Always in fervent support of student activities, my school administration ensured that the new school campus came equipped with sufficient rooms for the various clubs to hold their activities in, be it storage of equipment, holding of meetings, or breeding of foul venomous hellspawn harpies.
You see, I was on my way to a Christmas Charity meeting when my friend played a little prank on me. The Christmas Charity meeting room is right next to the Singapore Law Review (SLR) room, and he told me that the meeting venue had changed to the SLR room instead. I peeked in and didn't see anyone inside, so I thought hey, even if I walk into a prank how bad could it get?
Hur. Hur.
I took a seat at the table inside, and waited patiently for the rest to arrive. Soon I became aware that there was another person in the room with me, someone hidden behind this partition at the back of the room, apparantly so engrossed at surfing the net that my presence went unnoticed. You must understand, most of the clubs have to share rooms owing to space constraints, so I hardly found the situation worthy of further investigation.
Things got interesting 5 minutes later. Other members coming for the meeting spotted me in the SLR room, and streamed in believing themselves to be in the right place too. That's when the girl emerged from behind her partition, and confronted me.
Girl: Hey! What are you doing here?
Me: Oh, I'm here for a Christmas Charity Meeting.
Girl: Who said you could come in here?
Me: I'm sorry if I'm in the wrong place, my friend informed me that there was a meeting here.
Bad move. What counted as politeness on my part must have smelt very much like weakness to her.
Girl (morphing): What's your friend's name!?
Me: He's Kaixiang, a Year 2 who's convening the Christmas Charity Meeting today.
Harpy: Who's Kaixiang? This is the Singapore Law Review room you know! Can't you read the sign on the door?
No, I didn't know, and I can't read. I scrapped through Primary School, Secondary School, Junior College, Army and 2 years of University without knowing how to read, and managed to fool the Ministry of Education all the while into thinking I was literate. Surprise!
Me: Well, I guess there's been a mix-up, I'll take my leave now.
Harpy: You can't come in here without permission!
Really? Gosh, from everything that has transpired so far, I really couldn't tell. Lucky for me there are lots of people around who are only too enthusiastic to help blithering idiots like me.
Harpy: The SLR room is sacred ground that's off-limits to all the mediocre Law students unable to meet our qualifications! We gather here expecting nothing less than complete privacy! The school's facilities are public resources that are open to all students, so why don't you use those instead of intruding upon our birthright? No, I cannot and will not be calm about this! We may have peacefully coexisted for the last five minutes and you are now leaving after we cleared up a small misunderstanding but you have befouled the air in here and I will not tolerate it.
Ooo. Frosty.
Perhaps what puzzled me the most about the whole incident was why she had to react the way she did. I tried my best to imagine myself in her position, but try as hard as I could I still failed to empathize with her.
True, I would have been a little affronted if say, someone had barged in and created a ruckus, then refused to leave. Even then, I suspect I would still have been polite about it, and the clueless intruder would have left feeling a little embarrassed instead of wanting to declare jihad on somebody.
I couldn't help but recall a similar incident just a while ago. A friend was offended at receiving what he perceived to be junk mail, and in response he wrote back to the company involved threatening legal action if they didn't issue a full apology to him. I read the letter he drafted and I was stunned. No wonder some people perceive us cocky or pushy.
A little more love, people. Being nice doesn't mean you're a pushover. Save your bile for the ones who really deserve it.
*Note: Oh, I do know that not all SLR people are like that. =)
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Updates!
There's only so much you can say to friends when you are catching up for the first time in a long while. It's even harder trying to convey a canvas of happenings to those you haven't had the chance to meet with face-to-face.
I've therefore come up with a little translation guide, to better explain myself if I've ever come across as reticent recently.
When I Say: The hols have been great! Orientation preparation has been fun and fulfilling!
What I Mean to Say Is: It's a mix, really. I began wanting to recapture the same experiences I had during my Orientation in JC, but things are different. I've learnt to accept that certain things once past will never come by again, and that a lot of the time it's better to enjoy the process and treasure each moment as they come by.
When I Say: I'm looking forward to starting school! Looking forward to meeting old friends, learning new things, immersing myself in the myriad activities at school!
What I Mean to Say Is: Yes, school should be great, but the holidays are dwlindling before my eyes. I've got a loooong list of personal things I want to do, including reading at Chijmes, or penning the short story that's been brewing in my mind, or writing little notes to old friends. I know I'll be lost in the whirlpool that is school once it comes, so yes, I do wish the holidays were that little bit longer.
When I Say: I want to update my blog more too!
What I Mean to Say Is: It's been difficult! You know I'm averse to emotional ranting on blogs, but as Mr. J says, its better to have an emo blog than no blog at all (speak for yourself, haha, your blog's dead too!). Ironically, I've come to realize that I blog more during school term than now. Writing's always been a cathartic release for me, perhaps that's why.
When I Say: I've moved on, and am a better, stronger person now!
What I Mean to Say Is: I've come to understand myself better, but am still very far from what I should be. Just five minutes ago, I helped initiate an SMS fiasco which proved that... words fail me. Haha. And to think that I'm as used to words failing me as LKY is used to losing lawsuits. At times I think I'm a harder, more resolved person, able to make difficult decisions and live with them. At others, I'm just hanting with a small 'h'.
The last song I heard was Semi Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind.
The last book I read was An Inspector Calls by JB Priestley.
The last person I talked to was my Dad, who walked in on me sun-tanning in my room. ("Er, no pa, I didn't realize that the afternoon sun was so hot! Er, siao ah, you think I sun-tanning in my room meh.")
The last thought I had was, "Here I am, once again. The decor has changed, as has the furniture and the music they pipe in and the scents they use to sweeten the air, but yea, it's the same place alright."
The most important things are the hardest to say.
I've therefore come up with a little translation guide, to better explain myself if I've ever come across as reticent recently.
When I Say: The hols have been great! Orientation preparation has been fun and fulfilling!
What I Mean to Say Is: It's a mix, really. I began wanting to recapture the same experiences I had during my Orientation in JC, but things are different. I've learnt to accept that certain things once past will never come by again, and that a lot of the time it's better to enjoy the process and treasure each moment as they come by.
When I Say: I'm looking forward to starting school! Looking forward to meeting old friends, learning new things, immersing myself in the myriad activities at school!
What I Mean to Say Is: Yes, school should be great, but the holidays are dwlindling before my eyes. I've got a loooong list of personal things I want to do, including reading at Chijmes, or penning the short story that's been brewing in my mind, or writing little notes to old friends. I know I'll be lost in the whirlpool that is school once it comes, so yes, I do wish the holidays were that little bit longer.
When I Say: I want to update my blog more too!
What I Mean to Say Is: It's been difficult! You know I'm averse to emotional ranting on blogs, but as Mr. J says, its better to have an emo blog than no blog at all (speak for yourself, haha, your blog's dead too!). Ironically, I've come to realize that I blog more during school term than now. Writing's always been a cathartic release for me, perhaps that's why.
When I Say: I've moved on, and am a better, stronger person now!
What I Mean to Say Is: I've come to understand myself better, but am still very far from what I should be. Just five minutes ago, I helped initiate an SMS fiasco which proved that... words fail me. Haha. And to think that I'm as used to words failing me as LKY is used to losing lawsuits. At times I think I'm a harder, more resolved person, able to make difficult decisions and live with them. At others, I'm just hanting with a small 'h'.
The last song I heard was Semi Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind.
The last book I read was An Inspector Calls by JB Priestley.
The last person I talked to was my Dad, who walked in on me sun-tanning in my room. ("Er, no pa, I didn't realize that the afternoon sun was so hot! Er, siao ah, you think I sun-tanning in my room meh.")
The last thought I had was, "Here I am, once again. The decor has changed, as has the furniture and the music they pipe in and the scents they use to sweeten the air, but yea, it's the same place alright."
The most important things are the hardest to say.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Creature of The Night
I waited till the last of the lights went out, waited till there was ample time for my parents to fall asleep, then waited some more. The moment I was sure everyone else had fallen asleep, I fully awoke.
That afternoon I had already planned my escape - the lock on the back gate was oiled, my shoes laid out so I wouldn't have to fumble in the darkness, water bottle filled and readied. Like a shadow I danced down the staircase, skipping the steps which I knew creaked, and pocketed my keys from the table in the hallway. There was no need for an inventory check - where I was going, I had everything I needed.
The front door yielded without so much as a whisper of disapproval, and within 2 minutes I was out of my house, out the gate, into the world of the night. Every minute out was precious, so without turning back once I began to run.
It was only when I reached the reservoir and found a nice bench facing the placid waters, that I finally allowed myself the luxury of... just thinking. About things.
Since that night, I've stolen out of my house in the dead of the night a couple more times. I've become addicted to it. The feeling that you own the world, that you're free to roam wherever you please, that the worries and burdens and concerns and baggage from the day all belong to a different person, a different you.
I've visited HDB estates, neighbourhood playgrounds, 24 hr convenience stores, reservoir carparks. I've found little corners everywhere where you can just sit and observe the world sleep, and think politically incorrect thoughts that I normally would censor and bury immediately.
At night, unchained from the rigors of what I should be doing or thinking, I ponder what-ifs, explore past memories, excavate the bases for all the emotions that rule me during the day. I list what would make a Perfect Moment, question how far I am from such Moments normally, and plot to experience more Perfect Moments.
I think back to my Hanting 21 plan, and marvel at how far I've progressed or missed the mark, as the case may be. The emotional side of me battles with the rational side, locked in an unending feud over the respective amount of authority they deserve.
At the end of every excursion, I would retreat to my room, sapped, unfeeling, but at peace. Ready to face another day where something, something, just doesn't feel quite right.
I am a creature of the night, and I revel in it.
That afternoon I had already planned my escape - the lock on the back gate was oiled, my shoes laid out so I wouldn't have to fumble in the darkness, water bottle filled and readied. Like a shadow I danced down the staircase, skipping the steps which I knew creaked, and pocketed my keys from the table in the hallway. There was no need for an inventory check - where I was going, I had everything I needed.
The front door yielded without so much as a whisper of disapproval, and within 2 minutes I was out of my house, out the gate, into the world of the night. Every minute out was precious, so without turning back once I began to run.
It was only when I reached the reservoir and found a nice bench facing the placid waters, that I finally allowed myself the luxury of... just thinking. About things.
Since that night, I've stolen out of my house in the dead of the night a couple more times. I've become addicted to it. The feeling that you own the world, that you're free to roam wherever you please, that the worries and burdens and concerns and baggage from the day all belong to a different person, a different you.
I've visited HDB estates, neighbourhood playgrounds, 24 hr convenience stores, reservoir carparks. I've found little corners everywhere where you can just sit and observe the world sleep, and think politically incorrect thoughts that I normally would censor and bury immediately.
At night, unchained from the rigors of what I should be doing or thinking, I ponder what-ifs, explore past memories, excavate the bases for all the emotions that rule me during the day. I list what would make a Perfect Moment, question how far I am from such Moments normally, and plot to experience more Perfect Moments.
I think back to my Hanting 21 plan, and marvel at how far I've progressed or missed the mark, as the case may be. The emotional side of me battles with the rational side, locked in an unending feud over the respective amount of authority they deserve.
At the end of every excursion, I would retreat to my room, sapped, unfeeling, but at peace. Ready to face another day where something, something, just doesn't feel quite right.
I am a creature of the night, and I revel in it.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Political Correctness
I'm sapped. I just shelved my fourth post in recent weeks because I was concerned that some people might interpret it the wrong way... it seems as if every time I want to post about something personal, put words to some innermost thought, I run the risk of offending people.
What a strange state of affairs.
What a strange state of affairs.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Seek The Truth No Further
Almost five years ago, a distant cousin of mine got married. Out of the blue.
The entire extended family was suddenly rife with all sorts of theories revolving around the marriage. In those few frantic weeks, I would hear certain camps claim authoritatively that their version of the events leading up to the nuptials was the authentic one, only to soon hear from other factions similarly credible spins on the 'truth'.
Right up to the night of the wedding dinner, the tide of theories still surged on unabated, and could not be quelled. Some whispered 'shotgun marriage', others 'true love', while the ones who sat on the fence and couldn't really keep up with justifying their positions merely muttered 'fate'.
I remember them walking down the little aisle in the ballroom, and it struck me that they were impervious to all that was being said about them. Surely they were aware, but they didn't much care.
For how does one ascertain truth? As human beings we necessarily perceive the world through coloured lenses, yet surely that in itself defeats any claim to any objectivity we might stake.
To a geographer a rock is an embodiment of Nature's whimsical creative energies, to a doctor a rock is a dangerous object posing as a repository of microbial miscreants, to a lawyer a rock is an article the possession of which spells the degree of pre-meditation a party to a fracas nurtured.
I fancy that the then-newlyweds were acutely aware of the disparaging talk going on around them, but they weren't too bothered. There was only one perspective to the truth that was crucial to the longevity of their union, and it was shared by both of them.
And that was probably all that mattered.
The entire extended family was suddenly rife with all sorts of theories revolving around the marriage. In those few frantic weeks, I would hear certain camps claim authoritatively that their version of the events leading up to the nuptials was the authentic one, only to soon hear from other factions similarly credible spins on the 'truth'.
Right up to the night of the wedding dinner, the tide of theories still surged on unabated, and could not be quelled. Some whispered 'shotgun marriage', others 'true love', while the ones who sat on the fence and couldn't really keep up with justifying their positions merely muttered 'fate'.
I remember them walking down the little aisle in the ballroom, and it struck me that they were impervious to all that was being said about them. Surely they were aware, but they didn't much care.
For how does one ascertain truth? As human beings we necessarily perceive the world through coloured lenses, yet surely that in itself defeats any claim to any objectivity we might stake.
To a geographer a rock is an embodiment of Nature's whimsical creative energies, to a doctor a rock is a dangerous object posing as a repository of microbial miscreants, to a lawyer a rock is an article the possession of which spells the degree of pre-meditation a party to a fracas nurtured.
I fancy that the then-newlyweds were acutely aware of the disparaging talk going on around them, but they weren't too bothered. There was only one perspective to the truth that was crucial to the longevity of their union, and it was shared by both of them.
And that was probably all that mattered.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
A Sincere Reply
I made a short call to my dad today, which ended in both of us laughing. It's nice to have parents with the same sense of humour as you. =)
Me: Pa, Aunty Lily asks if we would like to take in her dog.
Dad: Well, have you seen it?
Me: Yea I have, I went over the other day to play with it.
Dad: So what type of dog is it? What breed? What's the upkeep like?
Me: I dunno. Brown colour one.
Me: Pa, Aunty Lily asks if we would like to take in her dog.
Dad: Well, have you seen it?
Me: Yea I have, I went over the other day to play with it.
Dad: So what type of dog is it? What breed? What's the upkeep like?
Me: I dunno. Brown colour one.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Random (Nocturnal) Thoughts
I awaken in the middle of the night.
There is a light drizzle outside, street lamps illuminating the raindrops' shocked expressions as they end their indulgent free fall and gently plink onto the tiles of my roof.
The wind continues her petulant course through my neighbourhood, teasing the leaves on the trees, threatening the hastily affixed election posters with premature retirement. Swish-swish, swish-swish go the things that flap in the night, a chorus that drowns out the crude yappings of the resident dogs.
I am suffused with calmness. I contemplate the happenings of the past day, then the past week, then month, then year, and it all seems surreal. It's almost as if I could turn my head and see Desmond sleeping next to me, in the army a year ago. Or my brother, eight years ago. Or my mother, fourteen years ago.
It's like walking down a street while you're engrossed with talking with your companion, or trying to guess the song on your Shuffle. Then you look up and you're startled by how far you've gone, without realizing how much you've passed by, or where you're going. Life blindsides you that way.
Slowly, a few things come to mind. Regrets converge and attempt to ouster the important thoughts from my focus... But I know I am not perfect, and there are some things that I just could not have done better. There is too much to live for to stop now.
If I could speak to you now, and you would listen, you would agree, right? Let the worries and frustrations fall from you, and tackle problems day by day. You know you can.
The street lamps die, another night is over... another day is dawning.
There is a light drizzle outside, street lamps illuminating the raindrops' shocked expressions as they end their indulgent free fall and gently plink onto the tiles of my roof.
The wind continues her petulant course through my neighbourhood, teasing the leaves on the trees, threatening the hastily affixed election posters with premature retirement. Swish-swish, swish-swish go the things that flap in the night, a chorus that drowns out the crude yappings of the resident dogs.
I am suffused with calmness. I contemplate the happenings of the past day, then the past week, then month, then year, and it all seems surreal. It's almost as if I could turn my head and see Desmond sleeping next to me, in the army a year ago. Or my brother, eight years ago. Or my mother, fourteen years ago.
It's like walking down a street while you're engrossed with talking with your companion, or trying to guess the song on your Shuffle. Then you look up and you're startled by how far you've gone, without realizing how much you've passed by, or where you're going. Life blindsides you that way.
Slowly, a few things come to mind. Regrets converge and attempt to ouster the important thoughts from my focus... But I know I am not perfect, and there are some things that I just could not have done better. There is too much to live for to stop now.
If I could speak to you now, and you would listen, you would agree, right? Let the worries and frustrations fall from you, and tackle problems day by day. You know you can.
The street lamps die, another night is over... another day is dawning.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Conscience
Looking back, I suspect that I might not have been the most angelic of little boys.
The earliest memory of how demonic I was finds its roots in kindergarten. The adults who ran the place, probably young idealistic people without kids of their own, thought it decidedly brilliant to sit us "little angels" at tables of four, and rotate the groups every two weeks.
The theory was, by mixing in different groups regularly, the kids would develop their social skills faster. They would overcome their shyness at meeting new people, and learn to cooperate, give and take, grow into well-mannered sociable beings.
Evil finds no foothold in the hearts of innocent children, no?
Foolish humans! Under that system, there was no group that I didn't come to overwhelm by sheer force of character or violent brutality. My day of glory was when I was finally rotated into the group with the then reigning class bully, for after that showdown, my dominion was complete.
(He had taken my new eraser and pulled it out of its cardboard sheath, knowing how much I hated people to do that. I took his eraser, bit it in half, and spat it out onto his books. Ooo. Never seen someone cry so fast.)
But I couldn't afford to be complacent. They made me change classes, you see, twice. Everyday was a battle for new turf.
I heard much later that after my short stint there, they scrapped the rotating system, replacing it with one where the kids sat at cold metal tables, with at least 1m between each child, thumbtacks on the floor to discourage movement, and barbed wire circling the compound.
Even now, there are many colourful posters littering the walls of the staff room, with labels like "How to Spot A Possessed Child" and step-by-step guides to dealing with juvenile troublemakers. No kindergarten kid left such a legacy as I.
Yes. My early childhood was a completely amoral time for me. If someone hit me, I would hit them back. If someone didn't hit me, I would hit them all the much harder. I was practically the poster child for, if the government wanted, their "Stop At Zero, Sterilize Yourselves" campaign.
But every story has its turning point, and mine was in Primary Five, when we received our Mid-Year Exam results. I got a 53 for my Maths Paper, a dismal score which was probably Band 5.
(Just in case you've never gone to Primary school in Singapore, your grades are clustered into Bands, arguably to encourage you to work harder. Band 1 means "Good Job, You Did Well", Band 2 "Not Too Bad, But No More Scholarship Liao", Band 3's "Tsk Tsk, Police Going To Catch You", Band 4 "Hahaha see How You Tell Your Parents" and Band 5 "Brain Damaged La You".
Aye, the academic scene in Singapore's harsh at times.)
So anyway I found myself clutching my paper and running off to the loo. I shut myself into a cubicle, and just started crying. Before long, I heard the adjacent cubicle door close, and someone else started sobbing too. When the worst of my grief was over, I said:
H: You also did badly ah.
X: Yar la. S*** la. Feel very bad now.
H: Feel bad? Why leh?
X: I'm a full-time student... my only responsibility is to study. My parents work so hard just to send me to school, so the least I should do is get good grades and support them next time. I don't want them to worry about me...
H: Oh. Ok.
X: You leh? Why are you sad?
H: Go home my mother sure going to whack me. I scared pain.
On the way home that day, pricked by what my friend said, and after long hours of inner turmoil, I gave birth to a Conscience. It was small compared to its peers, underweight and decidedly malnourished. It certainly didn't look like it would survive past a couple of hours.
Yet, frail and delicate as it was, it wailed with the lungs of a dozen babies. And true enough, not only did it survive, it developed quite well.
In fact, since that day, I've changed quite drastically. Overnight I drew my own OB markers, and started treating people better, respecting their space and rights and privacy. People tell me that I'm very 'guai', and while they're right in that my parents were good parents, I must attribute a lot of it to the strange thing otherwise known as a conscience.
There are, as of now, a loooong list of things I must set right, and by my own hand too. Way way high on my priority list is to compensate my dear friend for breaking his arm in primary school, because I was too scared then to tell my parents.
After that... after that I will seek out the loved ones I've wronged in some way or another, and for what it was worth, tell them I was sorry for the way things turned out. Some things can never be righted, but I know I will still try.
For all the laws we have, for all the fears of punishment, the hardest thing is to be able to answer to yourself before you sleep every night.
The earliest memory of how demonic I was finds its roots in kindergarten. The adults who ran the place, probably young idealistic people without kids of their own, thought it decidedly brilliant to sit us "little angels" at tables of four, and rotate the groups every two weeks.
The theory was, by mixing in different groups regularly, the kids would develop their social skills faster. They would overcome their shyness at meeting new people, and learn to cooperate, give and take, grow into well-mannered sociable beings.
Evil finds no foothold in the hearts of innocent children, no?
Foolish humans! Under that system, there was no group that I didn't come to overwhelm by sheer force of character or violent brutality. My day of glory was when I was finally rotated into the group with the then reigning class bully, for after that showdown, my dominion was complete.
(He had taken my new eraser and pulled it out of its cardboard sheath, knowing how much I hated people to do that. I took his eraser, bit it in half, and spat it out onto his books. Ooo. Never seen someone cry so fast.)
But I couldn't afford to be complacent. They made me change classes, you see, twice. Everyday was a battle for new turf.
I heard much later that after my short stint there, they scrapped the rotating system, replacing it with one where the kids sat at cold metal tables, with at least 1m between each child, thumbtacks on the floor to discourage movement, and barbed wire circling the compound.
Even now, there are many colourful posters littering the walls of the staff room, with labels like "How to Spot A Possessed Child" and step-by-step guides to dealing with juvenile troublemakers. No kindergarten kid left such a legacy as I.
Yes. My early childhood was a completely amoral time for me. If someone hit me, I would hit them back. If someone didn't hit me, I would hit them all the much harder. I was practically the poster child for, if the government wanted, their "Stop At Zero, Sterilize Yourselves" campaign.
But every story has its turning point, and mine was in Primary Five, when we received our Mid-Year Exam results. I got a 53 for my Maths Paper, a dismal score which was probably Band 5.
(Just in case you've never gone to Primary school in Singapore, your grades are clustered into Bands, arguably to encourage you to work harder. Band 1 means "Good Job, You Did Well", Band 2 "Not Too Bad, But No More Scholarship Liao", Band 3's "Tsk Tsk, Police Going To Catch You", Band 4 "Hahaha see How You Tell Your Parents" and Band 5 "Brain Damaged La You".
Aye, the academic scene in Singapore's harsh at times.)
So anyway I found myself clutching my paper and running off to the loo. I shut myself into a cubicle, and just started crying. Before long, I heard the adjacent cubicle door close, and someone else started sobbing too. When the worst of my grief was over, I said:
H: You also did badly ah.
X: Yar la. S*** la. Feel very bad now.
H: Feel bad? Why leh?
X: I'm a full-time student... my only responsibility is to study. My parents work so hard just to send me to school, so the least I should do is get good grades and support them next time. I don't want them to worry about me...
H: Oh. Ok.
X: You leh? Why are you sad?
H: Go home my mother sure going to whack me. I scared pain.
On the way home that day, pricked by what my friend said, and after long hours of inner turmoil, I gave birth to a Conscience. It was small compared to its peers, underweight and decidedly malnourished. It certainly didn't look like it would survive past a couple of hours.
Yet, frail and delicate as it was, it wailed with the lungs of a dozen babies. And true enough, not only did it survive, it developed quite well.
In fact, since that day, I've changed quite drastically. Overnight I drew my own OB markers, and started treating people better, respecting their space and rights and privacy. People tell me that I'm very 'guai', and while they're right in that my parents were good parents, I must attribute a lot of it to the strange thing otherwise known as a conscience.
There are, as of now, a loooong list of things I must set right, and by my own hand too. Way way high on my priority list is to compensate my dear friend for breaking his arm in primary school, because I was too scared then to tell my parents.
After that... after that I will seek out the loved ones I've wronged in some way or another, and for what it was worth, tell them I was sorry for the way things turned out. Some things can never be righted, but I know I will still try.
For all the laws we have, for all the fears of punishment, the hardest thing is to be able to answer to yourself before you sleep every night.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Sunshine From The Past 7: I Could Stay Awake, Just To...
One by one, everyone fell asleep. The television blared on, characters on screen quietly going through their pre-set actions and dialogue. Soon, I was the only one left awake, the single consciouness in a hall of 6 other sleeping friends.
She was lying next to me on the sofa, eyes closed, at peace. Fatigue from the day's events had already robbed me of most of my will to stay awake, but somehow I knew this chance would never come again. Somehow.
And so I watched her sleep. I held her hand, registering every little movement she made in her sleep. I was lulled by her rhythmic breathing pattern, placated by the calm expression she bore, comforted by her reassuring presence.
Sitting there in that cramped sofa, toes a light shade of blue from lack of circulation, I found for myself time to recall all the beautiful moments we shared, appreciate all the little things providence bestowed. At that moment, there was only her, and there was only me.
I wanted that moment to last, I really did. To feel so inextricably intertwined, to feel that everything was worth it, to know that it was real for me.
But time waits for none, and four hours later, daybreak broke the spell.
It is a pity that I should be the only one to bear witness to one of the most meaningful memories we shared.
She was lying next to me on the sofa, eyes closed, at peace. Fatigue from the day's events had already robbed me of most of my will to stay awake, but somehow I knew this chance would never come again. Somehow.
And so I watched her sleep. I held her hand, registering every little movement she made in her sleep. I was lulled by her rhythmic breathing pattern, placated by the calm expression she bore, comforted by her reassuring presence.
Sitting there in that cramped sofa, toes a light shade of blue from lack of circulation, I found for myself time to recall all the beautiful moments we shared, appreciate all the little things providence bestowed. At that moment, there was only her, and there was only me.
I wanted that moment to last, I really did. To feel so inextricably intertwined, to feel that everything was worth it, to know that it was real for me.
But time waits for none, and four hours later, daybreak broke the spell.
It is a pity that I should be the only one to bear witness to one of the most meaningful memories we shared.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Farewell
I hope one day I'll find the words to explain things to you. Until then, I thank you for all the love and concern you've had for me, till the very end.
Sometimes things just click and happen. Sometimes, they don't. In any case, chapters close and open all the time.
As you said, 5 years ago we were but strangers... we'll be friends 5 years from now, won't we?
Sometimes things just click and happen. Sometimes, they don't. In any case, chapters close and open all the time.
As you said, 5 years ago we were but strangers... we'll be friends 5 years from now, won't we?
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Forgive
Emotions overwhelm me. I try to press on, to distract myself, but it's not easy.
I've just spoken words I'd never thought I'll hear myself say. Sometimes, at night, when it's so quiet you can practically hear yourself think, I've thought this all through a thousand times, always to the same conclusion.
Yet, barely a few hours later, you're awash again in a sea of doubt and indecision.
I've said it, and although I thought for a while I could just bounce about, sing a frog song or two and take it all back, I guess I can't.
I wish I were older and wiser, stronger, with more spirit and resolve. I wish I had done everything differently, and not have to look back and regret all the stupid things I did, or omitted to do. If there's anything I am clear about, it's the certainty, in my heart of hearts, that I'm the one to blame.
I'm so very sorry.
I've just spoken words I'd never thought I'll hear myself say. Sometimes, at night, when it's so quiet you can practically hear yourself think, I've thought this all through a thousand times, always to the same conclusion.
Yet, barely a few hours later, you're awash again in a sea of doubt and indecision.
I've said it, and although I thought for a while I could just bounce about, sing a frog song or two and take it all back, I guess I can't.
I wish I were older and wiser, stronger, with more spirit and resolve. I wish I had done everything differently, and not have to look back and regret all the stupid things I did, or omitted to do. If there's anything I am clear about, it's the certainty, in my heart of hearts, that I'm the one to blame.
I'm so very sorry.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Lilac, A Lighter Shade Of Purple
There are essentially, two kinds of nightmares one may have.
The first is the kind that we all grow up with. Giant spiders, masked murderers, rampaging dinosaurs, your mum singing "Hit Me Baby One More Time" while dressed like Britney.
These are the Law of Nature Nightmares, where essentially you dream of life but with some fundamental rule of nature warped beyond comprehension. Normally we take these simple rules for granted, but when they are bent the dreams get real scary.
You have the staircases that lead on to infinity. You have little children who move faster than you, but who always wait for you to turn around to spot them. You have the various creepy animals who grow to Gargantuan Post-Army sizes. You have clothes that inexplicably dissolve, leaving you naked in the middle of Orchard Road (and if you're lucky, to rapturous applause).
And everyone's susceptible, no matter your age, build, education, race. But these nightmares are kiddy stuff in the end. Even if you wake up bathed in acrid cold sweat, you smile at the pure foolishness of your nightmare, and dreamless slumber finds you again soon after.
Not so the other kind, the Morality Nightmares.
Here, your subconcious dregs up every past indiscretion or folly your pride suppresses and your honour denies, but which your conscience is very well acquainted with. You relive past mistakes, you are allowed little trips down What-Might-Have-Been, and long-lost friends and loved ones come back to let you hurt them all over again.
When the nightmare manages to fester viciously in your consciousness even after you awaken, and haunts you throughout the entire day, that's when you know you've had a real kicker of a Morality Nightmare.
Oh, toilsome is the journey of the man who has yet to make peace.
The first is the kind that we all grow up with. Giant spiders, masked murderers, rampaging dinosaurs, your mum singing "Hit Me Baby One More Time" while dressed like Britney.
These are the Law of Nature Nightmares, where essentially you dream of life but with some fundamental rule of nature warped beyond comprehension. Normally we take these simple rules for granted, but when they are bent the dreams get real scary.
You have the staircases that lead on to infinity. You have little children who move faster than you, but who always wait for you to turn around to spot them. You have the various creepy animals who grow to Gargantuan Post-Army sizes. You have clothes that inexplicably dissolve, leaving you naked in the middle of Orchard Road (and if you're lucky, to rapturous applause).
And everyone's susceptible, no matter your age, build, education, race. But these nightmares are kiddy stuff in the end. Even if you wake up bathed in acrid cold sweat, you smile at the pure foolishness of your nightmare, and dreamless slumber finds you again soon after.
Not so the other kind, the Morality Nightmares.
Here, your subconcious dregs up every past indiscretion or folly your pride suppresses and your honour denies, but which your conscience is very well acquainted with. You relive past mistakes, you are allowed little trips down What-Might-Have-Been, and long-lost friends and loved ones come back to let you hurt them all over again.
When the nightmare manages to fester viciously in your consciousness even after you awaken, and haunts you throughout the entire day, that's when you know you've had a real kicker of a Morality Nightmare.
Oh, toilsome is the journey of the man who has yet to make peace.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Sunshine From The Past 6: Notebook
I remember gripping my brown notebook tight, and I remember the soft yellow glow of the staff room.
I remember the soft whirr of the air-con, and I remember no one else around. Quiet, silence all about - a dying Friday afternoon.
And as I flipped through the pages, the memories of the past months leapt out at me. From the first few 'test' entries, detailing superficial likes and dislikes, to the middle months, when I discovered she and I had a meeting of minds of sorts, to the last few days, when it seemed I was rushing, every day, to write before it was too late.
I never wrote so much before, revealed so much before. A soul laid bare, ensconced within that notebook of mine.
It was the same routine always. A thought would flit across my consciousness, and I would snare it and pin it in my notebook, like a collector does butterflies. I would pass it to her, and amazingly, she would somehow see the same butterfly as I, complete in its image, and she would reply.
Reply in that beautiful script of hers, her own little thoughts and feelings, her own reflections and dreams. Electric words that would make me ponder, or laugh, or wonder.
A few times each week I would come here alone, and place my notebook in her pigeonhole. It would disappear, then reappear, sometimes a few days later, sometimes the day itself. Everytime it came back to me, I would sense for a moment that it was somehow alive, with our thoughts, our writings.
That day was my last trip. She would be leaving the next week, moving on to greener pastures. I reached the last page, a blank page, and there I wrote:
"I know we both thought your previous reply would be the last in this journal. But I thought about it, and I would like you to have this book. It probably wouldn't mean much to you, this collection of ramblings between us, but all the same I would like you to have it. "
"All the best, till we meet again."
And as bravely as I could, I placed it in her pigeonhole, and left.
I never saw her again.
I remember the soft whirr of the air-con, and I remember no one else around. Quiet, silence all about - a dying Friday afternoon.
And as I flipped through the pages, the memories of the past months leapt out at me. From the first few 'test' entries, detailing superficial likes and dislikes, to the middle months, when I discovered she and I had a meeting of minds of sorts, to the last few days, when it seemed I was rushing, every day, to write before it was too late.
I never wrote so much before, revealed so much before. A soul laid bare, ensconced within that notebook of mine.
It was the same routine always. A thought would flit across my consciousness, and I would snare it and pin it in my notebook, like a collector does butterflies. I would pass it to her, and amazingly, she would somehow see the same butterfly as I, complete in its image, and she would reply.
Reply in that beautiful script of hers, her own little thoughts and feelings, her own reflections and dreams. Electric words that would make me ponder, or laugh, or wonder.
A few times each week I would come here alone, and place my notebook in her pigeonhole. It would disappear, then reappear, sometimes a few days later, sometimes the day itself. Everytime it came back to me, I would sense for a moment that it was somehow alive, with our thoughts, our writings.
That day was my last trip. She would be leaving the next week, moving on to greener pastures. I reached the last page, a blank page, and there I wrote:
"I know we both thought your previous reply would be the last in this journal. But I thought about it, and I would like you to have this book. It probably wouldn't mean much to you, this collection of ramblings between us, but all the same I would like you to have it. "
"All the best, till we meet again."
And as bravely as I could, I placed it in her pigeonhole, and left.
I never saw her again.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Cow From Hell
A quick post, to expunge this potent sickness that poisons me from within.
My household ran out of Milo this morning. No more tins of the brown gold, no more emergency quick-mix packets, no more ready-prepared packet drinks.
I am a creature of habit, and Milo is my morning sugar-rush that helps me avoid a nasty, messy death on the highway to school. When I learnt that there was no more Milo, I immediately soured, became grouchy, and lost my composure.
In my distressed state, I hastily agreed to the ‘next best thing’, X-Brand powdered milk. In retrospect, I would rather have slurped down raw eggs with roach eggs. That powdered milk… was… simply amazing.
In a very, very bad sense.
The following poem is meant to reflect the first 20 seconds of excruciating pain I experienced after taking a sip of the powdered milk.
Oh Lord in Heaven, thou hast forsaken me
With this powdered, disguised monstrosity
It lulls your senses and tricks your nose
It knocks your judgment out comatose
You believe it to smell faintly sweet and inviting
When in truth all that it’s concealing
Is an inexcusable ratty stew of milk
No more potent a poison you’ll find of this ilk
It stings! It scalds! It even bites!
As it flows down, my gag reflex I immediately fight
It burns! It throttles! It’s like spoilt sauce!
My eyes by now must have certainly crossed
I think of the animal from whence this came
Surely that’s where I’ll place most of the blame
For surely no hand of man can distill
A morning drink as this without the intention to kill
Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s the answer -
A diseased cow racked with cancer
Skin all peeling with multiple sores
Run over by a tractor the night before
Udders turning a light shade of green
That any reasonable man could have seen
Yet refusing to give up this tenacious grip on life
Before yielding one more bucket of milk to the farmer’s wife
What plagues me is what I must do now
Now that it’s in me, this discharge from a dying cow
To break down and hug my parents a final time?
To bear it stoically and overlook this gastronomic crime?
If I had an option to bury the milk I really would
But my parents have brought me up to never waste food
Therefore the thing that’s crushed my spirit and left me bereft
Is that there’s three quarters of the bloody cup left
I finished it all, like a man. Who would die. Within the next few hours. Whilst screaming for mercy.
On the way back from school that day, I stopped by the local grocery store and bought two big tins of Milo, as well as 60 packets of instant-mix. The lady cashier noted that no one had bought so much Milo at one shot before.
Lady. They ain’t tried X-Brand milk before.
My household ran out of Milo this morning. No more tins of the brown gold, no more emergency quick-mix packets, no more ready-prepared packet drinks.
I am a creature of habit, and Milo is my morning sugar-rush that helps me avoid a nasty, messy death on the highway to school. When I learnt that there was no more Milo, I immediately soured, became grouchy, and lost my composure.
In my distressed state, I hastily agreed to the ‘next best thing’, X-Brand powdered milk. In retrospect, I would rather have slurped down raw eggs with roach eggs. That powdered milk… was… simply amazing.
In a very, very bad sense.
The following poem is meant to reflect the first 20 seconds of excruciating pain I experienced after taking a sip of the powdered milk.
Oh Lord in Heaven, thou hast forsaken me
With this powdered, disguised monstrosity
It lulls your senses and tricks your nose
It knocks your judgment out comatose
You believe it to smell faintly sweet and inviting
When in truth all that it’s concealing
Is an inexcusable ratty stew of milk
No more potent a poison you’ll find of this ilk
It stings! It scalds! It even bites!
As it flows down, my gag reflex I immediately fight
It burns! It throttles! It’s like spoilt sauce!
My eyes by now must have certainly crossed
I think of the animal from whence this came
Surely that’s where I’ll place most of the blame
For surely no hand of man can distill
A morning drink as this without the intention to kill
Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s the answer -
A diseased cow racked with cancer
Skin all peeling with multiple sores
Run over by a tractor the night before
Udders turning a light shade of green
That any reasonable man could have seen
Yet refusing to give up this tenacious grip on life
Before yielding one more bucket of milk to the farmer’s wife
What plagues me is what I must do now
Now that it’s in me, this discharge from a dying cow
To break down and hug my parents a final time?
To bear it stoically and overlook this gastronomic crime?
If I had an option to bury the milk I really would
But my parents have brought me up to never waste food
Therefore the thing that’s crushed my spirit and left me bereft
Is that there’s three quarters of the bloody cup left
I finished it all, like a man. Who would die. Within the next few hours. Whilst screaming for mercy.
On the way back from school that day, I stopped by the local grocery store and bought two big tins of Milo, as well as 60 packets of instant-mix. The lady cashier noted that no one had bought so much Milo at one shot before.
Lady. They ain’t tried X-Brand milk before.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Criterion
My friend in primary school once rattled off a list of criteria a guy had to fulfill before he could be her boyfriend.
Though I thought, even back then, that judging eligibility by the fulfillment of a list of attributes was a silly and fundamentally wrong approach to finding love, I still made a note of her criteria in my diary that night.
Just to have an idea of what girls wanted, you know, since almost all the girls then made lists.
And the list was composed of:
1. He must love me
2. He must treat me nicely
3. He must treat my parents and Shandy (a vicious demon in the guise of a dog) nicely
4. He must love swimming (she was so fanatical about swimming, I swear sometimes she would unconsciously tilt her head to the sides to breathe)
5. He need not be the most handsome, but he must be good-looking
And strangely enough, I added a little footnote later on that diary page that went something like "Die. I can't swim well." It wasn't even as if I liked her, and I interpret this afterthought as indicative of my relative insecurity then. (Though I notice I never worried about requirement 5)
In any case, it wasn't long before the backlash against having a list of criteria for potential boyfriends occurred. Suddenly, upon surviving to Primary Six, the whole lot of us was miraculously bestowed with maturity and wisdom beyond our years.
The girls issued a press statement asserting that finding love based solely on a list of criteria was too myopic an approach and more importantly, passé. The guys proclaimed that not only were we never affected by such hogwash, but also that we never made lists of our own.
A lot of paper was hidden or thrown away that day.
The most common sermon delivered was that you couldn’t be so calculative with love, given that love was something more than just a certain combination of attributes in a person. Furthermore, rejecting someone just because he/she didn’t match up perfectly, reeked of chauvinism.
To hear a statement like that in Singapore, a country where the lines ‘We are very, very practical’ and ‘No time for Love, Singapura’ fit right into the National Anthem (and they do, try it), is very jarring indeed. It’s almost like this undiscovered tension in our society, between the practical mentalities so prevalent and the undercurrent of instinctive notions of what love ought to be.
Test it for yourself today. Meet a friend for lunch, and then suddenly announce a list of criteria you have for your potential life mate, and assert forcefully that unless a core number of criteria are fulfilled, interested parties need not apply. Instinctively, your friend is most likely to disagree with your ‘heartless’ and ‘passionless’ approach.
Against the oppressive public opinion that listing criteria was bad, people still made lists in secret. Over the years, however, I noticed that the lists generally slowly changed in character, becoming more precise, more demanding. Naturally, this is reflective of the amount of introspection people have paid to the concept of relationships.
As you probably would have realized, lists are also influenced by the personal experiences of the person. Take, for example, this list I got from a JC friend, which, should I say, was influenced somewhat by her relative desirability.
1. He must love me whole-heartedly, and in his heart there can only be me
2. He must treat me nicely, shower unexpected gifts upon me, cheer me up whenever I am grouchy, be there for me whenever I need him, and be fully telepathic so that he can read my mind without me telling him
3. He must treat my pets nicely, and also treat my friends, my relatives, my colleagues, my bosses, my business associates all with kindness, respect and fawning affection
4. He must love everything that I do. Period
5. He must be cute, and have a cute butt and sturdy legs and broad shoulders and six-packs
Yes, it had occurred to me that humanity would probably evolve an extra arm or leg before we found a male that fit her requirements.
Compare with the following list from another friend, whom I suspect has not been treated too kindly by her ex-boyfriends.
1. He must love me on his sober days
2. His looks don’t matter
3. He must treat my parents, at the very least, as functional human beings
4. He must not take out more than two insurance policies on me with evil intentions
5. He must not beat me until I lose consciousness
Don’t even get me started on the wholly materialistic lists. They irk me to no end.
My belief is that as people grow up and are increasingly empowered, so will their lists get more stringent. Yet, most ironically, get too powerful or independent, and you will find no one capable of matching up. Potentially, this is how an over-achieving, rich and beautiful single girl in her late 40s would construct a list:
1. Anything that is warm, male and moving.
Astute readers would have noticed by now that I have yet to product a single guy’s list of criterion. Contrary to public opinion, it’s not:
1. She must have nice legs
2. She must have nice (random body part)
3. She must have nice (random body part)
4. She must have nice (random body part)
5. She must love me
Guys, in case you haven’t realized, are more than just the hulking masses of muscle that lumber around. They are emotional creatures as well, and some have lists that would really surprise you with their emotional complexity, despite their rock-solid alpha male appearance (hint hint)
There might well be public disgust associated with the concept of criterion-making, but I think it best to actually do so, and to abide by your list faithfully. Through the relationships we have we slowly discover what it is that we want, that we need, what can sustain a relationship and what cannot.
You know as well as I do that when emotions come into play, logic goes out the window. I’ve seen friends, normally completely logical and rational, finding themselves attracted to people who really should be prevented from contributing to the human gene pool.
Because, really, that’s what love does. It’s a lubricant of sorts, that eases the process of people coming and staying together. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a romantic at heart, but I recognize that’s the power of love. Once it kicks in your list of criterion gets a huge discount, and you’re often willing to overlook many shortcomings for the perceived overall good. Though this is good sometimes, it might not always be the case.
When love wanes or wavers, what are we left with?
Though I thought, even back then, that judging eligibility by the fulfillment of a list of attributes was a silly and fundamentally wrong approach to finding love, I still made a note of her criteria in my diary that night.
Just to have an idea of what girls wanted, you know, since almost all the girls then made lists.
And the list was composed of:
1. He must love me
2. He must treat me nicely
3. He must treat my parents and Shandy (a vicious demon in the guise of a dog) nicely
4. He must love swimming (she was so fanatical about swimming, I swear sometimes she would unconsciously tilt her head to the sides to breathe)
5. He need not be the most handsome, but he must be good-looking
And strangely enough, I added a little footnote later on that diary page that went something like "Die. I can't swim well." It wasn't even as if I liked her, and I interpret this afterthought as indicative of my relative insecurity then. (Though I notice I never worried about requirement 5)
In any case, it wasn't long before the backlash against having a list of criteria for potential boyfriends occurred. Suddenly, upon surviving to Primary Six, the whole lot of us was miraculously bestowed with maturity and wisdom beyond our years.
The girls issued a press statement asserting that finding love based solely on a list of criteria was too myopic an approach and more importantly, passé. The guys proclaimed that not only were we never affected by such hogwash, but also that we never made lists of our own.
A lot of paper was hidden or thrown away that day.
The most common sermon delivered was that you couldn’t be so calculative with love, given that love was something more than just a certain combination of attributes in a person. Furthermore, rejecting someone just because he/she didn’t match up perfectly, reeked of chauvinism.
To hear a statement like that in Singapore, a country where the lines ‘We are very, very practical’ and ‘No time for Love, Singapura’ fit right into the National Anthem (and they do, try it), is very jarring indeed. It’s almost like this undiscovered tension in our society, between the practical mentalities so prevalent and the undercurrent of instinctive notions of what love ought to be.
Test it for yourself today. Meet a friend for lunch, and then suddenly announce a list of criteria you have for your potential life mate, and assert forcefully that unless a core number of criteria are fulfilled, interested parties need not apply. Instinctively, your friend is most likely to disagree with your ‘heartless’ and ‘passionless’ approach.
Against the oppressive public opinion that listing criteria was bad, people still made lists in secret. Over the years, however, I noticed that the lists generally slowly changed in character, becoming more precise, more demanding. Naturally, this is reflective of the amount of introspection people have paid to the concept of relationships.
As you probably would have realized, lists are also influenced by the personal experiences of the person. Take, for example, this list I got from a JC friend, which, should I say, was influenced somewhat by her relative desirability.
1. He must love me whole-heartedly, and in his heart there can only be me
2. He must treat me nicely, shower unexpected gifts upon me, cheer me up whenever I am grouchy, be there for me whenever I need him, and be fully telepathic so that he can read my mind without me telling him
3. He must treat my pets nicely, and also treat my friends, my relatives, my colleagues, my bosses, my business associates all with kindness, respect and fawning affection
4. He must love everything that I do. Period
5. He must be cute, and have a cute butt and sturdy legs and broad shoulders and six-packs
Yes, it had occurred to me that humanity would probably evolve an extra arm or leg before we found a male that fit her requirements.
Compare with the following list from another friend, whom I suspect has not been treated too kindly by her ex-boyfriends.
1. He must love me on his sober days
2. His looks don’t matter
3. He must treat my parents, at the very least, as functional human beings
4. He must not take out more than two insurance policies on me with evil intentions
5. He must not beat me until I lose consciousness
Don’t even get me started on the wholly materialistic lists. They irk me to no end.
My belief is that as people grow up and are increasingly empowered, so will their lists get more stringent. Yet, most ironically, get too powerful or independent, and you will find no one capable of matching up. Potentially, this is how an over-achieving, rich and beautiful single girl in her late 40s would construct a list:
1. Anything that is warm, male and moving.
Astute readers would have noticed by now that I have yet to product a single guy’s list of criterion. Contrary to public opinion, it’s not:
1. She must have nice legs
2. She must have nice (random body part)
3. She must have nice (random body part)
4. She must have nice (random body part)
5. She must love me
Guys, in case you haven’t realized, are more than just the hulking masses of muscle that lumber around. They are emotional creatures as well, and some have lists that would really surprise you with their emotional complexity, despite their rock-solid alpha male appearance (hint hint)
There might well be public disgust associated with the concept of criterion-making, but I think it best to actually do so, and to abide by your list faithfully. Through the relationships we have we slowly discover what it is that we want, that we need, what can sustain a relationship and what cannot.
You know as well as I do that when emotions come into play, logic goes out the window. I’ve seen friends, normally completely logical and rational, finding themselves attracted to people who really should be prevented from contributing to the human gene pool.
Because, really, that’s what love does. It’s a lubricant of sorts, that eases the process of people coming and staying together. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a romantic at heart, but I recognize that’s the power of love. Once it kicks in your list of criterion gets a huge discount, and you’re often willing to overlook many shortcomings for the perceived overall good. Though this is good sometimes, it might not always be the case.
When love wanes or wavers, what are we left with?
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Samantha
Do you remember, back then
How you so gently took me in hand?
When those who could understand were so few
When loneliness was the only friend I knew
My guilt and pain you washed away
You remoulded my spirit like a potter does clay
... you breathed meaning into my life.
I am thankful for those precious moments
So much more than my sins did warrant
You gave a caged sparrow a chance at flight
But though free by day, I was trapped by night
This cancer in me you could alleviate but never resolve
For eventually giving up, all blame is absolved
... you were right to leave to love more truly.
So here I am at this junction once again
Mercy to winds of change and limitless pain
I only pray that this little life in me will forgive
A weary girl with an evaporating will to live
You will understand I have no choice won't you?
My one chance to reset a life gone askew
... you...
... you were a brief dream in this violent nightmare of a life.
Samantha Seow, a fictional girl of 21 in a class assignment handed out almost six months ago, has woven her way into the deepest corners of our lives. If she had more time than she did, I would have liked to think that this is the farewell note she would have written.
Although we've never seen a picture of her, in my mind she's forever tanned with long dark hair, emaciated, dishevelled, skittish and with two-inch red perforated cuts on her wrists.
I do not deny that Life often throws up seemingly insurmountable challenges. But you know as well as I do, that all you need to do is reach out, and you will find someone leading the way.
There's a solution to every problem.
How you so gently took me in hand?
When those who could understand were so few
When loneliness was the only friend I knew
My guilt and pain you washed away
You remoulded my spirit like a potter does clay
... you breathed meaning into my life.
I am thankful for those precious moments
So much more than my sins did warrant
You gave a caged sparrow a chance at flight
But though free by day, I was trapped by night
This cancer in me you could alleviate but never resolve
For eventually giving up, all blame is absolved
... you were right to leave to love more truly.
So here I am at this junction once again
Mercy to winds of change and limitless pain
I only pray that this little life in me will forgive
A weary girl with an evaporating will to live
You will understand I have no choice won't you?
My one chance to reset a life gone askew
... you...
... you were a brief dream in this violent nightmare of a life.
Samantha Seow, a fictional girl of 21 in a class assignment handed out almost six months ago, has woven her way into the deepest corners of our lives. If she had more time than she did, I would have liked to think that this is the farewell note she would have written.
Although we've never seen a picture of her, in my mind she's forever tanned with long dark hair, emaciated, dishevelled, skittish and with two-inch red perforated cuts on her wrists.
I do not deny that Life often throws up seemingly insurmountable challenges. But you know as well as I do, that all you need to do is reach out, and you will find someone leading the way.
There's a solution to every problem.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Ang Pao
Tomorrow's Valentine's, and I originally wanted to post on that. But time's not on my side, so I'll do a quickie post instead.
I was reading my homicide cases when I came across this story of a maid who was charged with the murder of her employer. In a splendid example of how my mind went off tangent, I came across the word 'ang pow' in the judgment, and ended up on this page blogging.
I was thinking, actually, about the differences in sizes of ang pows. Not the literal size of the red packet, as I'm sure you understand, but rather the quantity of the sum inside. Yes, I know CNY 2006 has just passed, so think of this as an early CNY 2007 post instead.
There are, to my mind, two kinds of ang pow givers. The first are the Symbolic Ang Pao givers (SAPs), who believe that it's the symbolic action of bestowing the ang pao that's the important bit. Then, there are the Symbolic Yet Generous Ang Pao givers (ANGELs), who believe that while symbolism's good, it's not going to hurt anyone to spread some moolah around.
This of course accounts for the grotesque difference between the ang paos people receive. When I was in Primary Four, I suffered catatonic shock after asking this smarmy classmate how much he received. I mean, I thought my humble collection was plentiful enough, but when I heard of how he collected in excess of $3000, my harvest was humble, very, very humble indeed.
I raged that day. I raged against the system, I raged against tradition, I raged against the government. Of course, as soon as I reached full maturity (Primary Five) I came to understand that the sum wasn't really that important after all. Seriously.
(If you happen to have given me an ang pao within the last six years, please do not misunderstand. I receive every ang pao with nothing less than full-hearted gratitude. However, if you were the one who gave me the ang pao seven years ago with 2 melon seeds inside, be warned, I still have that ang pao, and I will acquire a fingerprints kit one day.)
So why post about ang paos when all internal conflict has been resolved? Because, I am extremely curious as to how the two groups of people, the SAPs and the ANGELs, evolved such distinct behaviour regarding ang pao.
The first conclusion I reached, was that the two groups of people tend to perpetuate their behaviour down the generations. You simply give out ang paos in the same proportion that you used to receive them.
I mean, imagine you're a kid with ANGEL parents, with ANGEL relatives and friends, and you average $300 an ang pao come CNY. Can you really imagine yourself growing up and giving out $2 ang paos? Wouldn't you feel in the least bit like frying in a wok everytime you gave out one of those SAP-py ang paos?
The second conclusion I reached, was that your parents play an even larger role than you think, when it comes to determining whether you become a SAP or an ANGEL. Imagine reaching that stage in life when it's your turn to give ang pao. Imagine buying tons of red packets the week before, drawing lots of crisp new notes, then having no idea at all how much to put into each packet.
I mean, at least that's how it would happen for me. I've observed my parents closely enough - before CNY they move around slowly, drifting like jellyfish, completely oblivious to preparing ang paos. Then, the day before, the hour before, they suddenly turbo-charge into whirling Tasmanian devils, drawing, sorting, sealing ang paos faster than Wenzhao gets As in school.
When the dust settles, they're jellyfish again, albeit contented ones. Never, in all my 21 years, have I deciphered their method to the madness. So that means that eventually I'll have to humbly ask. Grr.
All this being said, no amount of preparation can still blanket the little tingle of shock I feel whenever I discover that someone's ang pao is equivalent to a freaking iPod. I guess I'll content myself with the thought that it's years more before I have to give ang pao myself.
Oh yes. AND. DON'T. GIVE. ME. ANYMORE. MELON. SEEDS. Whoever you are.
I was reading my homicide cases when I came across this story of a maid who was charged with the murder of her employer. In a splendid example of how my mind went off tangent, I came across the word 'ang pow' in the judgment, and ended up on this page blogging.
I was thinking, actually, about the differences in sizes of ang pows. Not the literal size of the red packet, as I'm sure you understand, but rather the quantity of the sum inside. Yes, I know CNY 2006 has just passed, so think of this as an early CNY 2007 post instead.
There are, to my mind, two kinds of ang pow givers. The first are the Symbolic Ang Pao givers (SAPs), who believe that it's the symbolic action of bestowing the ang pao that's the important bit. Then, there are the Symbolic Yet Generous Ang Pao givers (ANGELs), who believe that while symbolism's good, it's not going to hurt anyone to spread some moolah around.
This of course accounts for the grotesque difference between the ang paos people receive. When I was in Primary Four, I suffered catatonic shock after asking this smarmy classmate how much he received. I mean, I thought my humble collection was plentiful enough, but when I heard of how he collected in excess of $3000, my harvest was humble, very, very humble indeed.
I raged that day. I raged against the system, I raged against tradition, I raged against the government. Of course, as soon as I reached full maturity (Primary Five) I came to understand that the sum wasn't really that important after all. Seriously.
(If you happen to have given me an ang pao within the last six years, please do not misunderstand. I receive every ang pao with nothing less than full-hearted gratitude. However, if you were the one who gave me the ang pao seven years ago with 2 melon seeds inside, be warned, I still have that ang pao, and I will acquire a fingerprints kit one day.)
So why post about ang paos when all internal conflict has been resolved? Because, I am extremely curious as to how the two groups of people, the SAPs and the ANGELs, evolved such distinct behaviour regarding ang pao.
The first conclusion I reached, was that the two groups of people tend to perpetuate their behaviour down the generations. You simply give out ang paos in the same proportion that you used to receive them.
I mean, imagine you're a kid with ANGEL parents, with ANGEL relatives and friends, and you average $300 an ang pao come CNY. Can you really imagine yourself growing up and giving out $2 ang paos? Wouldn't you feel in the least bit like frying in a wok everytime you gave out one of those SAP-py ang paos?
The second conclusion I reached, was that your parents play an even larger role than you think, when it comes to determining whether you become a SAP or an ANGEL. Imagine reaching that stage in life when it's your turn to give ang pao. Imagine buying tons of red packets the week before, drawing lots of crisp new notes, then having no idea at all how much to put into each packet.
I mean, at least that's how it would happen for me. I've observed my parents closely enough - before CNY they move around slowly, drifting like jellyfish, completely oblivious to preparing ang paos. Then, the day before, the hour before, they suddenly turbo-charge into whirling Tasmanian devils, drawing, sorting, sealing ang paos faster than Wenzhao gets As in school.
When the dust settles, they're jellyfish again, albeit contented ones. Never, in all my 21 years, have I deciphered their method to the madness. So that means that eventually I'll have to humbly ask. Grr.
All this being said, no amount of preparation can still blanket the little tingle of shock I feel whenever I discover that someone's ang pao is equivalent to a freaking iPod. I guess I'll content myself with the thought that it's years more before I have to give ang pao myself.
Oh yes. AND. DON'T. GIVE. ME. ANYMORE. MELON. SEEDS. Whoever you are.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Black Saturday: Part Three
There was, if you must know, a third part to this most unholy of Saturdays.
In the interest of presenting a more representative, luckier cross-section of my life, however, I'll gladly skip over this part and move right on to my next normal post. =)
In the interest of presenting a more representative, luckier cross-section of my life, however, I'll gladly skip over this part and move right on to my next normal post. =)
Black Saturday: Part Two
And the saga of that horrid Saturday continues.
A little background is necessary. When I was about 12 my dad got me my first pair of roller blades, and little precocious kid that I was, unafraid of injury and death, I was soon able to perform all manner of acrobatic stunts on blades. Think Disney on Ice, on crack.
Looking back, it still amazes me just how heedless of risk I was. True, occasionally I would don protective gear, but most of the time I threw caution to the winds and sashayed my way around the neighbourhood unprotected. I remember reaching incredible speeds, zipping down slopes and racing back up, thinking only of how I could go faster.
Alas, it was not to last. I wish I could relate some fantastic tale of how my youthful blading exploits ended, like how I crushed my legs in self-sacrifice whilst saving damsels in distress, or how I sold my blades to buy a birthday present for my mother.
The truth lacks any perceivable morsel of drama - I simply outgrew my blades, and then decided to wait until I was fully grown before I bought my next pair. Lame, I know.
Imagine then, how vexed I was when I bought a pair about 3 months ago, and discovered that my skills were all gone. When before I could zip my way down CTE on a crowded day, evading any police vehicle determined to apprehend me, I could now barely make the 10m from my porch to my gate without breaking my spine.
Somehow, the magic had all gone!
Perhaps the worst part was that no one believed I was the wonder-kid I remembered myself to be. Now, when I wobble along, trying to catch up with whoever I happen to be blading with, all people see is this newbie fighting to stay upright and alive. I grit my teeth and grin when they condescendingly offer to glue extra beginner wheels to my blades, but my heart aches to soar like I once did.
It wasn't long before I realized my ego was in the way, hampering my growth. I had to let go of the past, and accept that I had to start all over again. And what was the final, devastating blow that did me in?
Just a while back, when I returned home after blading in the neighbourhood, my mother ran out with her camera, snapped a few shots of me, and cheered as I made it back safely.
Enough was enough. I would start from zero, all over again, and climb back to what I used to be.
Strangely though, I found my perspectives changed. Where before obstacles were like flies, bothersome but easily dismissed, now every ledge, rock, car, bench, uneven pavement was a death-trap. I could literally foresee how every little crack in the road would be my undoing - I would trip over one, shatter my skull and burst all my organs, and lie in bed invalid forever.
All this history, the pain, the humiliation, the suffering, rage inside my head every time I blade, and this (back to the present now!) particular Black Saturday was no different.
After the entire body-clock fiasco (see previous post), I grumpily left to meet Haoyun at ECP, where we usually go to blade. Ten minutes into blading, I deliberately slowed down, and let her speed on ahead. This was it, the little bit of personal time I'll devote each session to regaining my previous form.
(You must understand, my master plan was to train in secret while looking like a whale on wheels to the rest of my friends. Laugh at me, would they?!? Bwahaha, oh, how I would stun and flabbergast and amaze and astound them when I finally regained my form!)
So while she was safely ahead, thinking that poor Hanting was having problems catching up again (pshaw!), I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, shut out the noise of the world, conjured a single flickering candle flame in my mind's eye... and Became One With The Blades.
An imperceivable period of time passed. When I opened my eyes and reorientated myself, I was aware of a small crowd around me, most of whom were wide-eyed and clapping and cheering me on. I cricked my neck, and looked back at the skid marks on the ground.
Hmm, not bad, I thought. Judging from the marks I left behind, I had probably pulled off a Devil's Final Temptation, a Double Whammy, a Grinding Flipover-Pass, a Frenchman's Regret and my own creation, a Singapura Schwzing. Not too bad at all.
So I happily resumed my original journey, leaving a gaggle of blading-converts behind. It wouldn't be long before I caught up with Haoyun, and even if she called me a snail again, I would simply smile my secret smile and bide my time.
And then it happened.
A sudden metallic screech. The smell of rubber. A jerk in motion, a sudden tilt, a sense of panic. Imbalance, confusion, chaos. The Fear of Pain.
(EDIT: I am rereading this and I want to clarify, a jerk in motion was not meant to refer to mee!!!)
It took every ounce of skill I had to keep from falling, and when I landed on my blades I heard faint applause. Distractedly, I noted that I had inadvertantly performed a Lover's Duet out of reflex, but my mind wasn't on that at the moment. What had happened to my blades?
Slowing down, I did a systems check, and Realised. That. One. Wheel. Was. Missing.
So it was when Haoyun eventually backtracked that she found me whimpering along that little stretch of road, holding one nut in my hand and frantically trying to find the accompanying screw and wheel. And she did what any loving, caring and thoughtful girlfriend would have done - she laughed her butt off for a whole 5 min, then asked me if I was ok.
But our efforts came to naught. We searched for half an hour, and recovered the screw, but the wheel had simply disappeared. We left eventually... but I think I'll never forget that spot in ECP where my spirit and dreams died a second time.
Oh, how strewn the path to glory is with the caprice of Fate.
A little background is necessary. When I was about 12 my dad got me my first pair of roller blades, and little precocious kid that I was, unafraid of injury and death, I was soon able to perform all manner of acrobatic stunts on blades. Think Disney on Ice, on crack.
Looking back, it still amazes me just how heedless of risk I was. True, occasionally I would don protective gear, but most of the time I threw caution to the winds and sashayed my way around the neighbourhood unprotected. I remember reaching incredible speeds, zipping down slopes and racing back up, thinking only of how I could go faster.
Alas, it was not to last. I wish I could relate some fantastic tale of how my youthful blading exploits ended, like how I crushed my legs in self-sacrifice whilst saving damsels in distress, or how I sold my blades to buy a birthday present for my mother.
The truth lacks any perceivable morsel of drama - I simply outgrew my blades, and then decided to wait until I was fully grown before I bought my next pair. Lame, I know.
Imagine then, how vexed I was when I bought a pair about 3 months ago, and discovered that my skills were all gone. When before I could zip my way down CTE on a crowded day, evading any police vehicle determined to apprehend me, I could now barely make the 10m from my porch to my gate without breaking my spine.
Somehow, the magic had all gone!
Perhaps the worst part was that no one believed I was the wonder-kid I remembered myself to be. Now, when I wobble along, trying to catch up with whoever I happen to be blading with, all people see is this newbie fighting to stay upright and alive. I grit my teeth and grin when they condescendingly offer to glue extra beginner wheels to my blades, but my heart aches to soar like I once did.
It wasn't long before I realized my ego was in the way, hampering my growth. I had to let go of the past, and accept that I had to start all over again. And what was the final, devastating blow that did me in?
Just a while back, when I returned home after blading in the neighbourhood, my mother ran out with her camera, snapped a few shots of me, and cheered as I made it back safely.
Enough was enough. I would start from zero, all over again, and climb back to what I used to be.
Strangely though, I found my perspectives changed. Where before obstacles were like flies, bothersome but easily dismissed, now every ledge, rock, car, bench, uneven pavement was a death-trap. I could literally foresee how every little crack in the road would be my undoing - I would trip over one, shatter my skull and burst all my organs, and lie in bed invalid forever.
All this history, the pain, the humiliation, the suffering, rage inside my head every time I blade, and this (back to the present now!) particular Black Saturday was no different.
After the entire body-clock fiasco (see previous post), I grumpily left to meet Haoyun at ECP, where we usually go to blade. Ten minutes into blading, I deliberately slowed down, and let her speed on ahead. This was it, the little bit of personal time I'll devote each session to regaining my previous form.
(You must understand, my master plan was to train in secret while looking like a whale on wheels to the rest of my friends. Laugh at me, would they?!? Bwahaha, oh, how I would stun and flabbergast and amaze and astound them when I finally regained my form!)
So while she was safely ahead, thinking that poor Hanting was having problems catching up again (pshaw!), I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, shut out the noise of the world, conjured a single flickering candle flame in my mind's eye... and Became One With The Blades.
An imperceivable period of time passed. When I opened my eyes and reorientated myself, I was aware of a small crowd around me, most of whom were wide-eyed and clapping and cheering me on. I cricked my neck, and looked back at the skid marks on the ground.
Hmm, not bad, I thought. Judging from the marks I left behind, I had probably pulled off a Devil's Final Temptation, a Double Whammy, a Grinding Flipover-Pass, a Frenchman's Regret and my own creation, a Singapura Schwzing. Not too bad at all.
So I happily resumed my original journey, leaving a gaggle of blading-converts behind. It wouldn't be long before I caught up with Haoyun, and even if she called me a snail again, I would simply smile my secret smile and bide my time.
And then it happened.
A sudden metallic screech. The smell of rubber. A jerk in motion, a sudden tilt, a sense of panic. Imbalance, confusion, chaos. The Fear of Pain.
(EDIT: I am rereading this and I want to clarify, a jerk in motion was not meant to refer to mee!!!)
It took every ounce of skill I had to keep from falling, and when I landed on my blades I heard faint applause. Distractedly, I noted that I had inadvertantly performed a Lover's Duet out of reflex, but my mind wasn't on that at the moment. What had happened to my blades?
Slowing down, I did a systems check, and Realised. That. One. Wheel. Was. Missing.
So it was when Haoyun eventually backtracked that she found me whimpering along that little stretch of road, holding one nut in my hand and frantically trying to find the accompanying screw and wheel. And she did what any loving, caring and thoughtful girlfriend would have done - she laughed her butt off for a whole 5 min, then asked me if I was ok.
But our efforts came to naught. We searched for half an hour, and recovered the screw, but the wheel had simply disappeared. We left eventually... but I think I'll never forget that spot in ECP where my spirit and dreams died a second time.
Oh, how strewn the path to glory is with the caprice of Fate.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Black Saturday: Part One
This particular Saturday a while back was the worst day I've had this year.
You see, Mother Nature's creations usually come with inbuilt clocks. Little squirrels busy with making homes and even littler squirrels suddenly know when to stockpile nuts. You never see traffic jams in the sky from migratory birds who rush at the last minute. Flowers bloom so precisely, people actually use floral clocks to tell time.
It therefore stands to reason that human beings have body clocks too, and that I, as a human being, should also be the proud owner of a body clock. Assuming I do have one, however, its present condition is extremely suspect.
The common belief is that our body clocks are like lions, harm to tame, unpredictable and dangerous if we place too much confidence in them. I've battled my body clock for years now, trying to achieve Body Clock Heaven, where you jerk awake in the morning at a certain time, on the dot. Suffice to say that for every time I wake up automatically at 7 am (the best time to wake up to prepare for school), I wake up 9 times at 9:42 am, 11:54 am, 10:26 am, 1:15 pm, 12:33pm, etc.
(I am also very familiar with research done into sleep, specifically how to awaken from it. The theory goes that your brain categorizes certain noises as 'Emergency' noises, or noises that indicate a danger to your safety. For ancient man these noises included the growling of predators, or hostile footsteps, whilst for me it's a certain whoosh sound, otherwise known to my brother and I as The-Sound-Mum-Makes-When-She-Inhales-To-Scream-At-Us-To-Wake-Up.
In any case, the worst feature you can find on any alarm clock is the snooze button - you'll be amazed at how quickly you're conditioned to sleep through an alarm after you abuse the snooze button repeatedly. I once glued little staples to snooze button to improve the chances of waking up on time, but woke up eventually to find my clock in little pieces on the floor. It's scary what being awoken rudely does to your memory and temper.)
In any case, it became clear to me in the past few months that my sleep cycle was completely out of whack. It happened gradually, insidiously - 1 am was the initial cut-off point for all work on weekdays, then after a particularly hectic week I breached 2 am, then after I started collapsing and sleeping in the late afternoon, 3 am. 4 am followed soon after.
I thought my young robust body could handle the strain of living three different timezones per week, but I thought wrong. Soon came the eyebags, the wrinkles and the crooked back, but what really caused me panic was when I started shedding clumps of hair for no apparant reason at all. I needed a huge swing back to a normal sleep cycle, and fast.
And this was where the first unfortunate event unfolded.
The night before I forced myself into bed at 10 pm sharp, determined to wrench my body clock back into shape. Haoyun was clued in to my plan, and would call me in the morning to ensure my plan worked. Sleep came fitfully, painfully, but when I awoke I felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
My progress report as per the wall clock in my room:
10:00 pm: Into bed!
11:00 pm: Still tossing, but getting sleepy!
06:50 am: Got my wake-up call! But it's too early for a Saturday, a bit more sleep please!
08:00 am: Woke up myself, automatically! Hooray!
08:30 am: Showered, breakfasted, off to mug!
11:00 am: Mum calling me for lunch, but it's way too early! Mug mug!
11:10 am: Mum still calling, sounding a bit pissed! But we usually eat after 1 pm! What's wrong with her?
11:25 am: WHAT THE ^@&#@* IS WRONG WITH MY CLOCK?!?!? Why is the second hand ticking but not moving?!?
It was quite hypnotic, really. I sat there for a full minute, staring at the second hand weakly attempt to climb from 6 to 12, feebly falling back a second for every two forward. Then the ugly horrible truth dawned upon me: sometime in the middle of the night, the wall clock started losing time, to the point when it was a full 2.5 hours behind the rest of the world.
I’m not the superstitious sort, but when your trusty wall clock runs out of batteries the very same night you resolve to reset your body clock, it’s a sign to desist. My sense of victory, of achievement, left me. I was a shell of a human being.
And yes, there was more to this particularly unfortunate Saturday.
You see, Mother Nature's creations usually come with inbuilt clocks. Little squirrels busy with making homes and even littler squirrels suddenly know when to stockpile nuts. You never see traffic jams in the sky from migratory birds who rush at the last minute. Flowers bloom so precisely, people actually use floral clocks to tell time.
It therefore stands to reason that human beings have body clocks too, and that I, as a human being, should also be the proud owner of a body clock. Assuming I do have one, however, its present condition is extremely suspect.
The common belief is that our body clocks are like lions, harm to tame, unpredictable and dangerous if we place too much confidence in them. I've battled my body clock for years now, trying to achieve Body Clock Heaven, where you jerk awake in the morning at a certain time, on the dot. Suffice to say that for every time I wake up automatically at 7 am (the best time to wake up to prepare for school), I wake up 9 times at 9:42 am, 11:54 am, 10:26 am, 1:15 pm, 12:33pm, etc.
(I am also very familiar with research done into sleep, specifically how to awaken from it. The theory goes that your brain categorizes certain noises as 'Emergency' noises, or noises that indicate a danger to your safety. For ancient man these noises included the growling of predators, or hostile footsteps, whilst for me it's a certain whoosh sound, otherwise known to my brother and I as The-Sound-Mum-Makes-When-She-Inhales-To-Scream-At-Us-To-Wake-Up.
In any case, the worst feature you can find on any alarm clock is the snooze button - you'll be amazed at how quickly you're conditioned to sleep through an alarm after you abuse the snooze button repeatedly. I once glued little staples to snooze button to improve the chances of waking up on time, but woke up eventually to find my clock in little pieces on the floor. It's scary what being awoken rudely does to your memory and temper.)
In any case, it became clear to me in the past few months that my sleep cycle was completely out of whack. It happened gradually, insidiously - 1 am was the initial cut-off point for all work on weekdays, then after a particularly hectic week I breached 2 am, then after I started collapsing and sleeping in the late afternoon, 3 am. 4 am followed soon after.
I thought my young robust body could handle the strain of living three different timezones per week, but I thought wrong. Soon came the eyebags, the wrinkles and the crooked back, but what really caused me panic was when I started shedding clumps of hair for no apparant reason at all. I needed a huge swing back to a normal sleep cycle, and fast.
And this was where the first unfortunate event unfolded.
The night before I forced myself into bed at 10 pm sharp, determined to wrench my body clock back into shape. Haoyun was clued in to my plan, and would call me in the morning to ensure my plan worked. Sleep came fitfully, painfully, but when I awoke I felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
My progress report as per the wall clock in my room:
10:00 pm: Into bed!
11:00 pm: Still tossing, but getting sleepy!
06:50 am: Got my wake-up call! But it's too early for a Saturday, a bit more sleep please!
08:00 am: Woke up myself, automatically! Hooray!
08:30 am: Showered, breakfasted, off to mug!
11:00 am: Mum calling me for lunch, but it's way too early! Mug mug!
11:10 am: Mum still calling, sounding a bit pissed! But we usually eat after 1 pm! What's wrong with her?
11:25 am: WHAT THE ^@&#@* IS WRONG WITH MY CLOCK?!?!? Why is the second hand ticking but not moving?!?
It was quite hypnotic, really. I sat there for a full minute, staring at the second hand weakly attempt to climb from 6 to 12, feebly falling back a second for every two forward. Then the ugly horrible truth dawned upon me: sometime in the middle of the night, the wall clock started losing time, to the point when it was a full 2.5 hours behind the rest of the world.
I’m not the superstitious sort, but when your trusty wall clock runs out of batteries the very same night you resolve to reset your body clock, it’s a sign to desist. My sense of victory, of achievement, left me. I was a shell of a human being.
And yes, there was more to this particularly unfortunate Saturday.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Fan Mail 1
Oh my goodness, it's been so very long!
Forgive the lack of updates... Semester 2 has been far more hectic than I could ever imagine! Days are crammed back to back, and you hardly even have time to think...
But I am writing still! Will be posting!
Watch this space!
In the meantime, let me entertain some fan mail I've received since I started this blog:
Q: We are your legions of female fans! We demand to know why you have not been writing!! Is there some secret and unregistered female fan you're caring for, that's been taking all your time away?!?
A: Yes, actually that's quite right! My dearest darling fell ill a while back, and I spent the better part of two weeks helping to nurse her back to health... it's mini-crises like these that really do make you reconsider your priorities in life. But don't worry, I've installed Norton Anti-virus on her, she should be fine from now on. =)
Q: Do you have a New Year's resolution?
A: Yes, in fact. It's 1024 x 768.
Q: Has anything interesting been happening in your life recently?
A: Hur hur. Arguably, yes. But every single important thing deserves a post of its own!
Q: How long has it been since you were last stripped?
A: It's been a happy 232 days since I was last stripped. I fear for 30th Feb, my birthday, when I run the highest chance of getting my No-Strip Streak broken.
Q: Why do you so rarely put pictures on your blog? If you don't have time to write, at least put some pictures up so that we know how you are getting along!
A: It's mainly out of shyness really... I have a slight congenital birth defect which left me blisteringly good-looking, so I'm not all the comfortable with pictures. Yeah.
Q: Why do you not have links to your friends' blogs? Especially after they took the trouble to link yours? Are you egotistical?
A: Me? Ego? Puh-leeze, I am absolutely the humblest person you'll ever meet. It's just that I never got the hang of HTML. =)
Q: What are you busy with nowadays?
A: Trying to finish readings before lectures, and most recently trying to figure out why Samanthan Seow Won't Just Die.
Later!
Forgive the lack of updates... Semester 2 has been far more hectic than I could ever imagine! Days are crammed back to back, and you hardly even have time to think...
But I am writing still! Will be posting!
Watch this space!
In the meantime, let me entertain some fan mail I've received since I started this blog:
Q: We are your legions of female fans! We demand to know why you have not been writing!! Is there some secret and unregistered female fan you're caring for, that's been taking all your time away?!?
A: Yes, actually that's quite right! My dearest darling fell ill a while back, and I spent the better part of two weeks helping to nurse her back to health... it's mini-crises like these that really do make you reconsider your priorities in life. But don't worry, I've installed Norton Anti-virus on her, she should be fine from now on. =)
Q: Do you have a New Year's resolution?
A: Yes, in fact. It's 1024 x 768.
Q: Has anything interesting been happening in your life recently?
A: Hur hur. Arguably, yes. But every single important thing deserves a post of its own!
Q: How long has it been since you were last stripped?
A: It's been a happy 232 days since I was last stripped. I fear for 30th Feb, my birthday, when I run the highest chance of getting my No-Strip Streak broken.
Q: Why do you so rarely put pictures on your blog? If you don't have time to write, at least put some pictures up so that we know how you are getting along!
A: It's mainly out of shyness really... I have a slight congenital birth defect which left me blisteringly good-looking, so I'm not all the comfortable with pictures. Yeah.
Q: Why do you not have links to your friends' blogs? Especially after they took the trouble to link yours? Are you egotistical?
A: Me? Ego? Puh-leeze, I am absolutely the humblest person you'll ever meet. It's just that I never got the hang of HTML. =)
Q: What are you busy with nowadays?
A: Trying to finish readings before lectures, and most recently trying to figure out why Samanthan Seow Won't Just Die.
Later!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)