"My love, my sweetness, my apple pie..."
It was beginning to rain outside, little droplets splashing against the windshield, silent observers to the couple within. Eliza tugged on her seatbelt, gave herself a little more room, leaned closer and placed her head gently against his shoulder.
"Darling, you do remember, don't you, how we first met? Why, at first I hardly noticed you, we had been working in the same office for so long, but one day you popped into my life with your endearingly bashful request for lunch. You remember?"
His eyes were closed, and for a while Eliza thought he hadn't looked this calm in ages. Ever since he started getting busier at work a year or so ago, she had to get used to the short-tempered irritable him, and rare was the chance for a quiet moment like this.
"You really swept me away! Why, I can't remember ever feeling so... right... about someone before! I miss those days, I do... those long weekends where we would run away from work, from the world, on driving trips like this, and we would just lose ourselves in conversation, in each other's company..."
"Eliza..."
"Shush! Just enjoy the moment!"
She wondered if he was as comfortable as she was, but a quick glance reassured her that there really was nothing about the present moment she would like to change. Eliza daintily wrapped her arms around his, ignoring his soft grunt when she gripped a little too hard. Who knew it could get so cosy in the front seat, she thought.
The rain began to fall harder, and Eliza casually reached out and dimmed the headlights. He moved to protest, but Eliza was too quick for him. "Oh darling, how often do we get a chance to be together like this? Let's be young again, and let the world pass us by!"
She stoked his brow, wiped the sweat away, and nestled close enough for her to hear his breathing. Eliza hardly noticed how cramped the front seat was, lost as she was in her perfect moment.
Outside, a lone car sped by them, a darting blur in the increasingly heavy rain. There wasn't much other traffic here at this hour, at this place.
"Darling, remember how you always said you wanted a new car, a car big enough for us to bring a family around with? Well, I remembered, and I really wanted to surprise you for your 30th... I'm going to let you in on a big secret now! So, from two years ago I've been saving money whenever I could, just as much as I could afford each time, and I even opened a separate account at the bank so that you wouldn't suspect a thing!"
"Oh, Eliza..."
"Don't be silly darling! Why wouldn't I do that for you?"
She heard his breathing get heavier in that darkness, and she had to stifle a giggle. Oh, the effect she must be having on him! She wondered if now would be a good time to ask him whether he had any surprises for her too, but that could wait. It was her time now.
"So I kept saving, and I skipped all the little luxuries I usually indulge in. Two months ago I felt like I might have had enough for a downpayment, so I gleefully consulted my bank book in our drawer, and at first I had a shock, I tell you! I stared at the numbers within, and I couldn't believe I had saved so much!"
"That was when, darling dearest, I discovered it wasn't my bank book I was looking at. It was yours. Your secret, separate account, like mine. But different."
Eliza reached out and patted his cheek, and through bleary eyes he looked back, as fiercely as he could. Good, she thought, he's still conscious.
"You remember those sweaters I knitted for you? This was something like that, my munchkins, something like that. One stray thread, that's all, but tug hard enough and poof! Everything just unravels. And you're amazed just where one little thread can bring you."
Eliza smiled, and leaned against him more heavily. Too much, it seemed, for he started resisting, pushing back, but there was not much he could do, not with the way the steering wheel was crushing him into his seat. Eliza doubted he even had the strength to push her away, not with his arms at that funny angle.
"Oh darling... I never cried quite so much. Intoxicating, really, that mix of love and... whatever else you feel, two very opposite feelings swirling inside every day, tearing you in two directions. Some days I wanted to believe it was all a terrible hoax, a lie, a trick you hid up your sleeve. But the evidence... the pictures, the calls... the meetings with her... those were all real, weren't they?"
"Eliza... just call... the freaking... police now..."
"And I prayed. I prayed so hard. For someone to rescue me from it all. What can a damsel do, when her knight no longer serves her? I thought I couldn't wait any longer, that I would finally lose it... and then, somehow, against all odds, I'm here, sitting next to you, completely unhurt and well, even after that nasty flip off the road, and there you are, broken, trapped..."
"It's a sign, a miracle! I don't even have to lift a finger, darling, and I'll get exactly what I wanted. We can have the whole of tonight, to talk about anything, anything at all..."
"Oooh, my snugglepups!"
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The above was inspired by a short film entitled "The Casting: Heavy Rain", a short technical demo for a computer simulation which featured enchanting writing. You can view it by clicking here.
And yes, I need to improve. Shall write more.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Sorry Mum I Won't Do It Again
I'm not really a morning person. Ask any one of the dozen or so friends who have ever been on my Wake Up Call Squad.
I have this lovely addiction to staying up late. There's just something about the peacefulness you get at night, during which you can really delve into whatever fixation has currently gripped you. Of course, there's a downside, and it's that late nights mean I sleep extra deep in the mornings.
And sometimes it can be dangerous. Like when you sleep through a fire alarm.
Yeap. On my way home today my flatmates were talking about the 'horrendous', 'ear-piercing' fire-alarm which woke up the whole block. I said, oh, when was that. They said, my god, Hanting, it was this morning at 7am.
So therefore I am now living on borrowed time. True, there wasn't any fire, but if there were I might just have died and woke up in Hell (I've not been a good boy, I think) where there are tons of exams, no motivation to study, friends abandoning you because you are fat, and your well-honed charms somehow failing to work on overseas chicks.
Wait a minute.
I have this lovely addiction to staying up late. There's just something about the peacefulness you get at night, during which you can really delve into whatever fixation has currently gripped you. Of course, there's a downside, and it's that late nights mean I sleep extra deep in the mornings.
And sometimes it can be dangerous. Like when you sleep through a fire alarm.
Yeap. On my way home today my flatmates were talking about the 'horrendous', 'ear-piercing' fire-alarm which woke up the whole block. I said, oh, when was that. They said, my god, Hanting, it was this morning at 7am.
So therefore I am now living on borrowed time. True, there wasn't any fire, but if there were I might just have died and woke up in Hell (I've not been a good boy, I think) where there are tons of exams, no motivation to study, friends abandoning you because you are fat, and your well-honed charms somehow failing to work on overseas chicks.
Wait a minute.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Appreciation
The other day on my way to school, I spotted this elderly couple from a distance, walking in my direction.
She was on a wheelchair, and he was behind her, pushing her along determinedly. Snow had already begun to fall these past few days, and as the flakes danced their descent down, I noticed that the gentleman didn't have gloves on.
Wow, I thought. Aren't his fingers freezing off from having to grip those wheelchair handles? My own hands were tightly bundled in the pockets of my overcoat, and still I could feel the chill.
Then, as I passed them, the lady wordlessly reached behind over her shoulder and laid her hand over his. I stopped just to watch them, until they turned the corner a few minutes later.
I think he didn't really mind the cold.
She was on a wheelchair, and he was behind her, pushing her along determinedly. Snow had already begun to fall these past few days, and as the flakes danced their descent down, I noticed that the gentleman didn't have gloves on.
Wow, I thought. Aren't his fingers freezing off from having to grip those wheelchair handles? My own hands were tightly bundled in the pockets of my overcoat, and still I could feel the chill.
Then, as I passed them, the lady wordlessly reached behind over her shoulder and laid her hand over his. I stopped just to watch them, until they turned the corner a few minutes later.
I think he didn't really mind the cold.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Easy Money
Today in class, the topic of discussion was the legality of sale of body parts. And it was all academic and intellectual and... boring, until this Russian student offered this real-life anecdote.
"When I was studying in Russia," he said, "I was headhunted by this medical firm which offered to buy my sperm."
I tell you, the whole room fell quiet. You could literally hear all the males just opening their eyes in surprise as the possibilities coagulated. No pun intended.
"How much were they going to pay you?" asked the Professor.
"Well... give or take $200 USD per shot."
"And did you sell it?"
"All I can say is that I'm paying my school fees here on my own!" came the reply.
(Tsk, these lazy people. If I were him I would have my own limo, my own yacht, and a whole new wing of the school named after me, by now. And also a severe case of dehydration.)
Look, I'm Singaporean and I have no idea how they do things in Russia but $200 USD per shot is just nuts, no pun intended. Granted, it's a lot of cash, but can you imagine having kids somewhere out there whom you don't even know about?
So it's goodbye, PSP, I'll earn you the hard way. Pun intended.
Besides, I doubt my ego could take it if I were only offered $2 + food vouchers + parking rebates. Men and their fragile egos.
"When I was studying in Russia," he said, "I was headhunted by this medical firm which offered to buy my sperm."
I tell you, the whole room fell quiet. You could literally hear all the males just opening their eyes in surprise as the possibilities coagulated. No pun intended.
"How much were they going to pay you?" asked the Professor.
"Well... give or take $200 USD per shot."
"And did you sell it?"
"All I can say is that I'm paying my school fees here on my own!" came the reply.
(Tsk, these lazy people. If I were him I would have my own limo, my own yacht, and a whole new wing of the school named after me, by now. And also a severe case of dehydration.)
Look, I'm Singaporean and I have no idea how they do things in Russia but $200 USD per shot is just nuts, no pun intended. Granted, it's a lot of cash, but can you imagine having kids somewhere out there whom you don't even know about?
So it's goodbye, PSP, I'll earn you the hard way. Pun intended.
Besides, I doubt my ego could take it if I were only offered $2 + food vouchers + parking rebates. Men and their fragile egos.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Sobs
Fish.
I came across this today in school, and it made me sob. Hehe.
http://animalcrossingtragedy.ytmnd.com/
I blame the song too.
I came across this today in school, and it made me sob. Hehe.
http://animalcrossingtragedy.ytmnd.com/
I blame the song too.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The Secret To Happiness
We teeter in the air for a moment, and as the magic dust clears, we slowly flutter down on the softest sand I've ever felt. His arms, tightly wound around me, never once loosen.
We lean back, inextricably intertwined, with the sound of waves all about us. Even against the brisk seaside air, I am not left wanting for warmth.
He brushes my hair, runs his thin fingers through it. "Oh, Wendy," he dreamily sighs, "you have the most golden-spun hair... the most enchanting eyes... the most honeyed personality I've ever seen... don't leave me anytime soon..."
I immediately blush - oh, how defenseless is the maiden who's had her heart whisked away! "Stop it! You don't really mean that!" I bury my face deeper into his chest, and the slow tick-tock of his heartbeat somehow convinces me that he does.
"It's true! When I caught a glimpse of you telling those bedside stories last night, I knew I simply had to know your name! You were that that mesmerizing, my dear."
"You incorrigible stalker! You almost had me at you with a broom, the way you flew in through the window and promptly announced yourself as if everyone should know who you are!" I make as if to pinch him, but he laughs, mutters something about spunky British girls, and we fall back to a comfortable silence.
I've known him for only 16 hours, but already it feels like a lifetime. Of bliss.
"Tell me Peter", I sufficiently rouse myself to say, "how do you stay so happy here in Neverland?"
"Hmm," he says, "I guess you kinda have to live and let live? You just seize the moment, and just make sure you don't let things bog you down. That way, every day is a new one, and you will receive everything with the utmost enthusiasm!"
"But what about the bad things here in Neverland? Do they not get you down? I envy you. Sometimes it feels like I'm carrying the world around on my shoulders..."
He plants a kiss on my forehead, gives me a reassuring hug. "You're quite the worrywart, aren't you? Hmm... in truth I can't really recall any bad memories... I guess the good things like you chase the bad memories away, eh?" Again, that winning, charming smile of his!
The waves crash around us, and we slowly fall into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
************************************************************************************
I rub my eyes, and open them blearily to see Peter standing next to me. I reach out for him, and when he deftly avoids my hand a sudden chill grips my heart.
As I sit up, Peter places his hands on his hips, the same way he did when he introduced himself yesterday, chest all puffed out, disarming smile at its brightest.
"Welcome, stranger, to Neverland! My name is Peter Pan! And who might you be?"
And for some reason it occurs to me that he is not joking.
We lean back, inextricably intertwined, with the sound of waves all about us. Even against the brisk seaside air, I am not left wanting for warmth.
He brushes my hair, runs his thin fingers through it. "Oh, Wendy," he dreamily sighs, "you have the most golden-spun hair... the most enchanting eyes... the most honeyed personality I've ever seen... don't leave me anytime soon..."
I immediately blush - oh, how defenseless is the maiden who's had her heart whisked away! "Stop it! You don't really mean that!" I bury my face deeper into his chest, and the slow tick-tock of his heartbeat somehow convinces me that he does.
"It's true! When I caught a glimpse of you telling those bedside stories last night, I knew I simply had to know your name! You were that that mesmerizing, my dear."
"You incorrigible stalker! You almost had me at you with a broom, the way you flew in through the window and promptly announced yourself as if everyone should know who you are!" I make as if to pinch him, but he laughs, mutters something about spunky British girls, and we fall back to a comfortable silence.
I've known him for only 16 hours, but already it feels like a lifetime. Of bliss.
"Tell me Peter", I sufficiently rouse myself to say, "how do you stay so happy here in Neverland?"
"Hmm," he says, "I guess you kinda have to live and let live? You just seize the moment, and just make sure you don't let things bog you down. That way, every day is a new one, and you will receive everything with the utmost enthusiasm!"
"But what about the bad things here in Neverland? Do they not get you down? I envy you. Sometimes it feels like I'm carrying the world around on my shoulders..."
He plants a kiss on my forehead, gives me a reassuring hug. "You're quite the worrywart, aren't you? Hmm... in truth I can't really recall any bad memories... I guess the good things like you chase the bad memories away, eh?" Again, that winning, charming smile of his!
The waves crash around us, and we slowly fall into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
************************************************************************************
I rub my eyes, and open them blearily to see Peter standing next to me. I reach out for him, and when he deftly avoids my hand a sudden chill grips my heart.
As I sit up, Peter places his hands on his hips, the same way he did when he introduced himself yesterday, chest all puffed out, disarming smile at its brightest.
"Welcome, stranger, to Neverland! My name is Peter Pan! And who might you be?"
And for some reason it occurs to me that he is not joking.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Why Didn't I Do This Earlier
I think my little heart just exploded. Into tillions of little bits.
I just came back from the costume shops, and I've got my very first Halloween costume. I once swore that if ever I blogged about the shopping I did I would send my first son to ACS, but heck, I think I can bend the rules this time.
You see, tomorrow's Halloween. For the past few days, nay, years, whenever I saw people dressing up I quickly dismissed them as either having too much time or actively hiding from their girlfriends. Dressing up was for other people, and I was cool.
I was wrong!!
No, not about the cool part. But about the dressing up!
I've seen people dress up as the Super Mario Brothers, as Locks and Keys (go figure that one out), as all shapes and forms of the creepy ghoulies. And not once did my heart skip any beat in excitement.
That is, until I tried on my wig 5 minutes ago. With my cape. And my teeth. And my fake black fingernails. And that was when this strange excitement gripped me and throttled all the jadedness out of me!
(I've never used so many !!! in a single post before. Wow. But then this is the first time I've discovered my inner-Gothic. I mean, it's the first time I can have black nails without my mum freaking out and having the are-you-a-gay talk with me. Sheesh.)
I mean, seriously. I always wondered why the women in Transylvania don't just close their windows to keep the annoying bats out. But if all the vampires are as suave as the one that grunted back in the mirror a few minutes ago, freak, I'll swing my windows wide open and paint little landing strips for the vampire bats too.
Hee. Pictures soon when I go for the Halloween parties and parades in town!
P.S. Thank you to all of you who were concerned that I had somehow died or something in the last month. =)
I just came back from the costume shops, and I've got my very first Halloween costume. I once swore that if ever I blogged about the shopping I did I would send my first son to ACS, but heck, I think I can bend the rules this time.
You see, tomorrow's Halloween. For the past few days, nay, years, whenever I saw people dressing up I quickly dismissed them as either having too much time or actively hiding from their girlfriends. Dressing up was for other people, and I was cool.
I was wrong!!
No, not about the cool part. But about the dressing up!
I've seen people dress up as the Super Mario Brothers, as Locks and Keys (go figure that one out), as all shapes and forms of the creepy ghoulies. And not once did my heart skip any beat in excitement.
That is, until I tried on my wig 5 minutes ago. With my cape. And my teeth. And my fake black fingernails. And that was when this strange excitement gripped me and throttled all the jadedness out of me!
(I've never used so many !!! in a single post before. Wow. But then this is the first time I've discovered my inner-Gothic. I mean, it's the first time I can have black nails without my mum freaking out and having the are-you-a-gay talk with me. Sheesh.)
I mean, seriously. I always wondered why the women in Transylvania don't just close their windows to keep the annoying bats out. But if all the vampires are as suave as the one that grunted back in the mirror a few minutes ago, freak, I'll swing my windows wide open and paint little landing strips for the vampire bats too.
Hee. Pictures soon when I go for the Halloween parties and parades in town!
P.S. Thank you to all of you who were concerned that I had somehow died or something in the last month. =)
Monday, September 24, 2007
Ugly Duckling
When the Ugly Duckling reached maturity, and beautiful grace dripped from its every movement, the other Swans came and enticed it to join them.
"You belong with us!", they cooed all day. But the Ugly Duckling, with pitiful longing in his eyes, would avert his gaze and noiselessly shuffle back to the flock of ducks he had grown up with.
And oh! how the Ugly Duckling would dance! Across the moor where they lived, the Ugly Duckling often trailed a shimmering ribbon of white as he danced to please the ducks, hoping to earn a place amongst them.
And oh! how the Ugly Duckling would sing! The stillness of the air was frequently punctuated by the melodious exertions of the Ugly Duckling - every note as unique and mesmerizing as the first snowflake of winter, every note a humble plea to be accepted and cherished.
But still the Ugly Duckling lived on the fringes of the flock, and no duck went out of its way to make the Ugly Duckling feel welcome.
Early one morning, as the Ugly Duckling stirred fitfully in his sleep, searching for the answers he so desperately wanted, a hunter came upon the moor. This the Ugly Duckling noticed immediately.
"Wake up, wake up, flee while you can!" the Ugly Duckling hoarsely screeched, flapping his wings in agitation. But the ducks awoke too slowly, and as the hunter raised his rife and took aim at the ducks...
... the Ugly Duckling soared into the air a final time, his outspread form against the bleak morning sky becoming a tableaux of timeless beauty, the inspiration for a thousand poets... the perfect target.
The gunshot was the switch that flooded the moor with life.
As the Ugly Duckling lay crumpled upon the grass, the red taint spreading across its feathers, his gaze lingered upon the backs of the ducks scattering away. Hot tears of bitterness threatened to sully its pristine beak, but the Ugly Duckling fought them back, soothed as he was by the satisfaction of helping the ones he loved.
Being the epitome of serene beauty, the Ugly Duckling was also graceful in the way he accepted the realities of life.
"You belong with us!", they cooed all day. But the Ugly Duckling, with pitiful longing in his eyes, would avert his gaze and noiselessly shuffle back to the flock of ducks he had grown up with.
And oh! how the Ugly Duckling would dance! Across the moor where they lived, the Ugly Duckling often trailed a shimmering ribbon of white as he danced to please the ducks, hoping to earn a place amongst them.
And oh! how the Ugly Duckling would sing! The stillness of the air was frequently punctuated by the melodious exertions of the Ugly Duckling - every note as unique and mesmerizing as the first snowflake of winter, every note a humble plea to be accepted and cherished.
But still the Ugly Duckling lived on the fringes of the flock, and no duck went out of its way to make the Ugly Duckling feel welcome.
Early one morning, as the Ugly Duckling stirred fitfully in his sleep, searching for the answers he so desperately wanted, a hunter came upon the moor. This the Ugly Duckling noticed immediately.
"Wake up, wake up, flee while you can!" the Ugly Duckling hoarsely screeched, flapping his wings in agitation. But the ducks awoke too slowly, and as the hunter raised his rife and took aim at the ducks...
... the Ugly Duckling soared into the air a final time, his outspread form against the bleak morning sky becoming a tableaux of timeless beauty, the inspiration for a thousand poets... the perfect target.
The gunshot was the switch that flooded the moor with life.
As the Ugly Duckling lay crumpled upon the grass, the red taint spreading across its feathers, his gaze lingered upon the backs of the ducks scattering away. Hot tears of bitterness threatened to sully its pristine beak, but the Ugly Duckling fought them back, soothed as he was by the satisfaction of helping the ones he loved.
Being the epitome of serene beauty, the Ugly Duckling was also graceful in the way he accepted the realities of life.
Monday, September 17, 2007
White Lie
04 seconds before Karen hit the ground, Jerome materialized in a puff of white smoke.
His outstretched wings quickly, neatly folded up in 02 seconds, and he tucked them behind him as he gingerly sat on the ground next to her. Angels were fastidious beings.
14 seconds passed before Karen opened her eyes and groaned. Jerome knew it was 14 seconds exactly, because he was counting them under his breath, especially now that time was very, very precious.
"Hello Karen. My name is Jerome. I'm an angel, and I'm here in case you want to talk."
"An.. angel? Am I dead?"
"Nope. But you will die soon. I thought you should know that."
Karen coughed quite hard then, and couldn't form any more words until Jerome touched her throat lightly. A brief glow emanated from his finger, and the blood in her throat cleared sufficiently for her to talk again.
"Karen, it's important you understand quickly so you don't waste any time. I specialize in keeping company those unfortunate people who die in solitude, so that their passing from this world to the next is made a littler easier. Capiche?"
Karen nodded, closed her eyes and started sobbing. Jerome grit his teeth, and inwardly swore (even angels do!) at the rules that forbade him from interfering with her pain. But a suspicion lingered that the hurt afflicting Karen, wasn't exactly physical.
Through the sobs came Karen's voice, weaker by the second. "I spent my life on him, my entire life! My parents wanted me to give him up, said single mums rarely made it... but I did!"
"I know, it's something..."
"No! You don't understand... I had no friends, no one else in my world but him! I gave him everything! And I never asked for anything back, nothing at all..."
Jerome laid a cool hand on her fevered brow, and it brought a calming to her troubled heart. Her involuntary twitching lessened, and Karen struggled with her broken hands to brush away her tears. Jerome did it for her.
"Tell... me... Jerome. Will... he have a good life? Will that... wife of his... make him happy?"
A sardonic smile nested itself on Jerome's face. Ah, he thought. This is the legendary selflessness humans possess... selflessness even in the face of abandonment by one's own child. What a bittersweet thing to witness.
"Worry not, Karen. He'll come to his senses eventually, and he'll raise two children who'll love and respect him."
The lie burned Jerome's ears even as it unrolled from his tongue, but he would rather be damned than deny her a fleeting moment of peace after her years of toil. Heavens knew how many others, like Karen, needed it.
"That's... good... a pity that I wouldn't be around to..."
Jerome sat there for a while more, eating into the 86 hours, 04 minutes and 17 seconds that would pass before a jogger would come by this way and discover Karen's body.
His outstretched wings quickly, neatly folded up in 02 seconds, and he tucked them behind him as he gingerly sat on the ground next to her. Angels were fastidious beings.
14 seconds passed before Karen opened her eyes and groaned. Jerome knew it was 14 seconds exactly, because he was counting them under his breath, especially now that time was very, very precious.
"Hello Karen. My name is Jerome. I'm an angel, and I'm here in case you want to talk."
"An.. angel? Am I dead?"
"Nope. But you will die soon. I thought you should know that."
Karen coughed quite hard then, and couldn't form any more words until Jerome touched her throat lightly. A brief glow emanated from his finger, and the blood in her throat cleared sufficiently for her to talk again.
"Karen, it's important you understand quickly so you don't waste any time. I specialize in keeping company those unfortunate people who die in solitude, so that their passing from this world to the next is made a littler easier. Capiche?"
Karen nodded, closed her eyes and started sobbing. Jerome grit his teeth, and inwardly swore (even angels do!) at the rules that forbade him from interfering with her pain. But a suspicion lingered that the hurt afflicting Karen, wasn't exactly physical.
Through the sobs came Karen's voice, weaker by the second. "I spent my life on him, my entire life! My parents wanted me to give him up, said single mums rarely made it... but I did!"
"I know, it's something..."
"No! You don't understand... I had no friends, no one else in my world but him! I gave him everything! And I never asked for anything back, nothing at all..."
Jerome laid a cool hand on her fevered brow, and it brought a calming to her troubled heart. Her involuntary twitching lessened, and Karen struggled with her broken hands to brush away her tears. Jerome did it for her.
"Tell... me... Jerome. Will... he have a good life? Will that... wife of his... make him happy?"
A sardonic smile nested itself on Jerome's face. Ah, he thought. This is the legendary selflessness humans possess... selflessness even in the face of abandonment by one's own child. What a bittersweet thing to witness.
"Worry not, Karen. He'll come to his senses eventually, and he'll raise two children who'll love and respect him."
The lie burned Jerome's ears even as it unrolled from his tongue, but he would rather be damned than deny her a fleeting moment of peace after her years of toil. Heavens knew how many others, like Karen, needed it.
"That's... good... a pity that I wouldn't be around to..."
Jerome sat there for a while more, eating into the 86 hours, 04 minutes and 17 seconds that would pass before a jogger would come by this way and discover Karen's body.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Not Entirely Broken
School bells rang.
Edna looked up from the wares arranged nearly in front of her. She didn't need to look twice to know that these boys, this specific group jauntily strolling out of the school gates, would be trouble.
They were the upper-years, a gang of boys who had long ago discovered an almost refined palate for cruelty to those too weak to fight back. It seemed as if no school anywhere, nay, no society anywhere was complete without them.
"Hey guys, look! Edna's back! Let's see what she has for sale today!" Hoots of laughter rose from the group as they rushed over to the humble two-by-four groundsheet on the sidewalk that comprised the entirety of Edna's enterprise.
Edna positively looked like an oasis of calm next to the jackals that had descended upon her store. The boys scrambled over each other as they rushed to manhandle the little toys that lay on the groundsheet, competing to see whose wit was sharpest in ridiculing the toys.
"Guys, look at this one! Is it just me or is this doll a leftover from Halloween?"
"That's nothing next to this set of tin soldiers! Any kids who suffers this would be better off under Welfare!"
Soon, when even their diseased little minds ran out of insults for the toys, the boys moved on to their next target.
"You're old and ghastly! Why don't you get someone younger and prettier to sell your toys!"
"No one wants your toys! Who wants useless broken junk? Go home Edna!"
"Oh, sorry I forgot! You have no home to go back to, right? Who would want you!"
But not one word left Edna's lips. She simply kept her eyes downcast and waited for their store of delinquent energy to wear itself out, as it always did. Mercifully, they soon tired of Edna the way they tired of the toys that wouldn't fight back, and they cackled as they left the battlefield triumphant.
Once they turned their backs, however, Edna sprang to life. As quickly as she could, she rearranged the toys neatly, and straightened out the groundsheet. Moments after she was done...
... school bells rang again, and this time it was the lower-years who were released from school.
As they spilled out from the school gates, they made a bee-line for Edna and her wares. They crowded around her store, transfixed as they always have been at the worlds Edna brought to them.
One little girl, drawn to a petite pinwheel, cautiously picked it up and admired it. As the colourful silver-foil wheels turned in the afternoon breeze, the little girl couldn't help but smile.
And it was then that Edna received her first payment of the day.
Edna looked up from the wares arranged nearly in front of her. She didn't need to look twice to know that these boys, this specific group jauntily strolling out of the school gates, would be trouble.
They were the upper-years, a gang of boys who had long ago discovered an almost refined palate for cruelty to those too weak to fight back. It seemed as if no school anywhere, nay, no society anywhere was complete without them.
"Hey guys, look! Edna's back! Let's see what she has for sale today!" Hoots of laughter rose from the group as they rushed over to the humble two-by-four groundsheet on the sidewalk that comprised the entirety of Edna's enterprise.
Edna positively looked like an oasis of calm next to the jackals that had descended upon her store. The boys scrambled over each other as they rushed to manhandle the little toys that lay on the groundsheet, competing to see whose wit was sharpest in ridiculing the toys.
"Guys, look at this one! Is it just me or is this doll a leftover from Halloween?"
"That's nothing next to this set of tin soldiers! Any kids who suffers this would be better off under Welfare!"
Soon, when even their diseased little minds ran out of insults for the toys, the boys moved on to their next target.
"You're old and ghastly! Why don't you get someone younger and prettier to sell your toys!"
"No one wants your toys! Who wants useless broken junk? Go home Edna!"
"Oh, sorry I forgot! You have no home to go back to, right? Who would want you!"
But not one word left Edna's lips. She simply kept her eyes downcast and waited for their store of delinquent energy to wear itself out, as it always did. Mercifully, they soon tired of Edna the way they tired of the toys that wouldn't fight back, and they cackled as they left the battlefield triumphant.
Once they turned their backs, however, Edna sprang to life. As quickly as she could, she rearranged the toys neatly, and straightened out the groundsheet. Moments after she was done...
... school bells rang again, and this time it was the lower-years who were released from school.
As they spilled out from the school gates, they made a bee-line for Edna and her wares. They crowded around her store, transfixed as they always have been at the worlds Edna brought to them.
One little girl, drawn to a petite pinwheel, cautiously picked it up and admired it. As the colourful silver-foil wheels turned in the afternoon breeze, the little girl couldn't help but smile.
And it was then that Edna received her first payment of the day.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Rapunzel
Rapunzel waited by her window until the first prince came along.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for she had been waiting her whole life to be rescued. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, as she slept, he took down her Magic Mirror, her Magic Apple, her Magic Brush, packed it all into a bag and crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by her window until the second prince came along.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for she was also taught that trust is the road to love. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, as she slept, he lay with her against her wishes, and took her dignity and pride. When he was done, he crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was very important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by her window until the third prince came along.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for now more than ever did she need to be rescued. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, he shared his deepest fears and insecurities about the world, and soon his words poisoned her little heart. After his cynical views had taken her idealism and hope, he crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was most important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by the window again, but for what she no longer knew.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for she had been waiting her whole life to be rescued. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, as she slept, he took down her Magic Mirror, her Magic Apple, her Magic Brush, packed it all into a bag and crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by her window until the second prince came along.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for she was also taught that trust is the road to love. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, as she slept, he lay with her against her wishes, and took her dignity and pride. When he was done, he crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was very important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by her window until the third prince came along.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for now more than ever did she need to be rescued. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, he shared his deepest fears and insecurities about the world, and soon his words poisoned her little heart. After his cynical views had taken her idealism and hope, he crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was most important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by the window again, but for what she no longer knew.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
To Fly Away
I spot her on a leaf a whole branch away, and right then I know that it's got to be her.
By the time I inch my way over, the Sun is beating a hasty exit over the horizon, urged on by a revitalized Moon hungry for the centrestage. I'm panting and my legs are all sweaty, but somehow I manage to force the words out.
"Please, be with me. I need you."
She turns to look at me, blank-faced for a moment, then the import of the words hit home. She swallows her mouthful of leaf hurriedly, but her shuffling feet betray her self-consciousness. Her voice is as sweet as I had imagined.
"You know how difficult it will be in the morning."
"I do, but that's a problem for tomorrow."
"You don't understand. Parting will hurt. We'll be different for each other then, completely diff..."
"If I tell you I don't care, will you set free your worries too?" I smile as reassuringly as I can.
She hesitates for a while more, but I know her heart is mine. Noiselessly, we shuffle towards each other, and the feel of her warm skin on mine electrifies me.
Our leaf shook in the wind, threatening to dislodge us both, but for the moment nothing could remove me from the perfect world we were sharing... we were swimming in a pool of liquefied bliss.
Sunlight rends apart my peaceful sleep, and I awaken to see her perched on the edge of the leaf, ready to take flight. And sure enough, she is different.
"Goodbye, and fare you well," she says, in a smooth, steely voice devoid of the warmth I craved so much to hear again.
A magnificent flap of the wings, and she was gone.
I sit alone on the leaf, watching the spot she occupied just moments ago. I bask in the memories of yesterday, but soon shrug them off.
Another magnificent flap of the wings, and gone too am I.
By the time I inch my way over, the Sun is beating a hasty exit over the horizon, urged on by a revitalized Moon hungry for the centrestage. I'm panting and my legs are all sweaty, but somehow I manage to force the words out.
"Please, be with me. I need you."
She turns to look at me, blank-faced for a moment, then the import of the words hit home. She swallows her mouthful of leaf hurriedly, but her shuffling feet betray her self-consciousness. Her voice is as sweet as I had imagined.
"You know how difficult it will be in the morning."
"I do, but that's a problem for tomorrow."
"You don't understand. Parting will hurt. We'll be different for each other then, completely diff..."
"If I tell you I don't care, will you set free your worries too?" I smile as reassuringly as I can.
She hesitates for a while more, but I know her heart is mine. Noiselessly, we shuffle towards each other, and the feel of her warm skin on mine electrifies me.
Our leaf shook in the wind, threatening to dislodge us both, but for the moment nothing could remove me from the perfect world we were sharing... we were swimming in a pool of liquefied bliss.
***
Sunlight rends apart my peaceful sleep, and I awaken to see her perched on the edge of the leaf, ready to take flight. And sure enough, she is different.
"Goodbye, and fare you well," she says, in a smooth, steely voice devoid of the warmth I craved so much to hear again.
A magnificent flap of the wings, and she was gone.
I sit alone on the leaf, watching the spot she occupied just moments ago. I bask in the memories of yesterday, but soon shrug them off.
Another magnificent flap of the wings, and gone too am I.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Green Thumb
Love, is like a plant.
You nurture it daily, with nutrients that it hungers for. Eventually, depending on the effort that you've put into it, it blooms, blossoms, bears fruit.
People don't dwell much upon it, but Hate, the twin that lurks in Love's shadow, is also like a plant.
You also have to nurture it daily, lest it withers away. Again, eventually, depending on the effort invested, it bears fruit too. The best cared-for plants yield the most succulent of fruits.
I've been thinking about it a lot, especially after Spiderman forgave the Sandman in his recent movie outing. It made a lot of sense then - why labor daily to feed venom (hurhur no pun intended) to this gnarly twisted plant that is Hate, when its fruits are bitter and vile?
Therefore, logically, there seems to be no reason for us to Hate anything. For Hate corrupts us, burdening us with its endless echoes of anger, chaining us to a past we do not need.
Alas, alas, nothing is as simple as it is in the movies. For while much romantic ink has been spilt to chronicle the wonders of the fruits of love, not a lot has been devoted to the fruits of Hate. Harry Potter, for example, continually espouses Love as the one defining mark of humanity.
But you may one day discover that the fruits of Hate are useful in their own way. For every single inedible blackened apple on my desk serves as a reminder of a painful lesson learnt, so that I need not convert my living quarters into a greenhouse.
Lucky Spiderman.
You nurture it daily, with nutrients that it hungers for. Eventually, depending on the effort that you've put into it, it blooms, blossoms, bears fruit.
People don't dwell much upon it, but Hate, the twin that lurks in Love's shadow, is also like a plant.
You also have to nurture it daily, lest it withers away. Again, eventually, depending on the effort invested, it bears fruit too. The best cared-for plants yield the most succulent of fruits.
I've been thinking about it a lot, especially after Spiderman forgave the Sandman in his recent movie outing. It made a lot of sense then - why labor daily to feed venom (hurhur no pun intended) to this gnarly twisted plant that is Hate, when its fruits are bitter and vile?
Therefore, logically, there seems to be no reason for us to Hate anything. For Hate corrupts us, burdening us with its endless echoes of anger, chaining us to a past we do not need.
Alas, alas, nothing is as simple as it is in the movies. For while much romantic ink has been spilt to chronicle the wonders of the fruits of love, not a lot has been devoted to the fruits of Hate. Harry Potter, for example, continually espouses Love as the one defining mark of humanity.
But you may one day discover that the fruits of Hate are useful in their own way. For every single inedible blackened apple on my desk serves as a reminder of a painful lesson learnt, so that I need not convert my living quarters into a greenhouse.
Lucky Spiderman.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The Brotherhood
It is incredibly, exquisitely difficult for boyfriends to learn to be good shopping companions. Girls, please do recognize the efforts your men put in.
To appreciate us fully, first understand that men are fundamentally different from you females when it comes to shopping. We shop like homing missiles – if our shopping trip were a movie, the tagline would read “One Man. One Item. One Hour.”
As such, we shop without distractions. We walk down Orchard Road seeing only the path ahead, only vaguely aware of people buying other things in other shops, in much the same way that career-obsessed fathers are only vaguely aware of small people growing up in the same house.
In fact, if we don’t need anything from a shop, we can walk by it a thousand times without registering its existence. Don’t believe me? Try asking your male friends to meet you at Dorothy Perkins or Miss Selfridge. Chances are, they’ll be too proud to ask for directions, and will simply wander around helplessly until they find it.
Thus, every boyfriend who has learned to be a good shopping companion, I hail as a hero. Beneath their calm exteriors lie courageous hearts, tempered by the fiery, hellish flames of Girlfriend Wrath. In fact, observe carefully enough and you’ll even discern the four hallmarks that distinguish the veterans from the rookies.
First, Imagination. You gauge this by how long the male takes to react, when the female holds out a dress and asks, “How would this look on me?” The amateurs just can’t picture it, but the veterans have a full-fledged Photoshop Studio mentally running 24/7. In 5 seconds the new dress is scanned in and overlaid over the mental Girlfriend Mannequin.
It’s not surprising when you think of it as an evolutionary reaction. “I can’t imagine you in that dress, you better go try it out” means a 15 minute trip to the dressing room, so the male human brain soon forces itself to develop Imaginative faculties. That way, the male can reply with “Ah yes you look wonderful in it”, which lengthens the male’s life by 15 minutes.
This leads us to the second hallmark, Feedback. First-time boyfriends are often accused of having a terribly limited vocabulary, which usually revolve around variants of "Nice" or "Pretty". Before long they are additionally accused of insincerity, or of simply not caring.
That's where the misconception lies. Men are muscle-bound, but that doesn't mean they don't have emotions. They do have opinions about your shopping, but usually it is only the veterans who know how to better express themselves. Not only do they give feedback, but they also know when to reassure, console, reproach, all with heart-felt sincerity.
Third, Integration With Traffic. Put it this way: walk into Mango, and any male who sticks out like a sore thumb is the amateur. He's the one standing uneasily outside the dressing room, the one awkwardly apologizing and making way for people to pass by. He probably blends in as well as a well-built man in a library. Wearing a pink tutu. With two heads.
The veterans, in contrast, are like ninjas or Traffic Policemen - you can't see them until it's too late. They know how the qi in a shop flows, and position themselves such that they are one with the environment, blending in so perfectly they become accessories to their girlfriends. Blink and you’ll even think they were shopping for themselves.
Fourth, Quality of Company. Let's face it. As men it's hard to always stay interested in shopping. You're perpetually looking at clothes you will never wear, at bags you will never use, at shoes you will never slip into. There's just no way to fake that squeal of delight when you see a dress that is perfect... for someone else.
That's why amateurs exude an air of unease, impatience after a while. The novelty has worn off, and shopping quickly becomes a chore for them. Some men perpetuate this behaviour because girls sometimes give in once they sense that their men are restless, but this is a short term solution.
As nonsensical as it sounds, shopping with your girlfriend, isn't just about shopping. Shopping's the activity, much like a movie or windsurfing or rockclimbing. The focus should be on enjoying yourself, and your girlfriend's company. The veterans use this time to share stories, exchange gossip, connect... you'll be surprised at how much fun couples can have shopping.
Well, the next time you’re out in Orchard, watch out for and observe the secret Brotherhood. These men, with varying ranks in the Order, are everywhere. They may trail behind their girlfriends, or stand next to them as dresses are selected. They may stand guard outside dressing rooms, or rush to pay for the shopping.
But wherever they are, these men pass each other with a surreptitious nod, a silent acknowledgement of the Brotherhood, the thread that binds them all. The stronger ones continually egg the flagging ones on, in an endless cycle as timeless as shopping itself.
Forward the Brotherhood!
To appreciate us fully, first understand that men are fundamentally different from you females when it comes to shopping. We shop like homing missiles – if our shopping trip were a movie, the tagline would read “One Man. One Item. One Hour.”
As such, we shop without distractions. We walk down Orchard Road seeing only the path ahead, only vaguely aware of people buying other things in other shops, in much the same way that career-obsessed fathers are only vaguely aware of small people growing up in the same house.
In fact, if we don’t need anything from a shop, we can walk by it a thousand times without registering its existence. Don’t believe me? Try asking your male friends to meet you at Dorothy Perkins or Miss Selfridge. Chances are, they’ll be too proud to ask for directions, and will simply wander around helplessly until they find it.
Thus, every boyfriend who has learned to be a good shopping companion, I hail as a hero. Beneath their calm exteriors lie courageous hearts, tempered by the fiery, hellish flames of Girlfriend Wrath. In fact, observe carefully enough and you’ll even discern the four hallmarks that distinguish the veterans from the rookies.
First, Imagination. You gauge this by how long the male takes to react, when the female holds out a dress and asks, “How would this look on me?” The amateurs just can’t picture it, but the veterans have a full-fledged Photoshop Studio mentally running 24/7. In 5 seconds the new dress is scanned in and overlaid over the mental Girlfriend Mannequin.
It’s not surprising when you think of it as an evolutionary reaction. “I can’t imagine you in that dress, you better go try it out” means a 15 minute trip to the dressing room, so the male human brain soon forces itself to develop Imaginative faculties. That way, the male can reply with “Ah yes you look wonderful in it”, which lengthens the male’s life by 15 minutes.
This leads us to the second hallmark, Feedback. First-time boyfriends are often accused of having a terribly limited vocabulary, which usually revolve around variants of "Nice" or "Pretty". Before long they are additionally accused of insincerity, or of simply not caring.
That's where the misconception lies. Men are muscle-bound, but that doesn't mean they don't have emotions. They do have opinions about your shopping, but usually it is only the veterans who know how to better express themselves. Not only do they give feedback, but they also know when to reassure, console, reproach, all with heart-felt sincerity.
Third, Integration With Traffic. Put it this way: walk into Mango, and any male who sticks out like a sore thumb is the amateur. He's the one standing uneasily outside the dressing room, the one awkwardly apologizing and making way for people to pass by. He probably blends in as well as a well-built man in a library. Wearing a pink tutu. With two heads.
The veterans, in contrast, are like ninjas or Traffic Policemen - you can't see them until it's too late. They know how the qi in a shop flows, and position themselves such that they are one with the environment, blending in so perfectly they become accessories to their girlfriends. Blink and you’ll even think they were shopping for themselves.
Fourth, Quality of Company. Let's face it. As men it's hard to always stay interested in shopping. You're perpetually looking at clothes you will never wear, at bags you will never use, at shoes you will never slip into. There's just no way to fake that squeal of delight when you see a dress that is perfect... for someone else.
That's why amateurs exude an air of unease, impatience after a while. The novelty has worn off, and shopping quickly becomes a chore for them. Some men perpetuate this behaviour because girls sometimes give in once they sense that their men are restless, but this is a short term solution.
As nonsensical as it sounds, shopping with your girlfriend, isn't just about shopping. Shopping's the activity, much like a movie or windsurfing or rockclimbing. The focus should be on enjoying yourself, and your girlfriend's company. The veterans use this time to share stories, exchange gossip, connect... you'll be surprised at how much fun couples can have shopping.
Well, the next time you’re out in Orchard, watch out for and observe the secret Brotherhood. These men, with varying ranks in the Order, are everywhere. They may trail behind their girlfriends, or stand next to them as dresses are selected. They may stand guard outside dressing rooms, or rush to pay for the shopping.
But wherever they are, these men pass each other with a surreptitious nod, a silent acknowledgement of the Brotherhood, the thread that binds them all. The stronger ones continually egg the flagging ones on, in an endless cycle as timeless as shopping itself.
Forward the Brotherhood!
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Conflict Resolution
I used to believe in Hong Kong dramas. I no longer do.
Goodness knows how many lives I've lived vicariously through them. I would be an ordinary schoolboy during the day, facing down challenges that even at their largest, would amount to no more than school exams or squabbles between friends.
But come the evenings, once at 7 pm and again at 9 pm, all that would change.
I would be a suave one-armed swordsman, brushing off a dozen doting lasses while waiting years for that one chick who’s my teacher, older than me and has issues with open communication. Or a struggling firefighter, or a doctor with a heart of gold, or a professional gambler. The list goes on.
And after absorbing years of life experience through that artificial sped-up process, I thought I knew all there was to know about inter-personal relationships. In particular, about how arguments between couples could be resolved.
As it turns out, nothing I learned from the dramas could prepare me for real life. The dramas only made things worse. Take, for instance, how I tried to apply a Hong Kong Drama Lesson (HKDL) when I got into a flaming argument with an ex.
At that point, she was a seething, raging beast, a veritable PMS-ing Medusa on a bad hair day who’d just missed a Mango sale. My instincts said ‘Run’, but I swallowed and kept the faith. After all, in almost 95% of the dramas I watched, there was one magic way to defuse her.
So I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and hugged her.
If the dramas were to be believed, she would struggle at first, but after 10 seconds she would calm down and cry in my embrace, and we would be fine again. Well, here’s a little mental log I kept of that 10 seconds.
2 Seconds – ‘Pain. I think she’s trying to wear out her nails on my back. Shall persevere.’
4 Seconds – ‘More Pain. I smell copper in the air, must be me bleeding. Cannot give up now.’
6 Seconds – ‘She’s screaming something into my ear, but I can’t really hear what on account of the Pain. It sounds like a swear word.’
8 Seconds – ‘Anytime now! She will melt, then tend lovingly to my wounds, which I plan to shrug off as Painless. I may have to lie.’
10 Seconds – ‘Just got Kneed In The Groin. Have. To. Give. Up. Now.’
Hours later, still curled up on the floor, I conducted a post mortem to figure out what went wrong. I narrowed it down to two possibilities – either the HKDL was fundamentally flawed, or I wasn’t being affectionate enough.
Hence, the next time she got mad again, I tried kissing her. It was only after I got most of my upper lip reattached that I grudgingly conceded that maybe the HKDL was the erroneous factor.
But that didn’t stop me. One flawed HKDL didn’t mean the rest were inapplicable, right?
For example, another HKDL dictates that when female friends storm off, you must engage in pursuit, with no regards to her requests for cool-off time / space. After all, in over 95% of dramas, men who failed to give chase would suffer loss of said female friend, or would later endure hours of nagging from random supporting characters.
Or the other HKDL, where women can take up to 40 episodes to dump the bastard boyfriend, but can get tired of their ‘boring’ nice boyfriends in less than 4 episodes? The conclusion, I thought, is that you must treat your girlfriends badly every once in a while.
Well, let’s just say that after a while, I learnt that HKDLs as theories were fun to contemplate, but suicidal to implement, especially with my history of rather violent female friends. (You know, the kind who savage you after losing at board games… and not the pleasant sort of savage, either.)
The upside to all this is that I soon accumulated a list of things not to do when trying to resolve an argument.
1. Don’t go to bed angry.
2. Don’t be sarcastic / hurtful / spiteful.
3. Don’t drag up old mistakes from years ago.
4. Don’t confuse issues, instead resolve them individually.
5. Persevere, but don’t force things.
These days I amuse myself by observing how couples resolve their quarrels, and I find that the ones who are happiest in the long-run are those who never bury problems. These couples may even bicker on a regular basis, but you’ll be surprised at how strong they can be.
Nobody likes confrontations, but at the very least, couples should always feel comfortable enough with each other to confront even the trickiest of issues.
Farewell then, my HKDL-reliant days. I guess there are some things we really cannot learn from TV.
Goodness knows how many lives I've lived vicariously through them. I would be an ordinary schoolboy during the day, facing down challenges that even at their largest, would amount to no more than school exams or squabbles between friends.
But come the evenings, once at 7 pm and again at 9 pm, all that would change.
I would be a suave one-armed swordsman, brushing off a dozen doting lasses while waiting years for that one chick who’s my teacher, older than me and has issues with open communication. Or a struggling firefighter, or a doctor with a heart of gold, or a professional gambler. The list goes on.
And after absorbing years of life experience through that artificial sped-up process, I thought I knew all there was to know about inter-personal relationships. In particular, about how arguments between couples could be resolved.
As it turns out, nothing I learned from the dramas could prepare me for real life. The dramas only made things worse. Take, for instance, how I tried to apply a Hong Kong Drama Lesson (HKDL) when I got into a flaming argument with an ex.
At that point, she was a seething, raging beast, a veritable PMS-ing Medusa on a bad hair day who’d just missed a Mango sale. My instincts said ‘Run’, but I swallowed and kept the faith. After all, in almost 95% of the dramas I watched, there was one magic way to defuse her.
So I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and hugged her.
If the dramas were to be believed, she would struggle at first, but after 10 seconds she would calm down and cry in my embrace, and we would be fine again. Well, here’s a little mental log I kept of that 10 seconds.
2 Seconds – ‘Pain. I think she’s trying to wear out her nails on my back. Shall persevere.’
4 Seconds – ‘More Pain. I smell copper in the air, must be me bleeding. Cannot give up now.’
6 Seconds – ‘She’s screaming something into my ear, but I can’t really hear what on account of the Pain. It sounds like a swear word.’
8 Seconds – ‘Anytime now! She will melt, then tend lovingly to my wounds, which I plan to shrug off as Painless. I may have to lie.’
10 Seconds – ‘Just got Kneed In The Groin. Have. To. Give. Up. Now.’
Hours later, still curled up on the floor, I conducted a post mortem to figure out what went wrong. I narrowed it down to two possibilities – either the HKDL was fundamentally flawed, or I wasn’t being affectionate enough.
Hence, the next time she got mad again, I tried kissing her. It was only after I got most of my upper lip reattached that I grudgingly conceded that maybe the HKDL was the erroneous factor.
But that didn’t stop me. One flawed HKDL didn’t mean the rest were inapplicable, right?
For example, another HKDL dictates that when female friends storm off, you must engage in pursuit, with no regards to her requests for cool-off time / space. After all, in over 95% of dramas, men who failed to give chase would suffer loss of said female friend, or would later endure hours of nagging from random supporting characters.
Or the other HKDL, where women can take up to 40 episodes to dump the bastard boyfriend, but can get tired of their ‘boring’ nice boyfriends in less than 4 episodes? The conclusion, I thought, is that you must treat your girlfriends badly every once in a while.
Well, let’s just say that after a while, I learnt that HKDLs as theories were fun to contemplate, but suicidal to implement, especially with my history of rather violent female friends. (You know, the kind who savage you after losing at board games… and not the pleasant sort of savage, either.)
The upside to all this is that I soon accumulated a list of things not to do when trying to resolve an argument.
1. Don’t go to bed angry.
2. Don’t be sarcastic / hurtful / spiteful.
3. Don’t drag up old mistakes from years ago.
4. Don’t confuse issues, instead resolve them individually.
5. Persevere, but don’t force things.
These days I amuse myself by observing how couples resolve their quarrels, and I find that the ones who are happiest in the long-run are those who never bury problems. These couples may even bicker on a regular basis, but you’ll be surprised at how strong they can be.
Nobody likes confrontations, but at the very least, couples should always feel comfortable enough with each other to confront even the trickiest of issues.
Farewell then, my HKDL-reliant days. I guess there are some things we really cannot learn from TV.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Effort
There's just something about Scrubs I like very much. Yes, it's old and passe, but still.
I think it's the way they manage to squeeze cheesy life lessons into the plots, with the effect that after watching enough of it, you definitely would come across an episode that reaches out and hammers a specific lesson home.
Tonight, it's the lesson that "Nothing that's ever worth having comes easily", delivered by Dr Bob Kelso of all people.
Yeap, it's probably just more hogwash to you. It's just "Easy come easy go" reworded, you protest, it's nothing much.
But sometimes it's the obvious things we overlook, and sometimes we are reminded of them in the queerest of ways.
I think it's the way they manage to squeeze cheesy life lessons into the plots, with the effect that after watching enough of it, you definitely would come across an episode that reaches out and hammers a specific lesson home.
Tonight, it's the lesson that "Nothing that's ever worth having comes easily", delivered by Dr Bob Kelso of all people.
Yeap, it's probably just more hogwash to you. It's just "Easy come easy go" reworded, you protest, it's nothing much.
But sometimes it's the obvious things we overlook, and sometimes we are reminded of them in the queerest of ways.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
And A Good Evening To You Too
Your eyes. That look in your eyes.
I had wondered what would stare back at me, when I finally had the chance of looking you in the eyes again. I expected a look of haughtiness, of derision, of crystal confidence, as you sneer at me from the towers of your high castle.
After all, wasn't I the sullied one, the flawed one, the one fallen from grace? The one who had strayed from the path all honourable men take? The one not deserving of a second chance?
But I didn't see any of that. I only saw apprehension. The words of greeting you issued may have left your lips without a single stammer, but your eyes said it all.
Your eyes said, I can no longer bear the gauntlet of righteous anger. There is doubt.
The truth may never come to light. We may forever lack the necessary scales to weigh our relative culpability in this mad circus of events. But I look at what doubt there is that exists within you, and I chuckle at how this blight has afflicted us all.
No one is clean.
And it will do us all good to remember that, as we continue to endeavour for the restful sleep of the wilfully blind.
I had wondered what would stare back at me, when I finally had the chance of looking you in the eyes again. I expected a look of haughtiness, of derision, of crystal confidence, as you sneer at me from the towers of your high castle.
After all, wasn't I the sullied one, the flawed one, the one fallen from grace? The one who had strayed from the path all honourable men take? The one not deserving of a second chance?
But I didn't see any of that. I only saw apprehension. The words of greeting you issued may have left your lips without a single stammer, but your eyes said it all.
Your eyes said, I can no longer bear the gauntlet of righteous anger. There is doubt.
The truth may never come to light. We may forever lack the necessary scales to weigh our relative culpability in this mad circus of events. But I look at what doubt there is that exists within you, and I chuckle at how this blight has afflicted us all.
No one is clean.
And it will do us all good to remember that, as we continue to endeavour for the restful sleep of the wilfully blind.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Bad Boy Complex
He said it with the most solemn of faces. "I want to smoke," he said, "I want to wear bling. I want to treat her like dirt. I want to sulk in the corner and be Emoboy. I want to be baaad."
Heh. Helllooo, Bad Boy Complex (BBC). It's been a long time.
You’ve witnessed the BBC before, I’m sure? It's a curious affliction that most commonly descends upon poor broken-hearted boys. Overnight, they boldly strike out in wild new tangents, doing things they wouldn’t ever have dreamt of doing.
The assumption, of course, is that chicks dig the Bad Boys, preferring them to the ones who are too ä¹–.
Interestingly enough, observe enough BBC-sufferers, and you’ll find that they rebel in eerily similar ways. And if you’re a BBC-wannabe, and have no clue where to start, you’re in luck.
Welcome to Hanting’s BBC Guide For Good Boys.
Smoking
This is probably your first resort on your journey to being a Bad Boy, on account of smoking being relatively effortless to pick up. All you really need is money, a lot of breath mints, and a blatant disregard for gross pictures.
Now, we’re all aware of the health risks involved, so what’s an intelligent Bad Boy to do? Simple. The idea is to maximize every single stick. And to do this, you have to remember, it’s not about the smoking.
It’s about being seen smoking.
So, you need to practice at home. Find a wall you are comfortable leaning against, and try out various ways of holding your ciggy. I recommend the Lolling Two-Finger Grasp, where your ciggy is hanging precariously from your fingers.
And when you do smoke it, dreamily half-close your eyelids. Exhale slowly, and flick ash away in a devil-may-care way. Heck, you don’t even really need to smoke! Just light up, and gaze longingly at some faraway point.
When others ask why you’re letting the stick go to waste, reply with some cryptic nonsense, like “From the ashes we are all born, true?” or “They do deserve the pay rise, correct?” Then go back to your ciggy while they shower you with respect.
Bling
Now, bling’s a little harder. By ‘bling’ I mean clothes, accessories, piercings, the whole lot. Now, short of paying for a makeover, it is vital that you seek professional help from friends.
Because, seriously, if you’ve been a Good Boy all this while, you don’t know jack sh*t about bling. There is no way you will be able to pull it off on your own. Not only is it already hard to know how to accessorize fashionably, but you’re a guy too, and that makes it doubly hard.
So, be humble. Ask for help.
You see, the secret is this… the bling’s got to match you. You can’t just assume that what’s cool on 50 Cent looks good on you too. A good friend will most definitely tell you when you look cool, and when you look like the village idiot – after all, he’s going to have to worry about being seen in public with you.
Just never, ever ask for your mum’s input. Please. Just say no. Her perspective is skewed.
Do you want to be as attractive as your dad?
Tattoos
With tattoos we clearly enter hardcore BBC territory. For goodness’ sakes though, considering that for most people the BBC is but a stage in life, please get small tattoos. The era of the large, ostentatious tattoo is long over, unless you’re trying to escape from a prison facility, in which case it’s damn cool.
As you can expect, the tricky part is in the choice of the tattoo. Needless to say, “Mummy Power Forever”, anywhere, doesn’t cut it. Nor do random animals in various states of aggression. Cheeky ones don’t help too, you know, the kind that goes “If you can see this you’re a lucky woman” on your… nevermind.
Don’t forget, less can say more. Go for cryptic, tiny yet highly conspicuous tattoos. Things like “Blinded” on your eyelids, or “Empty” in a gothic font just above your heart.
So what does your tattoo say about you? It says that at one point, you were delirious or troubled enough to scar yourself with an indelible statement. It’s as intelligent as having a permanent nick for your MSN… you know you will lose the angst one day, yet you still want an everlasting mark of it.
And that, my brother, is what earns you your respect.
Summary
The pinnacle of the BBC lies not in any particular activity, but in the attitude you possess. The ideal you’re striving towards, is the caged tiger. At times you will be normal, sociable, functional, but at others you can be dark, conflicted, complex.
But most importantly, never BBC allll the way. You have to be redeemable, flawed but still whole enough to be saved. For some inexplicable reason, there are girls who believe they can change wounded Bad Boys for the better, and will slavishly gravitate towards them.
Maybe it’s Nature’s way of improving the overall quality of the human gene pool, by making Bad Boys attractive only to certain girls. If so, heck, it’s not working fast enough.
But, dear BBC-wannabe, I hope for your sake that your BBC phase passes soon. I maintain that guys who subscribe to the BBC lifestyle are motivated by a nagging notion that they are imperfect in some way, and that for some reason their relatively clean-cut lifestyle is the problem.
You know that’s not true.
Enjoy your BBC phase while it lasts. I’m pretty sure that when the clouds clear and the angst passes, you’ll find that you’re still most comfortable in your own skin.
(One day, I will write about the Good Boy Complex. Because, if you think about it, if good boys want to be bad after they undergo a breakup, wouldn’t Bad Boys want to be good?
Being a Good Boy is not that easy, and deserves a full guide of its own. If you're in dire need though, a good start would be petting a kitten everyday, saying “please excuse me” instead of “kn*bc*b blind ah f*x”, and not downloading any more albino infant elephant bondage porn.)
Heh. Helllooo, Bad Boy Complex (BBC). It's been a long time.
You’ve witnessed the BBC before, I’m sure? It's a curious affliction that most commonly descends upon poor broken-hearted boys. Overnight, they boldly strike out in wild new tangents, doing things they wouldn’t ever have dreamt of doing.
The assumption, of course, is that chicks dig the Bad Boys, preferring them to the ones who are too ä¹–.
Interestingly enough, observe enough BBC-sufferers, and you’ll find that they rebel in eerily similar ways. And if you’re a BBC-wannabe, and have no clue where to start, you’re in luck.
Welcome to Hanting’s BBC Guide For Good Boys.
Smoking
This is probably your first resort on your journey to being a Bad Boy, on account of smoking being relatively effortless to pick up. All you really need is money, a lot of breath mints, and a blatant disregard for gross pictures.
Now, we’re all aware of the health risks involved, so what’s an intelligent Bad Boy to do? Simple. The idea is to maximize every single stick. And to do this, you have to remember, it’s not about the smoking.
It’s about being seen smoking.
So, you need to practice at home. Find a wall you are comfortable leaning against, and try out various ways of holding your ciggy. I recommend the Lolling Two-Finger Grasp, where your ciggy is hanging precariously from your fingers.
And when you do smoke it, dreamily half-close your eyelids. Exhale slowly, and flick ash away in a devil-may-care way. Heck, you don’t even really need to smoke! Just light up, and gaze longingly at some faraway point.
When others ask why you’re letting the stick go to waste, reply with some cryptic nonsense, like “From the ashes we are all born, true?” or “They do deserve the pay rise, correct?” Then go back to your ciggy while they shower you with respect.
Bling
Now, bling’s a little harder. By ‘bling’ I mean clothes, accessories, piercings, the whole lot. Now, short of paying for a makeover, it is vital that you seek professional help from friends.
Because, seriously, if you’ve been a Good Boy all this while, you don’t know jack sh*t about bling. There is no way you will be able to pull it off on your own. Not only is it already hard to know how to accessorize fashionably, but you’re a guy too, and that makes it doubly hard.
So, be humble. Ask for help.
You see, the secret is this… the bling’s got to match you. You can’t just assume that what’s cool on 50 Cent looks good on you too. A good friend will most definitely tell you when you look cool, and when you look like the village idiot – after all, he’s going to have to worry about being seen in public with you.
Just never, ever ask for your mum’s input. Please. Just say no. Her perspective is skewed.
Do you want to be as attractive as your dad?
Tattoos
With tattoos we clearly enter hardcore BBC territory. For goodness’ sakes though, considering that for most people the BBC is but a stage in life, please get small tattoos. The era of the large, ostentatious tattoo is long over, unless you’re trying to escape from a prison facility, in which case it’s damn cool.
As you can expect, the tricky part is in the choice of the tattoo. Needless to say, “Mummy Power Forever”, anywhere, doesn’t cut it. Nor do random animals in various states of aggression. Cheeky ones don’t help too, you know, the kind that goes “If you can see this you’re a lucky woman” on your… nevermind.
Don’t forget, less can say more. Go for cryptic, tiny yet highly conspicuous tattoos. Things like “Blinded” on your eyelids, or “Empty” in a gothic font just above your heart.
So what does your tattoo say about you? It says that at one point, you were delirious or troubled enough to scar yourself with an indelible statement. It’s as intelligent as having a permanent nick for your MSN… you know you will lose the angst one day, yet you still want an everlasting mark of it.
And that, my brother, is what earns you your respect.
Summary
The pinnacle of the BBC lies not in any particular activity, but in the attitude you possess. The ideal you’re striving towards, is the caged tiger. At times you will be normal, sociable, functional, but at others you can be dark, conflicted, complex.
But most importantly, never BBC allll the way. You have to be redeemable, flawed but still whole enough to be saved. For some inexplicable reason, there are girls who believe they can change wounded Bad Boys for the better, and will slavishly gravitate towards them.
Maybe it’s Nature’s way of improving the overall quality of the human gene pool, by making Bad Boys attractive only to certain girls. If so, heck, it’s not working fast enough.
But, dear BBC-wannabe, I hope for your sake that your BBC phase passes soon. I maintain that guys who subscribe to the BBC lifestyle are motivated by a nagging notion that they are imperfect in some way, and that for some reason their relatively clean-cut lifestyle is the problem.
You know that’s not true.
Enjoy your BBC phase while it lasts. I’m pretty sure that when the clouds clear and the angst passes, you’ll find that you’re still most comfortable in your own skin.
(One day, I will write about the Good Boy Complex. Because, if you think about it, if good boys want to be bad after they undergo a breakup, wouldn’t Bad Boys want to be good?
Being a Good Boy is not that easy, and deserves a full guide of its own. If you're in dire need though, a good start would be petting a kitten everyday, saying “please excuse me” instead of “kn*bc*b blind ah f*x”, and not downloading any more albino infant elephant bondage porn.)
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Cryptic
I think the Era of the Unsophisticated Blog is well and truly over.
Just a few years back, blogs were backdoors into people's minds. Everyone splashed raw emotions candidly across their webpages, bouyed by the rush that full and frank disclosure brought. Blogs were public platforms that suddenly became accessible even to the layman, a rare commodity unleashed upon a hungry market.
All that changed as people gradually felt the ill-effects of putting their whole lives on the net. If you keep a blog, you would know what I mean. A myriad of things can happen... your pictures get pilfered and circulated, your posts cause misunderstandings, mere acquaintances start gaining access to your innermost thoughts and feelings.
That's why blogs are so different nowadays, at least amongst experienced users. Beyond the occasional objective record of an event, say a birthday party or a night out clubbing, it's really quite hard to figure out what any given blogger is really trying to say anymore.
Yes. It is with great satisfaction that I tell all of you, the ones who always accuse me of being overly cryptic, that you can hardly find a blog out there that's not cryptic anymore.
If you approach blog-reading the way you do literature, there are indeed tools available to enhance understanding. You need:
1. To know the blogger's background, especially of his recent history
2. To know his desired audience
3. To have read enough of his posts to recognize patterns and styles
Basically, no one has time to do any of that. So, in effect, I think the large majority of posts go misunderstood, and hardly ever achieve their desired effect.
This creates consequences:
1. You can't read into someone's posts with any degree of certainty anymore.
2. You can't weave hidden meanings and messages into your posts anymore, and hope that that special target audience will understand.
3. You must be very, very careful about what you write, lest it be taken out of context (I think my friend Tris will understand this, haha)
Don't be mistaken, I'm glad that blogs are unreliable channels of communication. Humans were never meant to interact this way. We're supposed to size each other up, observe the hundred and one tell-tale body language signals, then decide if someone is telling us the truth.
We're not supposed to hop on someone's blog and hope to uncover nuggets of feelings or intentions or motives neatly ensconced in a few cryptic references. That's really a recipe for disaster in most cases.
That being said... I like being cryptic. And drama, evidently. =)
Just a few years back, blogs were backdoors into people's minds. Everyone splashed raw emotions candidly across their webpages, bouyed by the rush that full and frank disclosure brought. Blogs were public platforms that suddenly became accessible even to the layman, a rare commodity unleashed upon a hungry market.
All that changed as people gradually felt the ill-effects of putting their whole lives on the net. If you keep a blog, you would know what I mean. A myriad of things can happen... your pictures get pilfered and circulated, your posts cause misunderstandings, mere acquaintances start gaining access to your innermost thoughts and feelings.
That's why blogs are so different nowadays, at least amongst experienced users. Beyond the occasional objective record of an event, say a birthday party or a night out clubbing, it's really quite hard to figure out what any given blogger is really trying to say anymore.
Yes. It is with great satisfaction that I tell all of you, the ones who always accuse me of being overly cryptic, that you can hardly find a blog out there that's not cryptic anymore.
If you approach blog-reading the way you do literature, there are indeed tools available to enhance understanding. You need:
1. To know the blogger's background, especially of his recent history
2. To know his desired audience
3. To have read enough of his posts to recognize patterns and styles
Basically, no one has time to do any of that. So, in effect, I think the large majority of posts go misunderstood, and hardly ever achieve their desired effect.
This creates consequences:
1. You can't read into someone's posts with any degree of certainty anymore.
2. You can't weave hidden meanings and messages into your posts anymore, and hope that that special target audience will understand.
3. You must be very, very careful about what you write, lest it be taken out of context (I think my friend Tris will understand this, haha)
Don't be mistaken, I'm glad that blogs are unreliable channels of communication. Humans were never meant to interact this way. We're supposed to size each other up, observe the hundred and one tell-tale body language signals, then decide if someone is telling us the truth.
We're not supposed to hop on someone's blog and hope to uncover nuggets of feelings or intentions or motives neatly ensconced in a few cryptic references. That's really a recipe for disaster in most cases.
That being said... I like being cryptic. And drama, evidently. =)
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Appreciation
The day is often a blender of events, emotions, happenings, feelings. Life speeds by so fast that I find myself only reacting, rushing to keep up with the pace.
Fortunately, it so happens that the night is perfect for reflection. For that's when the world, or most of it, goes to sleep, and things slow down just enough for me to think about things.
And I'm often surprised at how much perspectives change after a little reflection. Joyful moments lose a little shine when I suddenly spot considerations that weren't there before, while sombre segments become more palatable when I manage to identify silver linings.
Most days, like today, I sleep well too. For there is much to be thankful for, no matter how much it doesn't seem that way at first.
I'm thankful for friends who gleefully join me in burying time capsules in town, who give wake up calls so that I don't miss breakfast with them, who don't mind trekking halfway across the island for supper.
I'm thankful for the little miracles, like meeting supportive librarians who help you loan 40 books at a shot, or like inspiration flowing at the right time so that certain stories can be told they way they deserve, or like Havianas mysteriously snapping so that you have an opportunity to maybe further a friendship.
I'm thankful for discovering that a nature trail I was looking forward to was closed off, and yet having an enjoyable enough time that it didn't really matter.
Count your blessings often enough, and you'll find that there's not much to regret at all.
Fortunately, it so happens that the night is perfect for reflection. For that's when the world, or most of it, goes to sleep, and things slow down just enough for me to think about things.
And I'm often surprised at how much perspectives change after a little reflection. Joyful moments lose a little shine when I suddenly spot considerations that weren't there before, while sombre segments become more palatable when I manage to identify silver linings.
Most days, like today, I sleep well too. For there is much to be thankful for, no matter how much it doesn't seem that way at first.
I'm thankful for friends who gleefully join me in burying time capsules in town, who give wake up calls so that I don't miss breakfast with them, who don't mind trekking halfway across the island for supper.
I'm thankful for the little miracles, like meeting supportive librarians who help you loan 40 books at a shot, or like inspiration flowing at the right time so that certain stories can be told they way they deserve, or like Havianas mysteriously snapping so that you have an opportunity to maybe further a friendship.
I'm thankful for discovering that a nature trail I was looking forward to was closed off, and yet having an enjoyable enough time that it didn't really matter.
Count your blessings often enough, and you'll find that there's not much to regret at all.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Video On Design Process
This is a quick plug for one friend I've not had problems keeping in touch with over the years. =)
Dot's over at Stanford doing a course on Creating Infectious Action, Kindling Gregarious Behavior (which you can find more info about here), and her team has created a really interesting video on the design process.
Yes, the design process. The process by which elegant practicable solutions are found for the problems that crop up in everyday life.
So do take a look at it! I know I managed to gain some insight as to how one can logically identify problems and then develop counter-measures.
Dot's over at Stanford doing a course on Creating Infectious Action, Kindling Gregarious Behavior (which you can find more info about here), and her team has created a really interesting video on the design process.
Yes, the design process. The process by which elegant practicable solutions are found for the problems that crop up in everyday life.
So do take a look at it! I know I managed to gain some insight as to how one can logically identify problems and then develop counter-measures.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Mr. Snuffles
07
You squeal with delight when you first lay eyes on me, and I reciprocate by falling in love with you instantly.
How does one ever forget an image like that? Of you running up to me, laughing as you wrestle me away from your mother’s outstretched hands. You are a sight, a little girl of 7 struggling to hold me up, when I’m almost half your size.
You fuss over me, and I can’t help but preen myself as you heap endearments on me. You gush about how my tail is frizzy, how I’ve got the softest fur, how my button eyes are already speaking volumes to you.
I think it’s in the way you hold me. It’s in the way you laugh, a hearty, innocent laugh that fills the house with warmth. I can’t help it if you inspire trust in me so very easily.
I stay awake that first night, just to watch you sleep. Time just doesn’t seem to flow anymore, and the bedside clock has the courtesy and good manners to signal her ticks softer. By the moonlight you look so very, very perfect.
You can’t hear me, but I’m holding on to you with my paws and I’m promising you, over and over again, that I will always be there to soothe away your pains, to comfort and guide you as best I can.
I belong to you, already.
14
I sit in your lap contentedly, as you scribble furiously away in your diary. Your tears are still hot against my fur, but they do not bother me.
You hold me up to let me see what you have written. I can’t read, so you say it aloud for me. I’m telling you to stop, that apologies aren’t necessary, but you go on anyway (you’ve always been stubborn!).
I’m trying to say, I understand. I know you wanted to seem like a big girl in front of your friends, especially around the boy you have a crush on. So I understand that when they found me on your bed and asked who I was, you casually said I was just some soft toy, like I didn’t matter to you.
You start crying again, burying your face in my side. I know you have recorded this incident in your diary so that you will never forget how important I am to you, but you know why it’s not necessary?
It’s because you have spent these past 7 years by my side constantly. I’m your confidante, your closest friend. You have shared your deepest secrets with me, and have always felt renewed with the silent companionship I offer. You have given me more than I could ask for, and now it is my turn to do something for you.
If what you need is space, to grow closer to your other friends, take it. Do not feel guilty about it. Love is letting go too, yes? I’m glad enough to know I can always cheer you up, make you happy. So, shoo!
21
You pick me up, squeal my name, and hug me tight, for the first time in months. And that’s when I know today’s the day you make your choice.
You have been deconstructing your room lately, packing it all up into little brown boxes. Some boxes are shoved into your wardrobe, but others are adorned with bright air-mail stickers and moved into the hallway.
You’re about to leave for a study program overseas, and I wonder which kind of box I will end up in. I’ve tried to ask you gently for some time, but you don’t really talk to me anymore.
I hate to admit it, but I miss you holding me to sleep.
Twice this past year you have let me comfort you, once when you fell out with your parents, and another when you failed a class test. Twice this past year did I feel needed, wanted again.
And twice this past year did I feel ashamed of myself, for being so selfish. For I have seen what an alluring, confident, successful woman you have become, and I know that asking you to love me like you did years ago, would only hold you back.
I’m proud of the way you are handling most problems on your own now. I’m proud of the close friendships you have cultivated with others. I’m proud of the way you stand on your own two feet, independent, strong.
My heart still aches, sometimes, when I see that you really do need me less, but I understand. It is necessary. I’m just not what you need now.
You slip me into a box, and slowly tape up the opening. I know then that you won’t be bringing me with you, for the rest of the box is filled with an assortment of oddities you won’t be needing overseas.
You confirm my suspicions when you shift the box a short distance, and then close the wardrobe door. As the sounds of you packing continue to filter in, I slowly let go of the hope I’ve been nursing in the bowels of my heart, and it floats away like the morning mist.
35 / 07
The sunlight hurts my eyes, as the lid of the box is pried away. There's a strange male voice in the background, and he wants me thrown out.
You do not listen (you never did!), and instead you lift me out and hug me. You have aged, my angel. There's a certain gauntness to your face I did not think possible before. What storms have you weathered without me?
It's a warm, familiar hug, one that I've not felt in 14 years. I hug you back instinctively, with love I've bottled up for so long, and I regret it at once. It hurts the very second that you disengage just a little too hastily, because I know you no longer feel the same about me.
"Mummy! Who is he!" I turn to see a younger you on the bed, jumping in excitement. She has your eyes, your hair, and most importantly your warmth. Before you can react, she has grabbed me away from you.
She engulfs me in a hug, defiantly staring you down. You disapprove, saying that I’m unclean (I take umbrage at that!), but she doesn't seem to hear you (it runs in the family!). She demands that you let her keep me.
I hesitate.
My heart's in pieces as it is. Can I really go through all this again? Of caring for her, living a life with her, only to see her grow up and walk away, just like you did? You have no idea how painful it is, to love someone with all your being, and then to realize one day that your love is simply not wanted anymore.
That's when she kisses me.
Despite what the male voice says about my thinning fur and loose stitches, despite what you say about me being old and dusty, despite her knowing that there are a thousand other prettier companions out there, she has kissed me.
"I love you, Mr. Snuffles. Will you be mine?"
I hear those words, and something in me mends. I think it may just be possible… for me to love another again.
You squeal with delight when you first lay eyes on me, and I reciprocate by falling in love with you instantly.
How does one ever forget an image like that? Of you running up to me, laughing as you wrestle me away from your mother’s outstretched hands. You are a sight, a little girl of 7 struggling to hold me up, when I’m almost half your size.
You fuss over me, and I can’t help but preen myself as you heap endearments on me. You gush about how my tail is frizzy, how I’ve got the softest fur, how my button eyes are already speaking volumes to you.
I think it’s in the way you hold me. It’s in the way you laugh, a hearty, innocent laugh that fills the house with warmth. I can’t help it if you inspire trust in me so very easily.
I stay awake that first night, just to watch you sleep. Time just doesn’t seem to flow anymore, and the bedside clock has the courtesy and good manners to signal her ticks softer. By the moonlight you look so very, very perfect.
You can’t hear me, but I’m holding on to you with my paws and I’m promising you, over and over again, that I will always be there to soothe away your pains, to comfort and guide you as best I can.
I belong to you, already.
14
I sit in your lap contentedly, as you scribble furiously away in your diary. Your tears are still hot against my fur, but they do not bother me.
You hold me up to let me see what you have written. I can’t read, so you say it aloud for me. I’m telling you to stop, that apologies aren’t necessary, but you go on anyway (you’ve always been stubborn!).
I’m trying to say, I understand. I know you wanted to seem like a big girl in front of your friends, especially around the boy you have a crush on. So I understand that when they found me on your bed and asked who I was, you casually said I was just some soft toy, like I didn’t matter to you.
You start crying again, burying your face in my side. I know you have recorded this incident in your diary so that you will never forget how important I am to you, but you know why it’s not necessary?
It’s because you have spent these past 7 years by my side constantly. I’m your confidante, your closest friend. You have shared your deepest secrets with me, and have always felt renewed with the silent companionship I offer. You have given me more than I could ask for, and now it is my turn to do something for you.
If what you need is space, to grow closer to your other friends, take it. Do not feel guilty about it. Love is letting go too, yes? I’m glad enough to know I can always cheer you up, make you happy. So, shoo!
21
You pick me up, squeal my name, and hug me tight, for the first time in months. And that’s when I know today’s the day you make your choice.
You have been deconstructing your room lately, packing it all up into little brown boxes. Some boxes are shoved into your wardrobe, but others are adorned with bright air-mail stickers and moved into the hallway.
You’re about to leave for a study program overseas, and I wonder which kind of box I will end up in. I’ve tried to ask you gently for some time, but you don’t really talk to me anymore.
I hate to admit it, but I miss you holding me to sleep.
Twice this past year you have let me comfort you, once when you fell out with your parents, and another when you failed a class test. Twice this past year did I feel needed, wanted again.
And twice this past year did I feel ashamed of myself, for being so selfish. For I have seen what an alluring, confident, successful woman you have become, and I know that asking you to love me like you did years ago, would only hold you back.
I’m proud of the way you are handling most problems on your own now. I’m proud of the close friendships you have cultivated with others. I’m proud of the way you stand on your own two feet, independent, strong.
My heart still aches, sometimes, when I see that you really do need me less, but I understand. It is necessary. I’m just not what you need now.
You slip me into a box, and slowly tape up the opening. I know then that you won’t be bringing me with you, for the rest of the box is filled with an assortment of oddities you won’t be needing overseas.
You confirm my suspicions when you shift the box a short distance, and then close the wardrobe door. As the sounds of you packing continue to filter in, I slowly let go of the hope I’ve been nursing in the bowels of my heart, and it floats away like the morning mist.
35 / 07
The sunlight hurts my eyes, as the lid of the box is pried away. There's a strange male voice in the background, and he wants me thrown out.
You do not listen (you never did!), and instead you lift me out and hug me. You have aged, my angel. There's a certain gauntness to your face I did not think possible before. What storms have you weathered without me?
It's a warm, familiar hug, one that I've not felt in 14 years. I hug you back instinctively, with love I've bottled up for so long, and I regret it at once. It hurts the very second that you disengage just a little too hastily, because I know you no longer feel the same about me.
"Mummy! Who is he!" I turn to see a younger you on the bed, jumping in excitement. She has your eyes, your hair, and most importantly your warmth. Before you can react, she has grabbed me away from you.
She engulfs me in a hug, defiantly staring you down. You disapprove, saying that I’m unclean (I take umbrage at that!), but she doesn't seem to hear you (it runs in the family!). She demands that you let her keep me.
I hesitate.
My heart's in pieces as it is. Can I really go through all this again? Of caring for her, living a life with her, only to see her grow up and walk away, just like you did? You have no idea how painful it is, to love someone with all your being, and then to realize one day that your love is simply not wanted anymore.
That's when she kisses me.
Despite what the male voice says about my thinning fur and loose stitches, despite what you say about me being old and dusty, despite her knowing that there are a thousand other prettier companions out there, she has kissed me.
"I love you, Mr. Snuffles. Will you be mine?"
I hear those words, and something in me mends. I think it may just be possible… for me to love another again.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Old Pictures
You ever wonder why old pictures, or pictures for that matter, are important to you?
It's because people are forgetful creatures. Memories, the children born of the wedlock between events in our lives and our emotional reactions to them, eventually fade. Every once in a while, we will need solid, concrete pictorial proof of the past to recall things.
And, in a way, old friends are like old pictures.
Today I had dinner with an old friend. It didn't matter that the last time we actually sat and talked properly was more than a year ago. Conversation came easily, all embargoes between our channels of understanding lifted by the mutual trust we shared.
When I walked out of the restaurant, I had a spring in my step that wasn't there before. I felt like me, again.
Perhaps it had to do with the laughs we shared. It's always a joy to laugh unreservedly around people you know you can trust, knowing that you could do the silliest things and not be judged.
Perhaps it had to do with her kindly saying that I hadn't really changed much, that I might have weathered storms but fundamentally I was the same. I was touched that she remembered me that way, and that I was still the same person to her.
So thank you, for dinner today. It's great to know you are getting on so well, and that you've a most promising future ahead. Thank you too, in a way, for helping me remember the happy, carefree me I was a year ago, and for helping make me feel accepted.
Not all bits of the past are unpleasant ones, I guess.
It's because people are forgetful creatures. Memories, the children born of the wedlock between events in our lives and our emotional reactions to them, eventually fade. Every once in a while, we will need solid, concrete pictorial proof of the past to recall things.
And, in a way, old friends are like old pictures.
Today I had dinner with an old friend. It didn't matter that the last time we actually sat and talked properly was more than a year ago. Conversation came easily, all embargoes between our channels of understanding lifted by the mutual trust we shared.
When I walked out of the restaurant, I had a spring in my step that wasn't there before. I felt like me, again.
Perhaps it had to do with the laughs we shared. It's always a joy to laugh unreservedly around people you know you can trust, knowing that you could do the silliest things and not be judged.
Perhaps it had to do with her kindly saying that I hadn't really changed much, that I might have weathered storms but fundamentally I was the same. I was touched that she remembered me that way, and that I was still the same person to her.
So thank you, for dinner today. It's great to know you are getting on so well, and that you've a most promising future ahead. Thank you too, in a way, for helping me remember the happy, carefree me I was a year ago, and for helping make me feel accepted.
Not all bits of the past are unpleasant ones, I guess.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Crisis Management
Recently, I did something that can best be summed up as not "thoroughly thought through".
You know the standard operating procedure. When an idea flashes by your mind, you're supposed to evaluate the consequences, and then sleep on it. If you still see things the same way a day later, a week later, then do it. Impulse is often hazardous!
It's not that gut instinct is always wrong. In fact, it's often right. The problem is, gut instinct does not illuminate the best way you can go about doing something. It merely shows you the shortest, most obvious path to your objective.
This quick and dirty route, by its very nature, misses out on the finer nuances or considerations that any person with a positive EQ score would pick up on. Even if you think you're instinctively savvy, trust me, hindsight will put you in your place.
But life doesn't quite play out by the book, does it? Many times we find ourselves pressed to make the best choice in a limited time, or else face paralysis by indecision.
And you will inevitably make a mistake, or perhaps simply not make the best call about something. Then, voila! The mistake may even blossom into a full-blown Richter 8.0 Crisis.
I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed at first, for crises tend to do that. Initially, my mind did nothing but try to grapple with just how big the mess is, and I entertained a thousand useless questions like why did I do it that way and how could I not see a better choice.
But it got better the moment I cleanly excised all the emotional responses, and instead just focused on what I could do next. Given that the ogre of a Crisis had just hit puberty right before my eyes, what options were open to me, what possible courses of action might actually remedy the problem?
And then things got better.
This time around, I spent but an hour anguishing about the Crisis before I sprung into action. I'm improving, after all. One of the small graces in life, it seems.
You know the standard operating procedure. When an idea flashes by your mind, you're supposed to evaluate the consequences, and then sleep on it. If you still see things the same way a day later, a week later, then do it. Impulse is often hazardous!
It's not that gut instinct is always wrong. In fact, it's often right. The problem is, gut instinct does not illuminate the best way you can go about doing something. It merely shows you the shortest, most obvious path to your objective.
This quick and dirty route, by its very nature, misses out on the finer nuances or considerations that any person with a positive EQ score would pick up on. Even if you think you're instinctively savvy, trust me, hindsight will put you in your place.
But life doesn't quite play out by the book, does it? Many times we find ourselves pressed to make the best choice in a limited time, or else face paralysis by indecision.
And you will inevitably make a mistake, or perhaps simply not make the best call about something. Then, voila! The mistake may even blossom into a full-blown Richter 8.0 Crisis.
I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed at first, for crises tend to do that. Initially, my mind did nothing but try to grapple with just how big the mess is, and I entertained a thousand useless questions like why did I do it that way and how could I not see a better choice.
But it got better the moment I cleanly excised all the emotional responses, and instead just focused on what I could do next. Given that the ogre of a Crisis had just hit puberty right before my eyes, what options were open to me, what possible courses of action might actually remedy the problem?
And then things got better.
This time around, I spent but an hour anguishing about the Crisis before I sprung into action. I'm improving, after all. One of the small graces in life, it seems.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Clarity
Tonight, was an important night for me. Very, very important.
Of course, different things are important to different people. Using a dash of olive oil instead of a splash may be inconsequential to the overstressed working mother trying to whip up a hasty dinner, but it is the world to the professional chef locked in the foremost culinary competition.
Yes?
Before tonight, the most dangerous, influential, perspective-wrenching movie I had watched was a little film starring Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke. I have, literally, multiple drafts trying to pin down the magic in that movie, trying my best to explain its effect on me.
It says a lot that up till this date, I have yet to publish one single post on it. There's... just too much to explain. Maybe one day I'll gain the faculties to do so, who knows.
And tonight, I had the sublime pleasure of watching another such movie like that. It's called Stranger Than Fiction.
I'm quite sure that if you watched it, chances are that you would march up to me and berate me for wasting 2 hours of your life. It was quirky, you would say. It was disjointed, poorly edited, flawed, preachy, unrealistic, or just plain dumb.
I would smile, in some small part because I have heard that all before, and it didn't change how important the movie was to me.
But I would smile largely because, there are others who understand.
Of course, different things are important to different people. Using a dash of olive oil instead of a splash may be inconsequential to the overstressed working mother trying to whip up a hasty dinner, but it is the world to the professional chef locked in the foremost culinary competition.
Yes?
Before tonight, the most dangerous, influential, perspective-wrenching movie I had watched was a little film starring Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke. I have, literally, multiple drafts trying to pin down the magic in that movie, trying my best to explain its effect on me.
It says a lot that up till this date, I have yet to publish one single post on it. There's... just too much to explain. Maybe one day I'll gain the faculties to do so, who knows.
And tonight, I had the sublime pleasure of watching another such movie like that. It's called Stranger Than Fiction.
I'm quite sure that if you watched it, chances are that you would march up to me and berate me for wasting 2 hours of your life. It was quirky, you would say. It was disjointed, poorly edited, flawed, preachy, unrealistic, or just plain dumb.
I would smile, in some small part because I have heard that all before, and it didn't change how important the movie was to me.
But I would smile largely because, there are others who understand.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Rain From The Past 3: It Was For You, Too
The card lay on the table before me, coloured pens on the side. Already, most of it was filled up, all cheery messages wishing him the best in his studies overseas. Overhead, the PA system was already announcing that his Departure Gate was open. Not much time left.
And when I picked up the pen, inspiration struck! It coursed through me, a powerful jolt that effortlessly strung words together in my mind, forming a rhyming poem that was a touch humorous, no less!
Just to make sure it was all fine, I scribbled it out on a paper napkin I had. All through this while, she sat next to me at the cafe table, talking excitedly to the rest of our friends. When I was done, I gripped her hand under the table.
"Dear! Take a look at this little poem which I'm thinking of writing for his farewell card! Hehe, I think it's almost as funny as that one I wrote for you last week!"
But she was distracted. And honest, perhaps.
"What? Another poem? Please la, just write something simple? Not another one of your silly things." Another friend said something then, and she turned back to them, laughing.
I ended up writing "Hey man, all the best over there! Stay happy always!". Funny how long it took me to pen that message, when a moment ago I could have filled three cards without breaking a sweat.
When another friend chided me for taking so long to write so little, I begged for his forgiveness, saying I was never one for writing, and that he couldn't blame me for it. He smiled, said it didn't matter, and passed the card on.
I threw away the crushed napkin on the way home. I couldn't bring myself to look at the words anymore. I stole a quick glance at them at the airport, but they suddenly seemed juvenile, peurile... silly.
I didn't write poetry for a long time after. The words, they didn't flow.
And when I picked up the pen, inspiration struck! It coursed through me, a powerful jolt that effortlessly strung words together in my mind, forming a rhyming poem that was a touch humorous, no less!
Just to make sure it was all fine, I scribbled it out on a paper napkin I had. All through this while, she sat next to me at the cafe table, talking excitedly to the rest of our friends. When I was done, I gripped her hand under the table.
"Dear! Take a look at this little poem which I'm thinking of writing for his farewell card! Hehe, I think it's almost as funny as that one I wrote for you last week!"
But she was distracted. And honest, perhaps.
"What? Another poem? Please la, just write something simple? Not another one of your silly things." Another friend said something then, and she turned back to them, laughing.
I ended up writing "Hey man, all the best over there! Stay happy always!". Funny how long it took me to pen that message, when a moment ago I could have filled three cards without breaking a sweat.
When another friend chided me for taking so long to write so little, I begged for his forgiveness, saying I was never one for writing, and that he couldn't blame me for it. He smiled, said it didn't matter, and passed the card on.
I threw away the crushed napkin on the way home. I couldn't bring myself to look at the words anymore. I stole a quick glance at them at the airport, but they suddenly seemed juvenile, peurile... silly.
I didn't write poetry for a long time after. The words, they didn't flow.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Who Knows Best?
One of the more engaging cases we saw this week had all the elements of a classic Hong Kong gangster movie. It was a secret society trial, replete with harsh initiation rites, gang beatings, charismatic leaders and hapless victims.
The main differentiating factor though, was that the average age of the parties involved was 12, 13 years old.
At the trial's conclusion, the judge very sternly rebuked the kids, and forbade them from ever fraternizing with each other in school again. No meetings, no sitting together during recess, no hanging out after lessons. Nada. Zilch. A complete separation, break, split.
And that was what struck me the most.
See, the children were friends to begin with, even before the gang recruited them. They might still be friends now, even after the gang was dispersed.
But the court didn't care. The court, applying an objective standard, had decided that it was better for the children to stay apart, that it was in their best interests that they be separated, never to cross paths again. The standard was arguably a reasonable one, culled from years of academic research into the behavioural patterns of gang members, years of accumulated wisdom regarding child rearing, so on and so forth.
It didn't matter whether the children still wanted to be friends - the understanding was that they were too young or immature to decide what was best for themselves, and that society's neutral, passionless objective standard decried that they be isolated from one another.
Children grow up. We grow up too. Eventually.
Does a consensus distilled from the opinions of a thousand reasonable men always outperform an individual's own reasoned choice?
I wonder, is there ever a point when we are wise enough to choose our own paths, or will we always yield to society's collective wisdom?
The main differentiating factor though, was that the average age of the parties involved was 12, 13 years old.
At the trial's conclusion, the judge very sternly rebuked the kids, and forbade them from ever fraternizing with each other in school again. No meetings, no sitting together during recess, no hanging out after lessons. Nada. Zilch. A complete separation, break, split.
And that was what struck me the most.
See, the children were friends to begin with, even before the gang recruited them. They might still be friends now, even after the gang was dispersed.
But the court didn't care. The court, applying an objective standard, had decided that it was better for the children to stay apart, that it was in their best interests that they be separated, never to cross paths again. The standard was arguably a reasonable one, culled from years of academic research into the behavioural patterns of gang members, years of accumulated wisdom regarding child rearing, so on and so forth.
It didn't matter whether the children still wanted to be friends - the understanding was that they were too young or immature to decide what was best for themselves, and that society's neutral, passionless objective standard decried that they be isolated from one another.
Children grow up. We grow up too. Eventually.
Does a consensus distilled from the opinions of a thousand reasonable men always outperform an individual's own reasoned choice?
I wonder, is there ever a point when we are wise enough to choose our own paths, or will we always yield to society's collective wisdom?
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Beating
I'm a Chinese dude. With conservative Chinese parents. Of course I was beaten when I was a kid.
As a child I was generally suicidal in the way I did things, being unable to, as my teacher put it, "think of the consequences beyond the next five minutes". I would run into glass walls, use my knees as brakes, jump happily into potholes. Pain was my constant, familiar companion.
So why did the beatings I received all those years ago, still manage to drive icy spikes of dread into my little heart? It couldn't be fear of the pain, right? You don't see Michael Jackson afraid of minor operations anymore, yes? Or JBJ afraid of minor parking fines, for that matter?
Now, years on, I understand why. It wasn't fear of the pain per se. It was a lethal cocktail of pain, shame in the knowledge you did wrong, and disappointing your parents. More on that later.
My parents got the beatings down to a fine art pretty fast too. They were complementary, that's why. My mum's the Good Cop, the nagger, the one who continually cajoles you until the wax drips out of your ears. She would threaten to hit me, but never could bring herself to. She was the one who would set me up for...
... the Bad Cop. My dad. The one who lurks in the background, doesn't speak much, who distractedly plays with Inquisitory Tools of Pain while you're trying to answer the Good Cop. And when he spanked me, it wasn't mere half-hearted Western-parent spanking... it was Golden Lotus Unfolding Palms Spanking. The Shaolin kind.
A typical Disciplinary Proceeding would thus unfold something like this:
Me: You're being unfair! It wasn't my fault!
Mum: Teng, please! We're doing this for your own good! Come, come listen to mummy...
Dad: *skulks in background*
Me: No, no! You tell me, what did I do wrong!
Mum: How many times have we told you, it's wrong to fight with your brother! You're older than him, you're supposed to take care of him!
Me: He bit me first!
Mum: He's a toddler! He doesn't know better!
Dad: *flicks a cane rhythmically against a table, hums "I Will Survive"*
Mum: You don't hit your friends right? So why hit your brother?
Me: 'Cause he's my brother! My friends would complain to their parents!
Mum: ... how disappointing. You leave me with no choice. Repent while you can, sinner!
Dad: *GOLDEN LOTUS UNFOLDING PALMS*
Of course, there were many times when I would think of retaliating. Just like the delinquents in movies, I would push my mother away, or something like that. But then I would think of my dad, and I would just whimper and give up. Heck, what did I have in my arsenal at that age, Raging Vengeful Rabbit Paw?
But children learn fast. Did not Sun Tzi once say, "What you cannot beat defeat head-on, you run the hell away from"? I soon learnt to recognize the signs, and before my parents could tag-team me I would go ballistic, zipping all over the house screaming bloody murder. Oh the glory days... I was faster and more unpredictable than a headless chicken with a firecracker up its egg-laying chute!
Of course, I knew I was going to get the same beating at the end, but heck, I had to have them earn it. Plus, the pre-emptive release of endorphins always made things easier to bear.
Which is why I'm always shocked when friends tell me they've never been caned / spanked / slapped by their parents before. It's the same shock AC* boys get when they head to Uni and find that other people are well-adjusted and pleasant and nice. Growing up in a world where physical punishment was a very real consequence indeed, I can't imagine how other kids could learn without a decent amount of corporal punishment.
It all boils down to the two main schools of thought regarding disciplining kids. On one extreme we have the modern Western teachings, which exhort reasoning with children and guiding them towards understanding the import of their actions. Children are goaded with incentives / disincentives, but never physical punishment.
On the other extreme, we have the Asian Kung-Fu teachings. Here, you may reason, you may persuade, you may cajole, but there will be a beating. If you need further elaboration, just watch Russell Peters.
In my opinion, the approach you adopt depends on the kid you have. I've observed that younger, immature kids can't reason for nuts (see above as to how I justified beating my brother over my friends), and it's fruitless trying to reason with them. What's the point in spending hours persuading a petulant 6 year-old anorexic-to-be that she needs her nutrition?
Yet, once the child develops a semblance of a functional self-aware brain, then reasoning is crucial. Beating drives home very clear boundaries, but when explanations and guidance are absent for too long, the child's moral growth is stunted, and lacks the necessary nuance.
And once the child develops a conscience, you can retire the canes and the secret Kung Fu manuals. You've been through it yourself. You're initially all defensive when your parents berate you over something, but slowly you begin to see the whole picture, and eventually you know you're wrong. And all without a beating, too.
I'm not saying that without beating you can never teach a kid well. I'm saying chances are higher that with a lil' harsh love you can guide them faster, earlier. So if by chance you're around 4 - 8 years old, and reading this, and have never been beaten before, please ask your parents to beat you.
Just don't say it with a wink in your eyes. I don't know about your parents, but if I did that to my conservative Chinese parents... whoaaaaa, mama.
As a child I was generally suicidal in the way I did things, being unable to, as my teacher put it, "think of the consequences beyond the next five minutes". I would run into glass walls, use my knees as brakes, jump happily into potholes. Pain was my constant, familiar companion.
So why did the beatings I received all those years ago, still manage to drive icy spikes of dread into my little heart? It couldn't be fear of the pain, right? You don't see Michael Jackson afraid of minor operations anymore, yes? Or JBJ afraid of minor parking fines, for that matter?
Now, years on, I understand why. It wasn't fear of the pain per se. It was a lethal cocktail of pain, shame in the knowledge you did wrong, and disappointing your parents. More on that later.
My parents got the beatings down to a fine art pretty fast too. They were complementary, that's why. My mum's the Good Cop, the nagger, the one who continually cajoles you until the wax drips out of your ears. She would threaten to hit me, but never could bring herself to. She was the one who would set me up for...
... the Bad Cop. My dad. The one who lurks in the background, doesn't speak much, who distractedly plays with Inquisitory Tools of Pain while you're trying to answer the Good Cop. And when he spanked me, it wasn't mere half-hearted Western-parent spanking... it was Golden Lotus Unfolding Palms Spanking. The Shaolin kind.
A typical Disciplinary Proceeding would thus unfold something like this:
Me: You're being unfair! It wasn't my fault!
Mum: Teng, please! We're doing this for your own good! Come, come listen to mummy...
Dad: *skulks in background*
Me: No, no! You tell me, what did I do wrong!
Mum: How many times have we told you, it's wrong to fight with your brother! You're older than him, you're supposed to take care of him!
Me: He bit me first!
Mum: He's a toddler! He doesn't know better!
Dad: *flicks a cane rhythmically against a table, hums "I Will Survive"*
Mum: You don't hit your friends right? So why hit your brother?
Me: 'Cause he's my brother! My friends would complain to their parents!
Mum: ... how disappointing. You leave me with no choice. Repent while you can, sinner!
Dad: *GOLDEN LOTUS UNFOLDING PALMS*
Of course, there were many times when I would think of retaliating. Just like the delinquents in movies, I would push my mother away, or something like that. But then I would think of my dad, and I would just whimper and give up. Heck, what did I have in my arsenal at that age, Raging Vengeful Rabbit Paw?
But children learn fast. Did not Sun Tzi once say, "What you cannot beat defeat head-on, you run the hell away from"? I soon learnt to recognize the signs, and before my parents could tag-team me I would go ballistic, zipping all over the house screaming bloody murder. Oh the glory days... I was faster and more unpredictable than a headless chicken with a firecracker up its egg-laying chute!
Of course, I knew I was going to get the same beating at the end, but heck, I had to have them earn it. Plus, the pre-emptive release of endorphins always made things easier to bear.
Which is why I'm always shocked when friends tell me they've never been caned / spanked / slapped by their parents before. It's the same shock AC* boys get when they head to Uni and find that other people are well-adjusted and pleasant and nice. Growing up in a world where physical punishment was a very real consequence indeed, I can't imagine how other kids could learn without a decent amount of corporal punishment.
It all boils down to the two main schools of thought regarding disciplining kids. On one extreme we have the modern Western teachings, which exhort reasoning with children and guiding them towards understanding the import of their actions. Children are goaded with incentives / disincentives, but never physical punishment.
On the other extreme, we have the Asian Kung-Fu teachings. Here, you may reason, you may persuade, you may cajole, but there will be a beating. If you need further elaboration, just watch Russell Peters.
In my opinion, the approach you adopt depends on the kid you have. I've observed that younger, immature kids can't reason for nuts (see above as to how I justified beating my brother over my friends), and it's fruitless trying to reason with them. What's the point in spending hours persuading a petulant 6 year-old anorexic-to-be that she needs her nutrition?
Yet, once the child develops a semblance of a functional self-aware brain, then reasoning is crucial. Beating drives home very clear boundaries, but when explanations and guidance are absent for too long, the child's moral growth is stunted, and lacks the necessary nuance.
And once the child develops a conscience, you can retire the canes and the secret Kung Fu manuals. You've been through it yourself. You're initially all defensive when your parents berate you over something, but slowly you begin to see the whole picture, and eventually you know you're wrong. And all without a beating, too.
I'm not saying that without beating you can never teach a kid well. I'm saying chances are higher that with a lil' harsh love you can guide them faster, earlier. So if by chance you're around 4 - 8 years old, and reading this, and have never been beaten before, please ask your parents to beat you.
Just don't say it with a wink in your eyes. I don't know about your parents, but if I did that to my conservative Chinese parents... whoaaaaa, mama.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Ladies Of The Night
There was no love here.
I could smell sickly-sweet alcoholic fumes flirting with bitter-dry cigarette smoke, I could hear the ladies laughing their rehearsed, high-pitch schoolgirl squeals, I could taste the primal, naked lust in the air.
But no love. I could sense no love here. Not in this dimly-lit 7-11 of vices. Love was even more elusive here than an emboldened demon making merry in the streets of heaven.
I pushed past couples locked in embrace, their passions on coarse, open display. My neck itched, victim both of my vanity and the new shirt I had just bought. I came here the night before as an ordinary, forgettable leaf from the past, but tonight... I wanted her to remember me.
There she was, seated between two men, their arms around her like diseased tendrils across her fair skin. A curious mix of jealousy and anger bubbled in me. I had no right to feel that way, not when she was not mine. Not anyone's, for that matter.
She recognized me, a fleeting moment before I wrenched her away from them. And in those seconds as she was uprooted, she suddenly looked lost, confused, her gaities falling away like melting wax. No longer the confident, commanding lady of the night she pretended to be.
At a quiet corner, she lit up, pointedly looking away as the smoke rings danced away from her.
"You can't just pull me away like that. They will be angry, and you don't exactly look like the sort who can defend yourself."
"I can pay. I will pay. Look, just come away with me, again." I sounded desperate. I didn't care.
She laughed. "Pay? And towards what purpose? I'm a girl who likes to earn her money, you know, and last night didn't do much for me at all."
I wasn't shaken - the facade was as plain as day. "You lie. It was the best damned night you've had since forever, and you know it. Come with me, again, please."
She was silent for a while, then she struck out at me like an enraged rattlesnake. I was pushed back against the wall hard, but the pain barely registered. I could only notice the creases in her makeup, thin flaking lines etched in by the scowl she wore.
"Last night did not happen. You hear me?"
"It did, and nothing you can do will make you forget it."
"No. You came to me for my body, paid for it, got what you wanted, and you left. That's what happened. Another simple transaction in this sprawling existance of ours."
"I never wanted your body, never touched it. I only came to talk to you. You know that."
My perseverance was paying off. Just like last night, her defences were coming down, one at a time. The brimming tears of anger in her coloured-contacts-eyes said it all.
"You had no right to do that, you hear me? You had no right to spend the whole night doing nothing but talk to me, talking like we are still the friends we were so long ago. You were supposed to come in, take me, then leave! Not linger like this!"
I placed a hand on her shoulder, and waited for her to calm down. "I'm sorry," I found myself saying, "You said you were lonely last night, and all I wanted was to talk to you again. That's all."
When she eventually looked up it was as I feared. The mask was rigidly in place again, the pleasant, genial, vacant expression she wore for all her customers.
"Honey. Last night won't ever happen again. That girl you talked to, the one you shared old stories and laughed with, she's not living here anymore. She left a note for you, though. She said she's moved away, and if ever she finds a place of her own again, she'll contact you, so don't bother looking for her now."
She patted my cheek in that infuriatingly condescending way of hers.
"She said, don't be so idealistic anymore. Our youth has deserted us. You think you have choices in life, that you're always in control, but it's not so simple. We all have responsibilities, wouldn't you agree?"
"You know that's not true. You know that..." Her finger to my lip cut me off. I'm weak that way.
"Don't spoil the moment." She smiled then, but from whom the smile sprung from I was no longer sure. "If it matters to you that much, she also says thank you, for being nice to her last night. She felt... appreciated, and maybe one day, one day she would like to feel that way again."
I lost her then. She turned and slipped back effortlessly into that black, oil-slicked sea of leering faces and earnest hands. My feet guided me out, for I could not stay and watch. The pain was killing me.
To anyone else my resolve to return and try again may seem suicidally stupid, but no one else saw her as I did last night. And if they did, they would know it would be worth it.
Another day it would have to be, then.
* This was inspired by a friend's post, and is not reflective of my real life. Maybe the emo bits, but not the salacious bits. Sigh.
I could smell sickly-sweet alcoholic fumes flirting with bitter-dry cigarette smoke, I could hear the ladies laughing their rehearsed, high-pitch schoolgirl squeals, I could taste the primal, naked lust in the air.
But no love. I could sense no love here. Not in this dimly-lit 7-11 of vices. Love was even more elusive here than an emboldened demon making merry in the streets of heaven.
I pushed past couples locked in embrace, their passions on coarse, open display. My neck itched, victim both of my vanity and the new shirt I had just bought. I came here the night before as an ordinary, forgettable leaf from the past, but tonight... I wanted her to remember me.
There she was, seated between two men, their arms around her like diseased tendrils across her fair skin. A curious mix of jealousy and anger bubbled in me. I had no right to feel that way, not when she was not mine. Not anyone's, for that matter.
She recognized me, a fleeting moment before I wrenched her away from them. And in those seconds as she was uprooted, she suddenly looked lost, confused, her gaities falling away like melting wax. No longer the confident, commanding lady of the night she pretended to be.
At a quiet corner, she lit up, pointedly looking away as the smoke rings danced away from her.
"You can't just pull me away like that. They will be angry, and you don't exactly look like the sort who can defend yourself."
"I can pay. I will pay. Look, just come away with me, again." I sounded desperate. I didn't care.
She laughed. "Pay? And towards what purpose? I'm a girl who likes to earn her money, you know, and last night didn't do much for me at all."
I wasn't shaken - the facade was as plain as day. "You lie. It was the best damned night you've had since forever, and you know it. Come with me, again, please."
She was silent for a while, then she struck out at me like an enraged rattlesnake. I was pushed back against the wall hard, but the pain barely registered. I could only notice the creases in her makeup, thin flaking lines etched in by the scowl she wore.
"Last night did not happen. You hear me?"
"It did, and nothing you can do will make you forget it."
"No. You came to me for my body, paid for it, got what you wanted, and you left. That's what happened. Another simple transaction in this sprawling existance of ours."
"I never wanted your body, never touched it. I only came to talk to you. You know that."
My perseverance was paying off. Just like last night, her defences were coming down, one at a time. The brimming tears of anger in her coloured-contacts-eyes said it all.
"You had no right to do that, you hear me? You had no right to spend the whole night doing nothing but talk to me, talking like we are still the friends we were so long ago. You were supposed to come in, take me, then leave! Not linger like this!"
I placed a hand on her shoulder, and waited for her to calm down. "I'm sorry," I found myself saying, "You said you were lonely last night, and all I wanted was to talk to you again. That's all."
When she eventually looked up it was as I feared. The mask was rigidly in place again, the pleasant, genial, vacant expression she wore for all her customers.
"Honey. Last night won't ever happen again. That girl you talked to, the one you shared old stories and laughed with, she's not living here anymore. She left a note for you, though. She said she's moved away, and if ever she finds a place of her own again, she'll contact you, so don't bother looking for her now."
She patted my cheek in that infuriatingly condescending way of hers.
"She said, don't be so idealistic anymore. Our youth has deserted us. You think you have choices in life, that you're always in control, but it's not so simple. We all have responsibilities, wouldn't you agree?"
"You know that's not true. You know that..." Her finger to my lip cut me off. I'm weak that way.
"Don't spoil the moment." She smiled then, but from whom the smile sprung from I was no longer sure. "If it matters to you that much, she also says thank you, for being nice to her last night. She felt... appreciated, and maybe one day, one day she would like to feel that way again."
I lost her then. She turned and slipped back effortlessly into that black, oil-slicked sea of leering faces and earnest hands. My feet guided me out, for I could not stay and watch. The pain was killing me.
To anyone else my resolve to return and try again may seem suicidally stupid, but no one else saw her as I did last night. And if they did, they would know it would be worth it.
Another day it would have to be, then.
* This was inspired by a friend's post, and is not reflective of my real life. Maybe the emo bits, but not the salacious bits. Sigh.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Diet III
See, girls diet.
We all know that. And they diet for an amazing host of reasons which actually do sound reasonable, once you have the reasons chanted to you ad nauseum for hours on end.
(Think of it as your body’s natural survival instincts. There's a point when your will to argue back just withers, and one by one your brain cells die, and you just nod and agree. It's better than expending all your energy in a futile exercise)
What, you think naggy mothers pop out of nowhere? They have to cut their teeth somewhere too, you know.
But what surprised me was this. Guys. Diet. TOO.
And for the same reasons! For wanting to feel attractive, for wanting to fit into their clothes, for wanting to look good. Some do it for health reasons, but even then, there are healthier ways to get healthy (yes I have poor vocab, deal with it).
Just to be very clear, I’m not talking about Eating-The-Right-Food-Groups Dieting, but Today-Shall-Be-A-Water-Only-Day Dieting. There’s an objective line which I figure isn’t that hard to spot.
I’m surprised because I thought that girls are judged by their appearances, overwhelmingly more so than guys are, and therefore they are justified in a warped sort of way. But guys?
Of course, this doesn’t mean that guys should just flip off personal grooming and let their bodies go to ruin. Urgh. Let’s just say that if you diet, you better bloody know why you’re dieting.
So, in the quest towards beneficial dieting, some myths need to be debunked.
First, girls don’t really want us for the way our bodies are sculptured. True, if we all looked like Homer Simpson the only thing we’ll be turning on at night are our PS3s. But see, that’s only the first stage of attraction.
I mean, girls want us for so much more! They do, eventually, ascribe far greater weight to the other qualities we possess, like the way we are sensitive to their needs or how we keep them feeling secure.
Just ask the girls. Could they really live with a Greek God who had no other redeeming qualities they wanted? Sure, you’ll have something hunky to keep you company at night, but how much understanding can his six perfect abs give you? How much meaningful conversation can you get out of a pair of bursting pecs?
You: Sigh, darling, I had such a bad day today.
Pecs: *wiggle*
You: My boss picked on me, my colleagues backstabbed me, and I spoilt the photocopier. Please, say something to make the pain go away…
Pecs: *wiggle wiggle*
Second, everyone needs a little meat on them. Looking thin and lanky is not necessarily attractive! The key isn’t in exactly how thin or fat you are. The key is in looking healthy, exuberant, radiant. It’s how healthy an image you project that matters.
It’s almost an evolutionary trait, prizing healthiness over thinness. How do you think husbands still manage to summon so much love for their pregnant wives (aside from the threats of hormone-induced violence) ? You’ve seen that magical glow some pregnant women have, despite their… slight increase in size.
Overly-thin people just look fragile, wouldn’t you agree? People worry about being classified as ‘bak bak’, or fleshy, but in truth the most attractive people out there are reasonably meaty. If you starved yourself just so you could proudly exhibit your protruding hip bones or rib cage, trust me, people would look at you and feel instinctively that something was not quite right.
So, to my guy friends out there, diet because you want a balanced intake of food. Diet because it’s healthy for you. Please don’t diet simply because you think it makes you look hotter, more attractive.
I can’t deny that physical attraction does matter, but the effort you put into dieting can also be channeled into making yourself a more complete, attractive individual, yes?
And to show my commitment to my beliefs, I shall don a dark cape and assume the identity of Food Man. And wherever I find a guy who diets for dubious reasons, I will tempt you.
I will scoff at your Vegetables-Only Diet. I will point out every single KFC and BK we pass by, and I will recite their latest menu additions. I will recount intimate accounts of when I last had a fantastic, wholesome, sinful meal. I will moannn and shake uncontrollably whenever we see a Kinder Bueno commercial.
I will not stop, until I see you happily eating again.
For I am Food Man.
* You can find my other posts on Diets here and here. =)
We all know that. And they diet for an amazing host of reasons which actually do sound reasonable, once you have the reasons chanted to you ad nauseum for hours on end.
(Think of it as your body’s natural survival instincts. There's a point when your will to argue back just withers, and one by one your brain cells die, and you just nod and agree. It's better than expending all your energy in a futile exercise)
What, you think naggy mothers pop out of nowhere? They have to cut their teeth somewhere too, you know.
But what surprised me was this. Guys. Diet. TOO.
And for the same reasons! For wanting to feel attractive, for wanting to fit into their clothes, for wanting to look good. Some do it for health reasons, but even then, there are healthier ways to get healthy (yes I have poor vocab, deal with it).
Just to be very clear, I’m not talking about Eating-The-Right-Food-Groups Dieting, but Today-Shall-Be-A-Water-Only-Day Dieting. There’s an objective line which I figure isn’t that hard to spot.
I’m surprised because I thought that girls are judged by their appearances, overwhelmingly more so than guys are, and therefore they are justified in a warped sort of way. But guys?
Of course, this doesn’t mean that guys should just flip off personal grooming and let their bodies go to ruin. Urgh. Let’s just say that if you diet, you better bloody know why you’re dieting.
So, in the quest towards beneficial dieting, some myths need to be debunked.
First, girls don’t really want us for the way our bodies are sculptured. True, if we all looked like Homer Simpson the only thing we’ll be turning on at night are our PS3s. But see, that’s only the first stage of attraction.
I mean, girls want us for so much more! They do, eventually, ascribe far greater weight to the other qualities we possess, like the way we are sensitive to their needs or how we keep them feeling secure.
Just ask the girls. Could they really live with a Greek God who had no other redeeming qualities they wanted? Sure, you’ll have something hunky to keep you company at night, but how much understanding can his six perfect abs give you? How much meaningful conversation can you get out of a pair of bursting pecs?
You: Sigh, darling, I had such a bad day today.
Pecs: *wiggle*
You: My boss picked on me, my colleagues backstabbed me, and I spoilt the photocopier. Please, say something to make the pain go away…
Pecs: *wiggle wiggle*
Second, everyone needs a little meat on them. Looking thin and lanky is not necessarily attractive! The key isn’t in exactly how thin or fat you are. The key is in looking healthy, exuberant, radiant. It’s how healthy an image you project that matters.
It’s almost an evolutionary trait, prizing healthiness over thinness. How do you think husbands still manage to summon so much love for their pregnant wives (aside from the threats of hormone-induced violence) ? You’ve seen that magical glow some pregnant women have, despite their… slight increase in size.
Overly-thin people just look fragile, wouldn’t you agree? People worry about being classified as ‘bak bak’, or fleshy, but in truth the most attractive people out there are reasonably meaty. If you starved yourself just so you could proudly exhibit your protruding hip bones or rib cage, trust me, people would look at you and feel instinctively that something was not quite right.
So, to my guy friends out there, diet because you want a balanced intake of food. Diet because it’s healthy for you. Please don’t diet simply because you think it makes you look hotter, more attractive.
I can’t deny that physical attraction does matter, but the effort you put into dieting can also be channeled into making yourself a more complete, attractive individual, yes?
And to show my commitment to my beliefs, I shall don a dark cape and assume the identity of Food Man. And wherever I find a guy who diets for dubious reasons, I will tempt you.
I will scoff at your Vegetables-Only Diet. I will point out every single KFC and BK we pass by, and I will recite their latest menu additions. I will recount intimate accounts of when I last had a fantastic, wholesome, sinful meal. I will moannn and shake uncontrollably whenever we see a Kinder Bueno commercial.
I will not stop, until I see you happily eating again.
For I am Food Man.
* You can find my other posts on Diets here and here. =)
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
No Need For Words
We sat in the public gallery of the courtroom, all 12 of us Legal Service interns. We knew it was a criminal trial for charges of drug trafficking, but we couldn't help feeling a little bit detached.
After all, hadn't we already seen enough of these cases in our textbooks? Hadn't we already plowed through the arguments for and against the death penalty, in relation to Singaporean drug trafficking charges? Hadn't we already seen it all?
So there we were, insulated against cold, harsh reality. We were detached observers, mere spectators.
Until the accused came in. And started gesturing to his family in sign language. The thick panes of glass between them may have inhibited sound and distorted sight, but they did nothing to stem the torrents of understanding that flowed in those moments.
Fingers trailing down his cheeks, furrowed brows, a quick shake of the head. Don't cry for me. Whatever you do don't cry. A thumbs up, a tentative, manic grin. Of course I'm fine, why would I not be fine?
Open palms, nonchalent shrugs, undulating shoulders. I won't know what will happen, how could I? Why worry now? Chin tilted upwards, raised eyebrows, head jerking in their direction. Is mother fine? Is grandma fine? Are you two boys ok?
A crooked index finger. A quick draw across the neck. But still, still that cheerful, weary, belaboured smile. I will hang. I know I will. But life goes on, right? Don't be sad for me.
I tried hard to concentrate on the legal arguments being bandied around. But this wasn't a textbook case anymore. There was no court reporter here to excise all the cancerous emotions and reduce the proceedings to black print upon white paper. It was real.
In time I guess I will be desensitized, and I will learn to focus only on the arguments before me. But I hope that time will be a long time in coming.
After all, hadn't we already seen enough of these cases in our textbooks? Hadn't we already plowed through the arguments for and against the death penalty, in relation to Singaporean drug trafficking charges? Hadn't we already seen it all?
So there we were, insulated against cold, harsh reality. We were detached observers, mere spectators.
Until the accused came in. And started gesturing to his family in sign language. The thick panes of glass between them may have inhibited sound and distorted sight, but they did nothing to stem the torrents of understanding that flowed in those moments.
Fingers trailing down his cheeks, furrowed brows, a quick shake of the head. Don't cry for me. Whatever you do don't cry. A thumbs up, a tentative, manic grin. Of course I'm fine, why would I not be fine?
Open palms, nonchalent shrugs, undulating shoulders. I won't know what will happen, how could I? Why worry now? Chin tilted upwards, raised eyebrows, head jerking in their direction. Is mother fine? Is grandma fine? Are you two boys ok?
A crooked index finger. A quick draw across the neck. But still, still that cheerful, weary, belaboured smile. I will hang. I know I will. But life goes on, right? Don't be sad for me.
I tried hard to concentrate on the legal arguments being bandied around. But this wasn't a textbook case anymore. There was no court reporter here to excise all the cancerous emotions and reduce the proceedings to black print upon white paper. It was real.
In time I guess I will be desensitized, and I will learn to focus only on the arguments before me. But I hope that time will be a long time in coming.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Letter To The Past
Dear Hanting of so-long-ago,
My my, it's not been one year since you wrote that letter, but a full seven years. Seven years, seven years of growth, of experience, of observing how the world ticks.
Remember back in Primary Three, when you thought kissing led to babies? ... Ok in a way kissing does lead to babies, just not directly, argh you know what I mean. And when you discovered the truth you laughed so hard at Primary-Three-Hanting?
Well, in a way, I also couldn't help laughing when I read what you wrote, Sec-Four-Hanting. It's not that I am being condescending... it's just slightly amusing to imagine your eyes shining with bright, wild-eyed idealism as you penned your thoughts back in Jan 2000.
I wish I could reveal all that lies ahead of you, so that you may avoid the pitfalls, and fully treasure the fleeting flashes of happiness that pass you by. But we both know we can't do that. You won't learn as much, will you?
What I can do, is to provide the merest glimpses into what you will become.
You will learn how to fully cherish your friends, family and loved ones. I know it’s a constant struggle for you, seeking the best way to provide for them, but take heart. You will be proud someday at the way you reach out to them.
Yet, you will not remain unscathed forever. Disappointments may tattoo their dalliances with you on the canvas of your soul, but you will be glad for the lessons they bring. Take heart too! Bitterness and anger will never take root for long, for though you may be damaged, you still are whole.
The rest is for you to discover. Exciting, ain't it?
My my, it's not been one year since you wrote that letter, but a full seven years. Seven years, seven years of growth, of experience, of observing how the world ticks.
Remember back in Primary Three, when you thought kissing led to babies? ... Ok in a way kissing does lead to babies, just not directly, argh you know what I mean. And when you discovered the truth you laughed so hard at Primary-Three-Hanting?
Well, in a way, I also couldn't help laughing when I read what you wrote, Sec-Four-Hanting. It's not that I am being condescending... it's just slightly amusing to imagine your eyes shining with bright, wild-eyed idealism as you penned your thoughts back in Jan 2000.
I wish I could reveal all that lies ahead of you, so that you may avoid the pitfalls, and fully treasure the fleeting flashes of happiness that pass you by. But we both know we can't do that. You won't learn as much, will you?
What I can do, is to provide the merest glimpses into what you will become.
You will learn how to fully cherish your friends, family and loved ones. I know it’s a constant struggle for you, seeking the best way to provide for them, but take heart. You will be proud someday at the way you reach out to them.
Yet, you will not remain unscathed forever. Disappointments may tattoo their dalliances with you on the canvas of your soul, but you will be glad for the lessons they bring. Take heart too! Bitterness and anger will never take root for long, for though you may be damaged, you still are whole.
The rest is for you to discover. Exciting, ain't it?
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Letter To The Future
Back in Sec 4 our tutor made us write letters to ourselves. At the beginning of the year, we were to detail the personal growth we wanted to experience, the goals we wanted to attain, by the end of the year.
Our tutor would collect the letters, and mail them back to us after we graduated. It would be a good way for us to chart our progress through life, he said.
And this was what I wrote:
"Dear fat-shit, haha, I bet you've forgetten about this. But Mr. Indra hasn't, so here you are, with what you wrote back in Jan 2000.
I wonder how you are now, really. Did your O's go well? Did you finally manage to pass Maths? Haha, did you manage to improve at carrom, or win anything at Nationals?
It's mind-boggling, trying to predict what would happen 365 days later. The possibilities are just endless... but you and I both know, aside from these practical achievements, there are more important things at stake.
How are you, as a person? Do you still stand for the values I stand for now?
Have you managed to reach out to your parents and brother? I know it's difficult to, and it's terribly easy to lead a life separate from theirs, but don't. Any friction you've experienced so far is merely the result of them trying to weave you into their lives, trying to share their experiences with you. I have to write this to remind you, because you tend to forget all this sometimes.
Do you still give your friends your all? Are you still investing the energy and time into keeping your friendships alive and well? No man's an island, and you know you have the propensity to keep to yourself at times... but don't. You've already learnt that friends enrich the world, so don't backtrack now. If you have no idea how valuable they all, all the more you should not easily discount them.
Have you gotten attached? Haha, have you broken up, for that matter? I have no idea what falling in or out of love feels like, but right now I know if I'm attached, I would really bend over backwards to give her my all. She's precious, so never take her for granted... always trust her, always be open with her. If she lets you down, please don't change because of her. Someone else is waiting for you, someone else who wants you the way you are. You know that.
Continue to improve, Hanting. Be the person you want to be. Be open with people, caring, sensitive, funny, thoughtful, engaging. You like it too, don't you, when you help make people smile? Take pride in being able to avoid the common mistakes other people fall into. Go out there and make every day memorable, for you and the people around you!
You have a duty to bring happiness and meaning to the people around you, because it is already so easy to sow discord and cynicism for life... If ever you feel lost and unsure of what to do, pretend Ms. Gan's still here, and just imagine what she would advise you to do. She was usually right.
I hope, from the bottom of my heart, that you are smiling as you are reading all this. If not, then remember that one year ago you were me, with all this idealism and conviction to save the world your way.
Whether or not this letter serves as a mere milestone to mark your journey, or a signpost to guide you back to the path, I just want to say... I can't wait to read this myself again one day. I want to know what I've become."
Our tutor would collect the letters, and mail them back to us after we graduated. It would be a good way for us to chart our progress through life, he said.
And this was what I wrote:
"Dear fat-shit, haha, I bet you've forgetten about this. But Mr. Indra hasn't, so here you are, with what you wrote back in Jan 2000.
I wonder how you are now, really. Did your O's go well? Did you finally manage to pass Maths? Haha, did you manage to improve at carrom, or win anything at Nationals?
It's mind-boggling, trying to predict what would happen 365 days later. The possibilities are just endless... but you and I both know, aside from these practical achievements, there are more important things at stake.
How are you, as a person? Do you still stand for the values I stand for now?
Have you managed to reach out to your parents and brother? I know it's difficult to, and it's terribly easy to lead a life separate from theirs, but don't. Any friction you've experienced so far is merely the result of them trying to weave you into their lives, trying to share their experiences with you. I have to write this to remind you, because you tend to forget all this sometimes.
Do you still give your friends your all? Are you still investing the energy and time into keeping your friendships alive and well? No man's an island, and you know you have the propensity to keep to yourself at times... but don't. You've already learnt that friends enrich the world, so don't backtrack now. If you have no idea how valuable they all, all the more you should not easily discount them.
Have you gotten attached? Haha, have you broken up, for that matter? I have no idea what falling in or out of love feels like, but right now I know if I'm attached, I would really bend over backwards to give her my all. She's precious, so never take her for granted... always trust her, always be open with her. If she lets you down, please don't change because of her. Someone else is waiting for you, someone else who wants you the way you are. You know that.
Continue to improve, Hanting. Be the person you want to be. Be open with people, caring, sensitive, funny, thoughtful, engaging. You like it too, don't you, when you help make people smile? Take pride in being able to avoid the common mistakes other people fall into. Go out there and make every day memorable, for you and the people around you!
You have a duty to bring happiness and meaning to the people around you, because it is already so easy to sow discord and cynicism for life... If ever you feel lost and unsure of what to do, pretend Ms. Gan's still here, and just imagine what she would advise you to do. She was usually right.
I hope, from the bottom of my heart, that you are smiling as you are reading all this. If not, then remember that one year ago you were me, with all this idealism and conviction to save the world your way.
Whether or not this letter serves as a mere milestone to mark your journey, or a signpost to guide you back to the path, I just want to say... I can't wait to read this myself again one day. I want to know what I've become."
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