feeling horribly halved, in some way


Naming

To my extreme horror, I found the photocopier in the Ops Room... dead.

"Who did this? Who?" I could hardly keep the hysteria from my voice as I gently knelt down and cradled the now silent machine. She was cold, the warmth she usually harboured now gone. It must have been what? Two hours since?

"Why did no one tell me! Why?" The tears formed, and I didn't even bother to turn away from the crowd gathering around. Through my misty gaze she looked fragile, brittle, weak. Hardly even a shadow of her normal robust self.

"Sir... she broke down an hour ago. Her toner just gave way. There was nothing we could do."

A fountain of anger welled up, its overflowing waters refusing to be dammed.

"The only reason why she's like this is because no one cares! Everyone treats her like... like she's some prostitute! Nobody bothers to treat her delicately or take care of her!"

Once the outburst sapped the last vestiges of spirit, I felt my strength flee me, and I would have crumbled if someone didn't grab me in time. There was a short moment of silence as everyone struggled for something to say to remedy the situation, but sometimes even well-intended words are inadequate.

I sighed, and slowly regained my footing. "I don't want to ever see her die like this again. Hear me?" An immediate chorus of nods. "When she comes back, if she comes back, she will have a name. That way, I believe we can start treating her properly, with respect and kindness, just as she deserves." Again, the hastened assent of all.

And that's how the photocopying machine (which has been serving us diligently and without a whisper of complaint) in the Ops Room came to be known as Lucy. =)

Fireworks

It's been the second time this month I've made the committment to participate in the Fireworks Festival. And I'm glad to say I still enjoyed every bit of it. Completely unexpectedly.

You see, I last saw fireworks in Lord of the Rings. In the first episode of the trilogy, Gandalf stirs a little colour and life into Hobbitville by exhibiting some of the finest fireworks in his possession, but I was hardly dazzled by the incandescent display. I remember thinking to myself that I was a little too old for fireworks, that it's merely a mishmash of carefully selected chemicals that combust to the tune of a hundred different shades of colour.

Yet, when I was contorting myself to try to fit into whatever little niche was left in the solid wall of human beings on the Esplanade bridge, squeezing to try to get a better view of the skyline, things just changed.

When the fireworks began and the sky bloomed like a nursery of flowers, the crowd screamed and yelled, and I was infused with this cheeky zest. Roused to the occasion, I whooped and yelped to every burst of colour, and actually whined when the last shell echoed in the far distance.

Looks like the boy in me is still alive and kicking. =)

Tuesday, August 10, 2004

Alcohol, Part 2

Oh my goodness. They're going to make me drink again. Oh no oh no oh no.

Limin's right, it's not fun losing control at all. What if I lost control again, and started blabbing out all the little nuggets I've squirreled away? What if I finally revealed the complete list of Soft Spots I've developed(and have Zhihao hate me when he finds out he's not the only one?)? What if I *gasp* unveiled the secret to my good looks (good genes)?

Would I have to resort to my brilliant acting again? I remember my crowning glory, when in the 90s I had a gaggle of schoolgirls believe I was ugly, sissified and boring. But I hate acting, and having people believe me to be someone I'm not.

Oh no.

Golden Village

Golden Village at Junction 8 sure has changed a lot.

I remember the days when it was expansive, and seemed to stretch over half of the top storey. There was a food court, yes, as well as a comic book shop, yes, as well as other various merchandising outlets. But when you saw the top storey you only thought, hey, this is the cinema level.

It's different, now. It's barely half the size it was once, and the long, characteristic snaking queues are replaced with a ticketing system that's a bit too efficient for my taste (where's the atmosphere if you remove the queues?). The cardboard cut-outs are missing, the window offering a glimpse of the world outside is sealed up, the carpet feels... different. Even the popcorn pops sound a little more mellow, pensive.

Am I the only one who notices and cares?

Phantom pain is the proper term, I believe. When I saw the whole new set-up it took me a while to re-orientate, and somehow I don't think I did. It scared me, for a while, that yet another part of my world is moving on, growing, evolving. Something that was once so sacred and indelible in my memory is now at threat of being overwritten by changing times. I guess something resonated inside, that's all.

As I turned my back and entered the cinemas, I thought I could once again feel the crowds behind me, surging towards the counters as do men towards Lucy. I thought I could once again hear children laughing as they savaged the cardboard Shreks and Nemos. I thought I was once again together with the Golden Village I knew and cherished so very, very much.

Ah... phantom pain.


The New Paper

I have a theory that jealousy is a vital ingredient in a healthy relationship.

Contrary to popular belief, jealousy is not borne out of the lack of trust for one another. Well, for most people at least. Sometimes it reflects the special occupation someone has in your heart, demonstrating once again the irrationality of love. You know someone loves you, cherishes you, but when he or she reveals a fondness or weakness for another, it blossoms in your bosom, this green-faced fiend of a devil.

These thoughts ran through my mind when I was enjoying the company of my friend and his girlfriend. They have been one of the most blissful couples I've yet to come across, and I measure this by the amount of healthy love, respectful sacrifice and unbidden tenderness borne out of their union. He's always struck me as the sensitive, thoughtful kind of guy who would always place her interests above hers.

Which was why it was amusing seeing him purposely make her jealous.

He was browsing through a copy of the New Paper when this impish expression took hold. I watched as he considered, mulled and deliberated, his face betraying the fearsome tussle within. And with a quiet, overly smooth flourish he spread the paper in front of her, cleared his throat, thus beginning the following conversation:

Him: Dear? Look at this!
Her: (distractedly) Hmm? What?
Him: Look, this is Candy, my ex! She's made it as a New Face!
Her: (stressed calmness) So?
Him: Don't you want to have a closer look? And see her?
Her: (turning away) For what? See her for what?

He admitted to me much later that somehow, he just couldn't resist. In his words, he just wanted to have a little fun, and jio jio her a bit.

Nah. In my opinion he was watching for a certain response, and I think he got it.

Thursday, August 05, 2004

Independence Ring

She explained, in tones that suggested that she was trying to relate a particularly alien or complex concept, that it wasn't just another ring, it was her Independence Ring. Frankly and honestly, she slowly detailed the origins of that ring.

After her break up, she felt like she was washed ashore, left high and dry. As she struggled to find some efficient way to rechannel her pain and frustration to more constructive conduits, she came across this little trinket of a ring that she had acquired some time back, and then forgotten about. When she slipped it on, a wild idea took root.

Why not wear it as an Independence Ring? A symbol of strength, willpower, determination? A bold statement to the world that she was ready to move on? As the days passed she found that it doubled as her safety blanket, a little island of stability and comfort in the raging, uncertain oceans of life. Soon, as she grew in character, the Ring served more as a proud reminder of how far she had come, than as a source of sustenance.

When she finished her story she said, "Kind of strange, right? But I don't expect you to understand, so it's ok." I just nodded, and didn't elaborate. It would have been really unlikely for her to believe that yes, I understood.

I understood. Completely.



Flirting

There it is. Again.

I look away from her, focussing on a group of fellow diners a few tables away. Sphageddies is packed, the lunch crowd swelling as the minute passes. The chatter of idle tongues perforate the silence mercilessly, the way sunrays of dawn pierce the night. She is saying something about her current training, but I seem to hear only the violent thumping of my heart.

Be still, o restless heart of mine.

My gaze drifts back to her, as forcibly natural as I can manage. Conversation over pasta resumes its measured pace, and just when I'm ready to concede that it was only my misinterpretation, she does it again! In broad daylight, in front of the critical public eye, she flirts! Again!

Concentration is the only thing that guides my meatball to my mouth without encountering my nose or eye along the way. I find myself grasping for the right response, to speak as coolly as I can, but I know I'm failing. Some trick of the light lends a definite vibrance to her disposition, and strangely enough, I'm aware that I'm no longer aware of anything else.

Alas, she soon discovers my amateurish attempts at acting, and says:

"Oh no! Forgive me for flirting like this... I really shouldn't, I know. I should be talking to you, instead of flirting with him over SMS!"

So she puts her phone down, promises again to stop sending flirtatious SMSes to her friend, and lunch carries on.

Ah... back on familiar ground.

Alcohol

I believe that deep down inside, some part of me wanted to get drunk. To just forget about all the bothersome little things bugging me and just let go.

It was probably the part of me that resisted acting drunk just to escape having to drink. As I downed my ninth mug of beer (is there a stigma against getting drunk on beer? if you feel so, drink nine mugs at one shot in front of me and I'll make you HBOTW) I felt the last bit of control slip.

Somehow, it wasn't really what I thought it would feel like. Yes, I knew I was drunk and slurring uncontrollably, but I didn't feel happier. Untended wounds continued to fester, and puking really didn't help make things better. I must have crawled back to my bunk like a worm, because that was where I found myself at four in the morning.

And I lay awake on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and just thinking.

I'm 20. I haven't learnt to let go of very, many things, and until I do there will always be a patch of clear sky in my horizon (because I love rain you see). I haven't found the will or strength of character to pursue my dreams as actively as I should. I lack the moral courage to shape my environment and its people to what things should be. I haven't faced my deepest fears, preferring to run and dodge the inevitable.

And now I've found that even the much-lauded refuge-providing alcohol fails to live up to its name. Ironically, it has sobered me up. I swear I won't touch a single drop at the next mess initiation.

Milk, anyone?