This, I am most regretful to say, is not a happy post.
The very first time I was conned was in Primary Five, when the world I was living in still lacked its shades of gray. Things were either white, or black, and basically very simple. If there was someone who got along well with you, he/she was automatically a friend. If they ever irked you in any way, you declared to them 'I Don't Friend You Anymore' and that was that.
Children at 11 years of age shouldn't possess the necessary guile to fall anywhere in between a Friend and an Enemy, in any case. But they do.
He had come to me one afternoon, all concerned over how I seemed to have something troubling me recently. I was frankly surprised at his keen intuition and touched at his sincere concern. It wasn't long before his repeated assertations that he would keep everything I said in strict confidence goaded me to divulge the burden upon my mind, which was that I thought I could be in love with this particular girl!
The next afternoon, the very next afternoon, the girl in question came to me and told me that she had heard it all, and that she would appreciate it if I didn't go round telling the whole world about my feelings for her.
And trusting people actually gets tougher as we get older, on account of all the grays coming into the picture. For example, are you willing to invest trust in someone who once proved undeserving but who forswears to have reformed? What about people who inadvertantly hurt you owing to a perceived lack of consideration rather than malice?
It does seem like quite the lonely world sometimes, doesn't it.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Clubbing 1: Protecting The Innocent
For the longest time, clubbing was one of those tantalizing forbidden fruits that young teenagers hungered for. If you assume that all teenagers start off innocent, then the draw would be twofold: because the law and parents say you can't go, and because all your friends are still going anyway.
Not... for me.
When I was 17, my mum pounced on me one evening exclaiming, "Quick! Do you want to go clubbing?" It turned out she had tickets for Zouk, and thought that the exposure would be good for me. I refused out of pure shock, mind frantically racing to find the catch in this. "Hey, if you are afraid of going alone, I'll go with you! Next Wednesday?" My mum's beaming smile was never quite so creepy.
In the end, in a bid to escape from having to club with my mum, I went with my friends. When people enquire about the circumstances under which I first went clubbing, I prefer to just say my mum didn't mind.
Parents have valid reasons for keeping their kids away from clubs. The sleaze, the booze, the bad company all really do exist. But I cannot imagine my parents banning me from clubs when I am 18, and still singing the same song when I turn 30. Somewhere along the way, I believe children really do need to get out, have a look at the real world, and then start buffing up those streetsmarts that schools typically neglect.
The truth is, clubs aren't the Dens of Evil that the media make them out to be. For every murder, rape, fight, there's hundreds of youths who go home safe after a night out with friends. The statistics basically indicate that clubbing is probably as safe as say, crossing a road.
Over the years, I've slowly began to understand the rules governing clubbing. How to keep together in groups on a packed dance floor. How to meld into the crowd when you need a quick escape. Which clubs to go to, and at what time, and wearing what, to signify that you really don't want to be picked up. I admit though, I still have problems rejecting advances from crazed fans.
Oh, but I so rue the day I go clubbing and find my mum on the dance floor next to me.
Not... for me.
When I was 17, my mum pounced on me one evening exclaiming, "Quick! Do you want to go clubbing?" It turned out she had tickets for Zouk, and thought that the exposure would be good for me. I refused out of pure shock, mind frantically racing to find the catch in this. "Hey, if you are afraid of going alone, I'll go with you! Next Wednesday?" My mum's beaming smile was never quite so creepy.
In the end, in a bid to escape from having to club with my mum, I went with my friends. When people enquire about the circumstances under which I first went clubbing, I prefer to just say my mum didn't mind.
Parents have valid reasons for keeping their kids away from clubs. The sleaze, the booze, the bad company all really do exist. But I cannot imagine my parents banning me from clubs when I am 18, and still singing the same song when I turn 30. Somewhere along the way, I believe children really do need to get out, have a look at the real world, and then start buffing up those streetsmarts that schools typically neglect.
The truth is, clubs aren't the Dens of Evil that the media make them out to be. For every murder, rape, fight, there's hundreds of youths who go home safe after a night out with friends. The statistics basically indicate that clubbing is probably as safe as say, crossing a road.
Over the years, I've slowly began to understand the rules governing clubbing. How to keep together in groups on a packed dance floor. How to meld into the crowd when you need a quick escape. Which clubs to go to, and at what time, and wearing what, to signify that you really don't want to be picked up. I admit though, I still have problems rejecting advances from crazed fans.
Oh, but I so rue the day I go clubbing and find my mum on the dance floor next to me.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Room Sanity
One thing about living in the same place for too long, is that things tend to accumulate and clutter. Most humans tend to do this by retaining items that "will come in handy" one day, leading to an astounding accrual of useful yet hardly critical possessions.
I was only blessed by this enlightening insight when I watched the light rays enter my room this morning. It might have well been an optical illusion, but I swear I saw the light rays bend the moment they filtered in. Now, my faltering grasp of Physics reminded me that light only bends when it passes by a black hole, which is incidentally a concentration of super-dense mass.
My room might not have reached critical mass, but it damn well was going to. The suspicion that I had too much junk in my room was only reinforced by the quick calculation that I was currently actively using but 12% of the total floor space - junk enjoying a 99-year land lease on the remaining 88%.
Clearing up was much, much harder than I thought though, physically and emotionally.
Now, I am not a very sentimental person. I know just about when to stop rewatching the penultimate episode of Singapore Idol, when Daphne was still in the running, and come to terms with the fact that she just might have lost. But going through the stuff in my room... really was sapping.
Think of the junk in my room as kueh lapis, or for those less food-inclined, strata of sedimentary rock. The topmost pile of junk of course hailed from my recently-concluded army life, and once this was cleared, bringing light to parts of my room that had existed in darkness for 2 years, I found a layer of JC memorabilia. Council keepsakes, Track 'N Field letters of Buck-Up-You're-A-Lousy-Athlete, old Chemistry assignments I still haven't handed up.
Further on I plowed, digging deeper and deeper, all the while feeling like this was becoming too much like Jules Vernes' Journey.
I subsequently hit the Secondary School layer, finding Prefect badges, Chinese essays with more red ink (teacher's) than blue (mine), old copies of school cheers. And then I stopped, because my hands were shaking, and I could press on no more.
In one morning I had relived close to 8 years of the past. I had summoned memories of old friends, recounted moments of unbridled happiness and chastising sorrow, laughed over retrospectively-embarrassing follies, cherished and mourned my first kiss(es), endured pangs of regret for all the friends I've lost and the promises I've broken...
Finally, I had no choice but to grit my teeth and throw away as many things as I could bear. Real, hard thought had gone into it - there was simply no more space in my room for everything. Natural instinct bade me to hold on tight to everything, because they were irreplaceable, but things don't work like that.
Today, although I cleared tons of excess baggage, I spruced up my room enough to make way for the first signs that University is around the corner - two spanking new Law textbooks. Making way for the new, both physically and emotionally, is an oft overlooked yet crucial aspect of maintaining room sanity.
And, cliche as it may sound, life's a bit like that.
I was only blessed by this enlightening insight when I watched the light rays enter my room this morning. It might have well been an optical illusion, but I swear I saw the light rays bend the moment they filtered in. Now, my faltering grasp of Physics reminded me that light only bends when it passes by a black hole, which is incidentally a concentration of super-dense mass.
My room might not have reached critical mass, but it damn well was going to. The suspicion that I had too much junk in my room was only reinforced by the quick calculation that I was currently actively using but 12% of the total floor space - junk enjoying a 99-year land lease on the remaining 88%.
Clearing up was much, much harder than I thought though, physically and emotionally.
Now, I am not a very sentimental person. I know just about when to stop rewatching the penultimate episode of Singapore Idol, when Daphne was still in the running, and come to terms with the fact that she just might have lost. But going through the stuff in my room... really was sapping.
Think of the junk in my room as kueh lapis, or for those less food-inclined, strata of sedimentary rock. The topmost pile of junk of course hailed from my recently-concluded army life, and once this was cleared, bringing light to parts of my room that had existed in darkness for 2 years, I found a layer of JC memorabilia. Council keepsakes, Track 'N Field letters of Buck-Up-You're-A-Lousy-Athlete, old Chemistry assignments I still haven't handed up.
Further on I plowed, digging deeper and deeper, all the while feeling like this was becoming too much like Jules Vernes' Journey.
I subsequently hit the Secondary School layer, finding Prefect badges, Chinese essays with more red ink (teacher's) than blue (mine), old copies of school cheers. And then I stopped, because my hands were shaking, and I could press on no more.
In one morning I had relived close to 8 years of the past. I had summoned memories of old friends, recounted moments of unbridled happiness and chastising sorrow, laughed over retrospectively-embarrassing follies, cherished and mourned my first kiss(es), endured pangs of regret for all the friends I've lost and the promises I've broken...
Finally, I had no choice but to grit my teeth and throw away as many things as I could bear. Real, hard thought had gone into it - there was simply no more space in my room for everything. Natural instinct bade me to hold on tight to everything, because they were irreplaceable, but things don't work like that.
Today, although I cleared tons of excess baggage, I spruced up my room enough to make way for the first signs that University is around the corner - two spanking new Law textbooks. Making way for the new, both physically and emotionally, is an oft overlooked yet crucial aspect of maintaining room sanity.
And, cliche as it may sound, life's a bit like that.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Setbacks
In His big plan, everything happens for a reason.
Every success basking defiantly against impending failure, but more importantly, every failure putting into motion the chain of events that eventually germinate succes.
How often have we been shown illustrations of this never-ending cycle, mostly in the form of pep talks to remind us that the failure of today will lead to a better tomorrow. For example, the ancient Chinese farmer whose prized horse injured his son, only to realise that the son had been spared military drafting.
I guess somehow we all do know, that we can never give up, that we must strive onwards no matter how far back we fall, in the hopes that we will eventually catch up.
But oh, how dark and spirit-sapping can failures and setbacks be.
Every success basking defiantly against impending failure, but more importantly, every failure putting into motion the chain of events that eventually germinate succes.
How often have we been shown illustrations of this never-ending cycle, mostly in the form of pep talks to remind us that the failure of today will lead to a better tomorrow. For example, the ancient Chinese farmer whose prized horse injured his son, only to realise that the son had been spared military drafting.
I guess somehow we all do know, that we can never give up, that we must strive onwards no matter how far back we fall, in the hopes that we will eventually catch up.
But oh, how dark and spirit-sapping can failures and setbacks be.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Couples
If you were asked, which part of your partner's physical body do you value the most, what would you say?
To tell you the truth, I was surprised by the results culled from this survey in FHM a while back (not that I read the thing, it was just that my friends mentioned it). I guess it's some basic wiring in our brains (men, at least) that makes us think in ways we cannot understand, for how else will you explain that over 60% of those polled valued fats (in very strategic areas, at least) over brains?
Because, in essence, a relationship between two people is intangible, right? A meeting of minds, a mutual understanding, that sort of thing. If you really loved someone, all you would require to keep things going is just the brains - all of the person's personality, eccentricities, inclinations, are all in essence encapsulated in the brain. In theory, if you really loved a person for who that person is, you could transfer his/her brain to any other human being, ugly or beautiful, and still love him/her, right?
At least, that's the moral in Beauty and the Beast.
The thing that leaves me scratching my head though, is the question of how much physical presence matters, and why. Why is it important for human beings to be in physical contact with each other? Does logic not dictate that as long as two people keep communicating, it doesn't matter if they don't actually see each other?
Now, do think about that last one. When was the last time you saw a couple who were not spending enough physical time with each other, work out?
Good. We have now established that relationships require a certain element of physical togetherness to succeed. Oh come on, all those detractors to this theory of mine, let's see you marry your pen-pals from some nether corner of the world ya? Yeah, you could even have your kids by post. Certainly brings new meaning to the term postal delivery.
The interesting bit only starts here. If you acknowledge that your partner's physical presence is important to you, then how much is enough? Is seeing your partner, but never holding your partner physically, sufficient?
I find this little debate interesting, precisely because it is so confusing. I've long noticed how new couples usually spend a significant amount of time working out just how often they need to see each other - frequently, Partner A would be wanting to see more and more of the other, while Partner B gets sick if they meet too often. Different people just have way different perspectives, I guess.
Its really a human phenomenon that's never seen the light of cinema. Imagine the movie Troy. A guy goes to extreme lengths just to recover posession of this babe Helen, only after it's all said and done, he realises he's bored with her company and goes off to play golf.
You think something like this can be resolved with time? Haha, pop this debate to your parents over dinner, and watch old, unresolved issues crawl out of the woodwork as they try to explain their disparate, differing perspectives. Trust me, it's good for a laugh. =)
To tell you the truth, I was surprised by the results culled from this survey in FHM a while back (not that I read the thing, it was just that my friends mentioned it). I guess it's some basic wiring in our brains (men, at least) that makes us think in ways we cannot understand, for how else will you explain that over 60% of those polled valued fats (in very strategic areas, at least) over brains?
Because, in essence, a relationship between two people is intangible, right? A meeting of minds, a mutual understanding, that sort of thing. If you really loved someone, all you would require to keep things going is just the brains - all of the person's personality, eccentricities, inclinations, are all in essence encapsulated in the brain. In theory, if you really loved a person for who that person is, you could transfer his/her brain to any other human being, ugly or beautiful, and still love him/her, right?
At least, that's the moral in Beauty and the Beast.
The thing that leaves me scratching my head though, is the question of how much physical presence matters, and why. Why is it important for human beings to be in physical contact with each other? Does logic not dictate that as long as two people keep communicating, it doesn't matter if they don't actually see each other?
Now, do think about that last one. When was the last time you saw a couple who were not spending enough physical time with each other, work out?
Good. We have now established that relationships require a certain element of physical togetherness to succeed. Oh come on, all those detractors to this theory of mine, let's see you marry your pen-pals from some nether corner of the world ya? Yeah, you could even have your kids by post. Certainly brings new meaning to the term postal delivery.
The interesting bit only starts here. If you acknowledge that your partner's physical presence is important to you, then how much is enough? Is seeing your partner, but never holding your partner physically, sufficient?
I find this little debate interesting, precisely because it is so confusing. I've long noticed how new couples usually spend a significant amount of time working out just how often they need to see each other - frequently, Partner A would be wanting to see more and more of the other, while Partner B gets sick if they meet too often. Different people just have way different perspectives, I guess.
Its really a human phenomenon that's never seen the light of cinema. Imagine the movie Troy. A guy goes to extreme lengths just to recover posession of this babe Helen, only after it's all said and done, he realises he's bored with her company and goes off to play golf.
You think something like this can be resolved with time? Haha, pop this debate to your parents over dinner, and watch old, unresolved issues crawl out of the woodwork as they try to explain their disparate, differing perspectives. Trust me, it's good for a laugh. =)
Friday, April 15, 2005
Green Men Flashing: A Poem
I was crossing this junction the other day
Crossing, of course, the prescribed safe way
When I noticed I had some company
In the form of an elderly granny
Who didn't walk as much as lumbered
On account of the fact that she was quite encumbered
She had all manner of electronic gadgets strapped to her back
Probably an IPod the only thing she seemed to lack
With LCD screens, keypads and little radars
Black cables, Bluetooth logos, even an antenna
To me she had long since crossed from being a techno-geek
Into the wild uncharted territory of a techno-freak
And I thought, 'How strange is that?
Would she have the time for a little chat?'
So I sidled up to her and spoke most calmly,
'Dear granny don't you find your getup an anomaly?
Are you really a granny concealing a big surprise,
Or a wealthy teen in elderly disguise?'
She smiled at me, with a twinkle in her eyes
'No, no, there's hardly any surprise'
And she smoothly produced a card from a hidden compartment
Which officially said she was from the Traffic Department
An important arm of the LTA
But nothing else did the little card say
Now a little light had been shed yet the mystery remained
And by that card my curiousity sparked rather than waned
Could it be that there was a purpose to her actions
Important enough to merit the LTA's sanction?
If so whatever could her mission be
To walk across a junction equipped like a Christmas tree?
Oh, the look of befuddlement that I wore
Prodded her on to explain some more
'If you needed a way to estimate how long it'll take
(And your estimate could be anything but vague)
For the average man to make it across a road comfortably
Wouldn't using little old ladies in trials occur immdiately?
'For while most people would run or even dash
Little old ladies are anything but rash
We'll take our time and only cross when we can
And since we take longer than the average man
The time I take affects when the Green Man starts flashing
Thus saving the engineers at HQ a lot of guessing'
I then pointed to the equipment she took pains to carry
Asking if if all that was really necessary
She shrugged and said it was a waste of money
A simple stopwatch was better than all the baloney
But ever since her bosses said it was image-maintaining
She had borne her load and stopped complaining
And with that she continued on her way
But not, of course, without some delay
For my questions and her loquacious attitude
Resulted in a delay of a certain magnitude
And to this day at that junction
The Flashing Man takes longer than his brothers to function
Quick, someone! Give me something better to do with my time!
Crossing, of course, the prescribed safe way
When I noticed I had some company
In the form of an elderly granny
Who didn't walk as much as lumbered
On account of the fact that she was quite encumbered
She had all manner of electronic gadgets strapped to her back
Probably an IPod the only thing she seemed to lack
With LCD screens, keypads and little radars
Black cables, Bluetooth logos, even an antenna
To me she had long since crossed from being a techno-geek
Into the wild uncharted territory of a techno-freak
And I thought, 'How strange is that?
Would she have the time for a little chat?'
So I sidled up to her and spoke most calmly,
'Dear granny don't you find your getup an anomaly?
Are you really a granny concealing a big surprise,
Or a wealthy teen in elderly disguise?'
She smiled at me, with a twinkle in her eyes
'No, no, there's hardly any surprise'
And she smoothly produced a card from a hidden compartment
Which officially said she was from the Traffic Department
An important arm of the LTA
But nothing else did the little card say
Now a little light had been shed yet the mystery remained
And by that card my curiousity sparked rather than waned
Could it be that there was a purpose to her actions
Important enough to merit the LTA's sanction?
If so whatever could her mission be
To walk across a junction equipped like a Christmas tree?
Oh, the look of befuddlement that I wore
Prodded her on to explain some more
'If you needed a way to estimate how long it'll take
(And your estimate could be anything but vague)
For the average man to make it across a road comfortably
Wouldn't using little old ladies in trials occur immdiately?
'For while most people would run or even dash
Little old ladies are anything but rash
We'll take our time and only cross when we can
And since we take longer than the average man
The time I take affects when the Green Man starts flashing
Thus saving the engineers at HQ a lot of guessing'
I then pointed to the equipment she took pains to carry
Asking if if all that was really necessary
She shrugged and said it was a waste of money
A simple stopwatch was better than all the baloney
But ever since her bosses said it was image-maintaining
She had borne her load and stopped complaining
And with that she continued on her way
But not, of course, without some delay
For my questions and her loquacious attitude
Resulted in a delay of a certain magnitude
And to this day at that junction
The Flashing Man takes longer than his brothers to function
Quick, someone! Give me something better to do with my time!
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Sunshine From The Past 5: VTW
It began with just my colleague and I. We passed each other on the stairs leading to the trainees' bunks, and we impulsively sat on the steps to discuss a particularly thorny conflict among two recruits. The thing was, another colleague who was on his way down, saw us and joined us.
One officer and two sergeants, sitting on the stairs just a stone's throw from the recruits.
Like a silly local sitcom, another colleague passed us and also joined us. Then another. Then, another. Just as we spaced ourselves out on three different steps to form a little circle, the remaining permanent staff walked up the stairs, returning from their coffee break.
Now, three officers and 5 sergeants, sitting on the stairs, passing around curry puffs and packet kopis.
A fitting end to the hastily-convened EGM played out thus: our current batch of recruits started coming down the stairs, and when they saw all of their superiors sitting around on the stairs, laughing and joking like they were at a Starbucks instead of a flight of stairs cleaned by recruit power, they were simply so stunned they stopped and stared!
That was the moment. The moment where I looked around that circle and was so seized by the camaraderie my wing had formed amongst itself. People from such diverse walks of life, brought together by circumstance and army tyranny, bonded by shared experiences and a common love for torture (just kidding). Friends in peace, team-mates in training, brothers in war.
How can anyone leave the army without such poignant memories as these?
One officer and two sergeants, sitting on the stairs just a stone's throw from the recruits.
Like a silly local sitcom, another colleague passed us and also joined us. Then another. Then, another. Just as we spaced ourselves out on three different steps to form a little circle, the remaining permanent staff walked up the stairs, returning from their coffee break.
Now, three officers and 5 sergeants, sitting on the stairs, passing around curry puffs and packet kopis.
A fitting end to the hastily-convened EGM played out thus: our current batch of recruits started coming down the stairs, and when they saw all of their superiors sitting around on the stairs, laughing and joking like they were at a Starbucks instead of a flight of stairs cleaned by recruit power, they were simply so stunned they stopped and stared!
That was the moment. The moment where I looked around that circle and was so seized by the camaraderie my wing had formed amongst itself. People from such diverse walks of life, brought together by circumstance and army tyranny, bonded by shared experiences and a common love for torture (just kidding). Friends in peace, team-mates in training, brothers in war.
How can anyone leave the army without such poignant memories as these?
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Lawyer Girls
I've long maintained that although most people have separate personas for their professional and personal lives, it is not uncommon for traits adopted in the professional world to seep over to the personal side. Thus I've always joked with friends about how they must be out of their minds to want to marry a female lawyer - stable income, cultured brains and dressed-to-kill looks aside, who wants to be losing every single domestic argument with the wife, forever?
A long-time excuse I've employed to wriggle my way out of drinking with friends, is that drinking always brings out the animal in me. This particular remark alternately completely disgusts and overwhelmingly impresses my friends to the point where they are so flabbergasted, they forget about inducting me to the world of bad beer and libido-cramping headaches.
And that excuse has always worked... until now.
When this law-student friend of mine (yes, female) asked me why I wasn't having any beer to go with the mussel dinner I ordered, I used that excuse... to a disgraceful effect. Reenacted, it went something like... this.
Liz: So, Greek God, why aren't you having any Heineken with those mussels?
GG: Nah, not tonight. Alcohol always brings out the animal in me.
Liz: Oh, what? Hamster ah?
GG: Blakewnnbfjflkmwemdn... *continues spluttering*
And yeah, going by the universal law of retorts, I'll think of some brilliant reply.... probably... by next year. Sigh.
A long-time excuse I've employed to wriggle my way out of drinking with friends, is that drinking always brings out the animal in me. This particular remark alternately completely disgusts and overwhelmingly impresses my friends to the point where they are so flabbergasted, they forget about inducting me to the world of bad beer and libido-cramping headaches.
And that excuse has always worked... until now.
When this law-student friend of mine (yes, female) asked me why I wasn't having any beer to go with the mussel dinner I ordered, I used that excuse... to a disgraceful effect. Reenacted, it went something like... this.
Liz: So, Greek God, why aren't you having any Heineken with those mussels?
GG: Nah, not tonight. Alcohol always brings out the animal in me.
Liz: Oh, what? Hamster ah?
GG: Blakewnnbfjflkmwemdn... *continues spluttering*
And yeah, going by the universal law of retorts, I'll think of some brilliant reply.... probably... by next year. Sigh.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Boyfriends
It occurred to me just now, over a most catastrophic event, that nobody teaches you how to be a good boyfriend.
Girls, on the other hand, have it easier. As far as I can discern, most girls are able to tap into some sprawling network of girlfriends and glean tips on how to be a better girlfriend, from the ability to prioritize time to the skill of henpecking. Guys just don't talk about such things. It's all the testosterone and machismo fogging up our brains. If you asked a guy how one could be a better boyfriend, he'll be obliged to say:
"Oh, you just gotta keep her in check, let her know who's boss, don't take any nonsense from her." Yeah. I could get better advice from a plate of satay.
When I was growing up, I knew I couldn't count on my dad to educate me in this particular specialized branch of knowledge. Heck, I knew it from the time he refused to affliate his fan club to mine, citing the driving principle that I needed to learn how to mesmerize on my own two feet.
Therefore, I modeled myself after what other boyfriends were not. And this is true. I used to read all those trashy teenage magazines, and after encountering sob letter after sob letter from girlfriends being driven up the wall by their uniformly crazed, neurotic and ***-obsessed boyfriends (oh come on, how many three-letter words would fit in there), I thought being a good boyfriend couldn't be that tough.
Unfortunately, as my brilliant and fantastic track record has shown, I positively suck at it.
It's amazing how many times I know what's the wrong thing to say, but still end up saying it anyway. It's mind-boggling how often I depress rather than uplift, by dint of some poorly-thought out gesture. When I wake up in the morning, and count the number of girlfriends (just one, to avoid any further complications) I still have, I'm as surprised as a man running through a minefield would, on discovering he still has two feet.
The worst part of it all is when you witness the look of pain, the tone of anguish your loved one possesses right after you screw up. It's then that you feel so ultimately repulsed by your own sordid actions that you no longer feel like Hanting, Idol of a million girls across 5 continents and 6 racial barriers.
You just feel like Hanting, Sentient Piece of Turd.
Girls, on the other hand, have it easier. As far as I can discern, most girls are able to tap into some sprawling network of girlfriends and glean tips on how to be a better girlfriend, from the ability to prioritize time to the skill of henpecking. Guys just don't talk about such things. It's all the testosterone and machismo fogging up our brains. If you asked a guy how one could be a better boyfriend, he'll be obliged to say:
"Oh, you just gotta keep her in check, let her know who's boss, don't take any nonsense from her." Yeah. I could get better advice from a plate of satay.
When I was growing up, I knew I couldn't count on my dad to educate me in this particular specialized branch of knowledge. Heck, I knew it from the time he refused to affliate his fan club to mine, citing the driving principle that I needed to learn how to mesmerize on my own two feet.
Therefore, I modeled myself after what other boyfriends were not. And this is true. I used to read all those trashy teenage magazines, and after encountering sob letter after sob letter from girlfriends being driven up the wall by their uniformly crazed, neurotic and ***-obsessed boyfriends (oh come on, how many three-letter words would fit in there), I thought being a good boyfriend couldn't be that tough.
Unfortunately, as my brilliant and fantastic track record has shown, I positively suck at it.
It's amazing how many times I know what's the wrong thing to say, but still end up saying it anyway. It's mind-boggling how often I depress rather than uplift, by dint of some poorly-thought out gesture. When I wake up in the morning, and count the number of girlfriends (just one, to avoid any further complications) I still have, I'm as surprised as a man running through a minefield would, on discovering he still has two feet.
The worst part of it all is when you witness the look of pain, the tone of anguish your loved one possesses right after you screw up. It's then that you feel so ultimately repulsed by your own sordid actions that you no longer feel like Hanting, Idol of a million girls across 5 continents and 6 racial barriers.
You just feel like Hanting, Sentient Piece of Turd.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Dreams 2: Pink Stuff
One of the trickiest parts of dreaming, is how you actually try to relate the entire vividness of it all to someone else.
Take for example, Alex Wee (name has been changed to protect the innocent). Once I tried to relate to her how I had dreamt of some really normal stuff, like I was taking a walk in some garden or something, but quite unexpectedly there was a gain in translation and before I could stop myself she ended up with the impression that I was dreaming Really Wicked Things.
Other times when telling your dreams to other people doesn't ruin your reputation, it somehow just makes you seem silly. Well, last night I had a really scary dream. I dreamt that I was in some tall building, and when I looked out the window there was this really huge thunderstormy cloud streaking across the skyline. Black as a girlfriend's face after you tell her you idolize Daphne, the menacing cloud suddenly evaporated, leaving three really huge, pink aliens discussing their plans to take over the world.
Now I don't care what you say about me or my guts (the lack of it), but the dream really was freaky.
Take for example, Alex Wee (name has been changed to protect the innocent). Once I tried to relate to her how I had dreamt of some really normal stuff, like I was taking a walk in some garden or something, but quite unexpectedly there was a gain in translation and before I could stop myself she ended up with the impression that I was dreaming Really Wicked Things.
Other times when telling your dreams to other people doesn't ruin your reputation, it somehow just makes you seem silly. Well, last night I had a really scary dream. I dreamt that I was in some tall building, and when I looked out the window there was this really huge thunderstormy cloud streaking across the skyline. Black as a girlfriend's face after you tell her you idolize Daphne, the menacing cloud suddenly evaporated, leaving three really huge, pink aliens discussing their plans to take over the world.
Now I don't care what you say about me or my guts (the lack of it), but the dream really was freaky.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Exams
For the first time ever, in my life, I think I have never been so happy that someone else's exams are over.
=)
=)
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Amputations
One of the very last few options a doctor (or at least a good one) will ever resort to - to amputate. And there's good reason why we leave it up to them to decide. The average man in the street would lack the experience, knowledge and presence of mind to make the call when it's necessary. Most of the time, doctors are left with no choice but to suggest amputation - better the surgical removal of a gangrenous limb than the endangering of the whole.
So then we worry less when it comes to medical affairs. And it is also when we move on to personal affairs that it is most strikingly obvious, that we could do with a lot more experience, knowledge and presence of mind.
I am at a sudden loss of verbosity, so forgive the lack of gracefulness in the way my words flow today. I think, that if you have just gone through a break-up, you need to make some hard decisions, and fast. Pessimistic and cynical though the above advice might ring, the truth is, very few breakups manage to weld back as seamlessly as the ones in movies do. Most of the time, one partner is left hanging, and it is in limbo that one endures the most.
At some point in time you just have to scoop up all the broken dreams, shattered hopes and move on. You can be sentimental, yes, and when you're sixty you can still reminisce and sigh wistfully everytime you pass by the place where you first kissed her. But if you're sixty, and instead of just treasuring the memories you're still pursuing the elusive maiden who's now a grandma with a brood that's not yours, you're not sentimental, you're mental.
I might be wrong, yes. Maybe this life of ours really should be spent in painful pursuit of whatever our initial dreams enticed us with. Maybe when you agonize after months and months, and finally regain that lost love, do you find that she's truly worth it all.
But then again, I might be right. This time, I doubt there'll be doctors around to help.
So then we worry less when it comes to medical affairs. And it is also when we move on to personal affairs that it is most strikingly obvious, that we could do with a lot more experience, knowledge and presence of mind.
I am at a sudden loss of verbosity, so forgive the lack of gracefulness in the way my words flow today. I think, that if you have just gone through a break-up, you need to make some hard decisions, and fast. Pessimistic and cynical though the above advice might ring, the truth is, very few breakups manage to weld back as seamlessly as the ones in movies do. Most of the time, one partner is left hanging, and it is in limbo that one endures the most.
At some point in time you just have to scoop up all the broken dreams, shattered hopes and move on. You can be sentimental, yes, and when you're sixty you can still reminisce and sigh wistfully everytime you pass by the place where you first kissed her. But if you're sixty, and instead of just treasuring the memories you're still pursuing the elusive maiden who's now a grandma with a brood that's not yours, you're not sentimental, you're mental.
I might be wrong, yes. Maybe this life of ours really should be spent in painful pursuit of whatever our initial dreams enticed us with. Maybe when you agonize after months and months, and finally regain that lost love, do you find that she's truly worth it all.
But then again, I might be right. This time, I doubt there'll be doctors around to help.
Dreams 1: Trying to Understand
For the longest times people have been dreaming of the strangest things, and in turn other people have been trying to interpret those dreams. Of course, in the past people thought that their dreams had some actual prophetic effect on the events in reality, but nowadays most people accept that it is in fact the reverse, that your experiences in daily life influence your dreams.
So, how much do we need to worry about the kind of stuff we dream about? Should we get jealous if our partners in life dream of other people?
Considering the entire argument that our dreams also reflect our subconscious, should we worry about the stuff our subconscious is trying to tell us? I know I should be worried, because I do dream of the darkest, most frowned upon and depraved human acts... for example, in one dream I finished my meal at Macs, and actually did not return my tray. Other times I cut queues, or allowed my phone to ring in cinemas.
Sometimes dreams do scare me though. Dreams seem to dreg up memories or thoughts that had been stowed away in the deepest recesses of your mind. They bring to light once again unresolved tensions that have been forgetten rather than resolved.
And when you wake from your slumber, heart still a-poundin', you face the concious choice: to forget, or to somehow resolve?
So, how much do we need to worry about the kind of stuff we dream about? Should we get jealous if our partners in life dream of other people?
Considering the entire argument that our dreams also reflect our subconscious, should we worry about the stuff our subconscious is trying to tell us? I know I should be worried, because I do dream of the darkest, most frowned upon and depraved human acts... for example, in one dream I finished my meal at Macs, and actually did not return my tray. Other times I cut queues, or allowed my phone to ring in cinemas.
Sometimes dreams do scare me though. Dreams seem to dreg up memories or thoughts that had been stowed away in the deepest recesses of your mind. They bring to light once again unresolved tensions that have been forgetten rather than resolved.
And when you wake from your slumber, heart still a-poundin', you face the concious choice: to forget, or to somehow resolve?
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Reunited... And It Feels So Good
The only thought that gripped my mind was, would she still recognize me?
By now my longing for her had taken root as a dull ache inside, twisting and churning everytime I saw other more fortunate guys on the street. Back in my school days she was always with me, wherever I went, always by my side. Army soon put an end to that, and I think I never really adjusted to her absence. I told myself that I had to move on, adapt to life as it was, but while I might have fooled everyone else, there was still one person I couldn't quite convince.
Would things be the same? Would time apart have changed our dynamics irrevocably? Sometimes it felt as if there were just too many obstacles between us, as if all the effort I could muster wouldn't even give me a glimpse of her. Yet every time I thought I had worked her out of my system, some small thing would trigger all the memories again. Such exquisite pain as I've never known.
And now, the prospect of meeting her again. It seemed so very unreal.
The guy at the counter somehow seemed to empathize with me, and the kindred expression he wore comforted me somewhat. "It is time," he said, "and you can come this way." For all the times he has helped poor separated couples like me and her reunite, I wondered if he ever truly understood how we felt, the storming sea of emotions we had to quell constantly. For his sake, I wished he didn't.
The next I looked, I spotted her. Tears came to my eyes, unbidden.
When our gazes interlocked a lot of words suddenly became unnecessary. Yes, eventually we would have to work around clumsy conversations to fully reintegrate, but for now it didn't matter. The moment I saw her expression I knew that there was still hope for us, that there was space in both our lives for each other, and that was all that mattered.
Just both of us together, beginning the rest of our lives. My Pink IC and I.
By now my longing for her had taken root as a dull ache inside, twisting and churning everytime I saw other more fortunate guys on the street. Back in my school days she was always with me, wherever I went, always by my side. Army soon put an end to that, and I think I never really adjusted to her absence. I told myself that I had to move on, adapt to life as it was, but while I might have fooled everyone else, there was still one person I couldn't quite convince.
Would things be the same? Would time apart have changed our dynamics irrevocably? Sometimes it felt as if there were just too many obstacles between us, as if all the effort I could muster wouldn't even give me a glimpse of her. Yet every time I thought I had worked her out of my system, some small thing would trigger all the memories again. Such exquisite pain as I've never known.
And now, the prospect of meeting her again. It seemed so very unreal.
The guy at the counter somehow seemed to empathize with me, and the kindred expression he wore comforted me somewhat. "It is time," he said, "and you can come this way." For all the times he has helped poor separated couples like me and her reunite, I wondered if he ever truly understood how we felt, the storming sea of emotions we had to quell constantly. For his sake, I wished he didn't.
The next I looked, I spotted her. Tears came to my eyes, unbidden.
When our gazes interlocked a lot of words suddenly became unnecessary. Yes, eventually we would have to work around clumsy conversations to fully reintegrate, but for now it didn't matter. The moment I saw her expression I knew that there was still hope for us, that there was space in both our lives for each other, and that was all that mattered.
Just both of us together, beginning the rest of our lives. My Pink IC and I.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
China 4: Driving
In the Singaporean context, the average person learning driving will spend his first lesson being introduced to the various components of the car, followed by the recommended ways of gripping the steering wheel. In China, I highly suspect they just tell you where the horn is, how important it is to keep sounding it, and then wish you well.
In fact, I was actually struck by the relative quietness of our Singaporean roads on my return. The taxt driver in our cab back from the airport looked like the kind who could fulfill any traffic policeman's quota for a month, but I think in Shanghai he might have gotten a job as a Board of Safe Driving consultant.
You simply just have to experience it to know what I mean.
The long and weary path to a driving license in China is ironically harder to obtain. Apparantly, all applying suicidal-daredevils have to first sit through a tedious True/False theory exam, which was (at least two years ago) impossible to pass on the first few attempts unless you brought some loose change along, if you know what I mean.
After which, the learners had to chalk up 60+ hours of driving experience before they sat for the practical test. The tricky part was, as the driving centres are all located in the suburbs, it didn't make sense to travel for 2 hours to the driving centre, drive for an hour and a half and then go home, much like we do over here. Thus, they actually report first thing in the morning at six, and drive all the way till seven in the evening before they end.
Oh, and did I mention that four students would share a car? At the same time?
It is for the above reasons that I hardly know of any Singaporean driving in China. Most prefer to hire a chauffeur, a job package which, as an unwritten rule, also includes the extra services of representing you in any heated traffic dispute. I don't think anyone (in their right minds) would also want to go through all the agony of getting a lousy license again over in China.
If you ask me, if I had to endure so much just to drive, I would be one disgruntled, aggressive and abusive driver. Which would explain quite a lot.
In fact, I was actually struck by the relative quietness of our Singaporean roads on my return. The taxt driver in our cab back from the airport looked like the kind who could fulfill any traffic policeman's quota for a month, but I think in Shanghai he might have gotten a job as a Board of Safe Driving consultant.
You simply just have to experience it to know what I mean.
The long and weary path to a driving license in China is ironically harder to obtain. Apparantly, all applying suicidal-daredevils have to first sit through a tedious True/False theory exam, which was (at least two years ago) impossible to pass on the first few attempts unless you brought some loose change along, if you know what I mean.
After which, the learners had to chalk up 60+ hours of driving experience before they sat for the practical test. The tricky part was, as the driving centres are all located in the suburbs, it didn't make sense to travel for 2 hours to the driving centre, drive for an hour and a half and then go home, much like we do over here. Thus, they actually report first thing in the morning at six, and drive all the way till seven in the evening before they end.
Oh, and did I mention that four students would share a car? At the same time?
It is for the above reasons that I hardly know of any Singaporean driving in China. Most prefer to hire a chauffeur, a job package which, as an unwritten rule, also includes the extra services of representing you in any heated traffic dispute. I don't think anyone (in their right minds) would also want to go through all the agony of getting a lousy license again over in China.
If you ask me, if I had to endure so much just to drive, I would be one disgruntled, aggressive and abusive driver. Which would explain quite a lot.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Gifts and Playgrounds
There used to be this playground near my house. I've only brought three friends to the place, Ivan and Alex among them.
The best part about the playground was its location. The value of the small sandpit, modest two-person swing as well as scattered stone benches was bolstered greatly by the fact that the whole playground sat on high ground, overlooking (or for army guys dominating) Ang Mo Kio Ave 5.
The playground had a most soothing, anodyne effect on me. I found that if you were on the swing and you looked down the hill, you had this great panoramic view that made the rest of the world seem so distant, so far-away. How many times I sought refuge at the place!
But it's gone now.
Renovations began a while back, and I thought they just meant to spruce up the place. Yet when I ventured there today, the first time in weeks, I found... a different playground. The swing's gone, along with the sandpit. The stone benches all face away from the slope down the hill. Everything I remembered about it, the romantic quality of the environment, the familiarity of the swing, all gone. Replaced by concrete and concrete and concrete.
Before, when I received gifts of especial value, I would stow them away instead of using them. Today, I came home and unwrapped some gifts, ate others, displayed the remainder. I think sometimes we cherish the gifts in our lives wrongly, keeping them for an indeterminate tomorrow when today would be the best time to appreciate them. If you gave someone a gift, wouldn't you want to see them use it, wear it, eat it?
That old playground was really something special. It deserved more than three of my friends.
The best part about the playground was its location. The value of the small sandpit, modest two-person swing as well as scattered stone benches was bolstered greatly by the fact that the whole playground sat on high ground, overlooking (or for army guys dominating) Ang Mo Kio Ave 5.
The playground had a most soothing, anodyne effect on me. I found that if you were on the swing and you looked down the hill, you had this great panoramic view that made the rest of the world seem so distant, so far-away. How many times I sought refuge at the place!
But it's gone now.
Renovations began a while back, and I thought they just meant to spruce up the place. Yet when I ventured there today, the first time in weeks, I found... a different playground. The swing's gone, along with the sandpit. The stone benches all face away from the slope down the hill. Everything I remembered about it, the romantic quality of the environment, the familiarity of the swing, all gone. Replaced by concrete and concrete and concrete.
Before, when I received gifts of especial value, I would stow them away instead of using them. Today, I came home and unwrapped some gifts, ate others, displayed the remainder. I think sometimes we cherish the gifts in our lives wrongly, keeping them for an indeterminate tomorrow when today would be the best time to appreciate them. If you gave someone a gift, wouldn't you want to see them use it, wear it, eat it?
That old playground was really something special. It deserved more than three of my friends.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
China 3: Parents and Children
You know what they say, parents will always perceive their children as needing protection and guidance, no matter how old their progeny has become.
You want proof? Hey, take a gander at my dad.
When I was younger I'm told I suffered from severe speech problems, at one point being unable to speak in full coherent sentences or understand proper English for up to two years (before I was two). As a result, my parents would take the pain of translating the mechanisms of the world into accessible language for me, trying to ensure I learnt as fast as I could.
Unfortunately, they haven't stopped doing so.
My dad and I were at the Summer Palace, when our tour guide began her historical briefing. The irritating thing was, my dad began to translate everything she was saying for me. In effect, I would receive the Mandarin Historical Account first (which I fully understood), followed seamlessly by the English Totally-Useless-Historical Account.
On account of the loving care my dad has showered on me over all the years, I resisted the urge to bite him.
My mum's not much dissimilar. Seized by an inexplicable urge to get sporty two weeks ago, I begged my dad to get me a pair of blades. Surprisingly, my mum objected most vehemently, saying that she didn't want me to get hurt before we went overseas. When she said that, my brain just hung. I mean, this is the mum who's seen me through 2+ years of army, chided me for being chicken when I refused to clear the maggots... what the hell am I going to tell my men in camp when they ask me why I don't blade? That my mum is afraid I'll get hurt?!?
I'm not an ungrateful brat, don't get me wrong. At the end of the day, I still get this warm feeling inside knowing my parents still keep an eye out for me, that I'll always have someone to turn to. Parents are wonderful creatures.
But I swear, the next time my dad translates Mandarin for me again, I will bite him.
You want proof? Hey, take a gander at my dad.
When I was younger I'm told I suffered from severe speech problems, at one point being unable to speak in full coherent sentences or understand proper English for up to two years (before I was two). As a result, my parents would take the pain of translating the mechanisms of the world into accessible language for me, trying to ensure I learnt as fast as I could.
Unfortunately, they haven't stopped doing so.
My dad and I were at the Summer Palace, when our tour guide began her historical briefing. The irritating thing was, my dad began to translate everything she was saying for me. In effect, I would receive the Mandarin Historical Account first (which I fully understood), followed seamlessly by the English Totally-Useless-Historical Account.
On account of the loving care my dad has showered on me over all the years, I resisted the urge to bite him.
My mum's not much dissimilar. Seized by an inexplicable urge to get sporty two weeks ago, I begged my dad to get me a pair of blades. Surprisingly, my mum objected most vehemently, saying that she didn't want me to get hurt before we went overseas. When she said that, my brain just hung. I mean, this is the mum who's seen me through 2+ years of army, chided me for being chicken when I refused to clear the maggots... what the hell am I going to tell my men in camp when they ask me why I don't blade? That my mum is afraid I'll get hurt?!?
I'm not an ungrateful brat, don't get me wrong. At the end of the day, I still get this warm feeling inside knowing my parents still keep an eye out for me, that I'll always have someone to turn to. Parents are wonderful creatures.
But I swear, the next time my dad translates Mandarin for me again, I will bite him.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
China 2: Beauty
We were sitting around to lunch when Uncle Richard mentioned, off-hand, that the prettiest ladies in China are probably from Beijing.
We all took a good look around.
You're right, Uncle Edwin said. After further observation, he calculated that if you were to throw a stone, you could probably hit a few pretty ladies, here in Beijing. Far more than you would hit if you were in Singapore, since Beijing's population stands at four times that of Singapore's. My dad spoke up then, the eternal devil's advocate.
"Look, if Beijing has four times the number of pretty ladies as compared to that of Singapore, then wouldn't the number of unpretty ladies be four times more as well? So if you were to really throw a stone, the chances of you hitting an unpretty lady would be much higher too!"
We all took another good look around. It seemed to me as if the unpretty ladies in Beijing were doing a pretty (no pun intended) darn good job of avoiding thrown stones.
Truth is, it's all in the attitude. The Straits Times mentioned in an article last year, how sociologists found that a person's behaviour directly influenced the way others perceived them. Thus, the good-looking but badly-behaving people tended to score good first impressions but slid down the appraisal scale quickly (how many of you envy Paris Hilton?). And of course, vice versa.
Just think about it, how many secret crushes have you had on someone who wasn't conventional Maggie Chung or Hanting material? And even as your close friends think you mad or tasteless, you know deep inside that you've seen something special in that crush that your unfortunate friends haven't yet noticed. It's just like the moral Will Smith expounds in Hitch - beauty might create opportunities, but ultimately it's you who's going to decide how to proceed with the opportunities.
So please, all of you who are on diets that are so miserable even bacteria would go elsewhere to colonize. Eat up, worry less, and polish that smile of yours.
We all took a good look around.
You're right, Uncle Edwin said. After further observation, he calculated that if you were to throw a stone, you could probably hit a few pretty ladies, here in Beijing. Far more than you would hit if you were in Singapore, since Beijing's population stands at four times that of Singapore's. My dad spoke up then, the eternal devil's advocate.
"Look, if Beijing has four times the number of pretty ladies as compared to that of Singapore, then wouldn't the number of unpretty ladies be four times more as well? So if you were to really throw a stone, the chances of you hitting an unpretty lady would be much higher too!"
We all took another good look around. It seemed to me as if the unpretty ladies in Beijing were doing a pretty (no pun intended) darn good job of avoiding thrown stones.
Truth is, it's all in the attitude. The Straits Times mentioned in an article last year, how sociologists found that a person's behaviour directly influenced the way others perceived them. Thus, the good-looking but badly-behaving people tended to score good first impressions but slid down the appraisal scale quickly (how many of you envy Paris Hilton?). And of course, vice versa.
Just think about it, how many secret crushes have you had on someone who wasn't conventional Maggie Chung or Hanting material? And even as your close friends think you mad or tasteless, you know deep inside that you've seen something special in that crush that your unfortunate friends haven't yet noticed. It's just like the moral Will Smith expounds in Hitch - beauty might create opportunities, but ultimately it's you who's going to decide how to proceed with the opportunities.
So please, all of you who are on diets that are so miserable even bacteria would go elsewhere to colonize. Eat up, worry less, and polish that smile of yours.
China 1: Suppression of Free Speech
When I met Lip Jin on MSN, I poured out my Blogger woes to him. You see, travelling inspires me, and during the last week while I was in China I kept meaning to write but simply couldn't log on to Blogger.
"Hanting, maybe it's China la. Suppression of free speech and everything."
To tell the truth, initially I thought he was just kidding. I mean, yeah, everyone knows that China is communist and everything, but would they really go block the website?
It was only after five nights of repeated, frustrated attempts to log on that I searched for "Blogger + China + block" under Google, and yeah, Lippy's right.
Therefore I had to wait until I got home to loving Singapore, where they let the men learn how to kill using guns before letting them watch RA movies, to regain my freedom of speech.
Nothing like home. =)
"Hanting, maybe it's China la. Suppression of free speech and everything."
To tell the truth, initially I thought he was just kidding. I mean, yeah, everyone knows that China is communist and everything, but would they really go block the website?
It was only after five nights of repeated, frustrated attempts to log on that I searched for "Blogger + China + block" under Google, and yeah, Lippy's right.
Therefore I had to wait until I got home to loving Singapore, where they let the men learn how to kill using guns before letting them watch RA movies, to regain my freedom of speech.
Nothing like home. =)
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Maggots
It was the Critical Moment. As I slipped into my outing clothing, I counted the seconds going by. Research shows that in almost 90% of all instances of children being enslaved to do household chores, the event which triggers a Call To Duty by parents is when the children are getting dressed to go out. Uncanny, yet true. Hence, the term Critical Moment.
"Hanting! Quick! Come here!" yelled my mother from the backyard. Right on time.
I surveyed this particular rack in the backyard that demanded my attention, and my blood ran cold. We used it to stack old newspapers, and the karang guni man had discovered a motherload of maggots nesting in the topmost rack.
"Ok, you've got to kill the maggots first, then clear the newspapers, then disinfect the entire area." My mother pressed a bottle of insecticide into my hands, then took an appreciable step back. Looking back at the maggots, layers upon layers of the grimy abominations, I knew what I wanted wasn't a can of Shelltox, I needed a flamethrower.
After five minutes of groaning and moaning about how disgusting the entire thing was, and generally complaining without any work getting done, my mother reminded me that I was a fully trained officer, capable of being drafted for war. I paused midway through my griping, and got a hold of myself.
She was right. Shame washed over me. This wasn't how a young, fiery soldier handled a stressful situation. Youths my age had gone through so much more, take for instance the teenage militants in war-torn countries, or the kids who endure endless repeats of Limp Bizkit. I steeled my stomach, grit my teeth, and followed my honed soldierly instincts.
I went to get a pair of gloves.
The truth is, the best way to bring out the machismo in men is to have a large female audience around. When I was younger and had to face down my first cockroach alone, I drowned it in Shelltox, stabbed it with chopsticks, battered it with a wooden ladle, put newspapers over it and jumped on it. In contrast, when a cockroach appeared at Haoyun's place the other day, I calmly picked it up in my hand and flushed it down the loo.
I just didn't see the need to be macho in front of my mum. I mean, you're not going to impress a lady who's seen the worst of you over all the years, right?
Death to all maggots!
"Hanting! Quick! Come here!" yelled my mother from the backyard. Right on time.
I surveyed this particular rack in the backyard that demanded my attention, and my blood ran cold. We used it to stack old newspapers, and the karang guni man had discovered a motherload of maggots nesting in the topmost rack.
"Ok, you've got to kill the maggots first, then clear the newspapers, then disinfect the entire area." My mother pressed a bottle of insecticide into my hands, then took an appreciable step back. Looking back at the maggots, layers upon layers of the grimy abominations, I knew what I wanted wasn't a can of Shelltox, I needed a flamethrower.
After five minutes of groaning and moaning about how disgusting the entire thing was, and generally complaining without any work getting done, my mother reminded me that I was a fully trained officer, capable of being drafted for war. I paused midway through my griping, and got a hold of myself.
She was right. Shame washed over me. This wasn't how a young, fiery soldier handled a stressful situation. Youths my age had gone through so much more, take for instance the teenage militants in war-torn countries, or the kids who endure endless repeats of Limp Bizkit. I steeled my stomach, grit my teeth, and followed my honed soldierly instincts.
I went to get a pair of gloves.
The truth is, the best way to bring out the machismo in men is to have a large female audience around. When I was younger and had to face down my first cockroach alone, I drowned it in Shelltox, stabbed it with chopsticks, battered it with a wooden ladle, put newspapers over it and jumped on it. In contrast, when a cockroach appeared at Haoyun's place the other day, I calmly picked it up in my hand and flushed it down the loo.
I just didn't see the need to be macho in front of my mum. I mean, you're not going to impress a lady who's seen the worst of you over all the years, right?
Death to all maggots!
Writing Seriously
I'm back!
This is after tons of failed attempts at writing seriously, really. I even wanted to create a sister blog to this one, one with a URL like www.thisisaseriousblogreally.blogspot.com, then realized that no matter how hard I tried to write on various pressing issues, such as the Budget Debate, or the Casino Debate, or the Is-Sylvester-Getting-Married Debate, it wouldn't be long before some twisted or humourous thought would worm its way into the argumentative. Then all my seriousness would go out the window, and I'd end up spending one or two paragraphs self-gratifying or lampooning someone.
Oh well. Best to just keep doing what comes naturally then.
This is after tons of failed attempts at writing seriously, really. I even wanted to create a sister blog to this one, one with a URL like www.thisisaseriousblogreally.blogspot.com, then realized that no matter how hard I tried to write on various pressing issues, such as the Budget Debate, or the Casino Debate, or the Is-Sylvester-Getting-Married Debate, it wouldn't be long before some twisted or humourous thought would worm its way into the argumentative. Then all my seriousness would go out the window, and I'd end up spending one or two paragraphs self-gratifying or lampooning someone.
Oh well. Best to just keep doing what comes naturally then.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Humbled
I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has been visiting my blog. I would also like to take this opportunity to say that I will be taking a break from writing, for a short while.
It happened like this. I was just mucking around on the internet when I found a link to a blog that critiqued the way the Straits Times censored the exchange between MM Lee and NUS undergraduate Jamie Han. From there I followed a link that led to this guy who has a blog dedicated to issues revolving around Singapore, from the way NS is useless and should be made better, to the way we should encourage the young to shake off their political apathy.
The links went on. I had stumbled onto a blog-ring, maintained by some of the brightest minds at NUS.
They discussed how the administration of NUS could be better managed. They argued about national policies across their blogs, challenging each other on so many different levels. They talked about the tsunami, and how different countries have capitalized on the situation. The list goes on.
I am humbled. A blog's such a powerful tool, such a far-reaching platform, and yet I've been abusing it, using my blog to remind people again and again that I am beautiful.
Going to sort things out in my head.
BRB.
It happened like this. I was just mucking around on the internet when I found a link to a blog that critiqued the way the Straits Times censored the exchange between MM Lee and NUS undergraduate Jamie Han. From there I followed a link that led to this guy who has a blog dedicated to issues revolving around Singapore, from the way NS is useless and should be made better, to the way we should encourage the young to shake off their political apathy.
The links went on. I had stumbled onto a blog-ring, maintained by some of the brightest minds at NUS.
They discussed how the administration of NUS could be better managed. They argued about national policies across their blogs, challenging each other on so many different levels. They talked about the tsunami, and how different countries have capitalized on the situation. The list goes on.
I am humbled. A blog's such a powerful tool, such a far-reaching platform, and yet I've been abusing it, using my blog to remind people again and again that I am beautiful.
Going to sort things out in my head.
BRB.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Accident 3: Impact
This very evening, at the junction of Ang Mo Kio Ave 3 and Ang Mo Kio Ave 8, I witnessed an accident in its entirety.
In retrospect the scariest thing about it all was how an idyllic, almost dull moment could develop so drastically into a mind-numbing, life-changing one. This car was heading down Ave 3 across the junction when it crashed into a motorcycle making a right turn from the opposite lane. It's strange, how the busy and noise-polluted junction seemed to freeze for a while, as the tragic event unfolded.
I guess by some peculiar happenstance there was actually a police vehicle waiting to make a right turn, and the alert men in blue reacted swiftly to control the situaiton. The entire scene plays out again and again in my mind's eye, yet I find it so difficult to describe it accurately in words. Suffice to say that after the car hit a stationary taxi and came to a halt, the distraught female driver stumbled out and could barely keep from becoming hysterical as she saw the policemen attend to the fallen motorcyclist.
Tomorrow I will return to the junction, and I will pray tonight that there will be a signboard saying "Serious Accident", rather than "Fatal Accident". The taxi driver of the cab that I was in was more pessimistic, and told me that going by experience, the unnatural way the motorcyclist was splayed out on the road, coupled with the severe degree of blood loss so fast, he thought it would be a miracle if the poor guy survived.
I really don't know about you, but I don't feel the same way about my driver's license anymore.
In retrospect the scariest thing about it all was how an idyllic, almost dull moment could develop so drastically into a mind-numbing, life-changing one. This car was heading down Ave 3 across the junction when it crashed into a motorcycle making a right turn from the opposite lane. It's strange, how the busy and noise-polluted junction seemed to freeze for a while, as the tragic event unfolded.
I guess by some peculiar happenstance there was actually a police vehicle waiting to make a right turn, and the alert men in blue reacted swiftly to control the situaiton. The entire scene plays out again and again in my mind's eye, yet I find it so difficult to describe it accurately in words. Suffice to say that after the car hit a stationary taxi and came to a halt, the distraught female driver stumbled out and could barely keep from becoming hysterical as she saw the policemen attend to the fallen motorcyclist.
Tomorrow I will return to the junction, and I will pray tonight that there will be a signboard saying "Serious Accident", rather than "Fatal Accident". The taxi driver of the cab that I was in was more pessimistic, and told me that going by experience, the unnatural way the motorcyclist was splayed out on the road, coupled with the severe degree of blood loss so fast, he thought it would be a miracle if the poor guy survived.
I really don't know about you, but I don't feel the same way about my driver's license anymore.
Purpose In Life 1: Questioning
A strange thought crossed my mind a while back.
In camp, someone had mistakenly scribbled across a white board using permanent markers. As part of the cleaning-up effort, we were using whiteboard markers to go over the permanent ink, and when we were done we threw away the whiteboard markers.
That's when it struck me. Let's say I were a whiteboard marker, made with the sole aim of writing delible messages on white boards. Assuming I knew what I was made for, would I want to be used to write, and look on in envy at all my sibling markers who fulfill their life's purpose as I lie in my box unused? Or would I be happier remaining unsold in some warehouse or stationary shop?
And what if unlike all my siblings I take the road less travelled, and end up deleting permanent ink instead of being used to write? What then? Glad that I was special, was useful to others, or would I be devastated over never fulfilling my original purpose in life?
What if a marker doesn't know what it was made for, and what its purpose in life is?
But as the army has very strict rules over using brains for constructive thought, especially when you lack substantial rank, I let the thought pass. Maybe one day I'll revisit this... perturbing yet pertinent train of thought.
In camp, someone had mistakenly scribbled across a white board using permanent markers. As part of the cleaning-up effort, we were using whiteboard markers to go over the permanent ink, and when we were done we threw away the whiteboard markers.
That's when it struck me. Let's say I were a whiteboard marker, made with the sole aim of writing delible messages on white boards. Assuming I knew what I was made for, would I want to be used to write, and look on in envy at all my sibling markers who fulfill their life's purpose as I lie in my box unused? Or would I be happier remaining unsold in some warehouse or stationary shop?
And what if unlike all my siblings I take the road less travelled, and end up deleting permanent ink instead of being used to write? What then? Glad that I was special, was useful to others, or would I be devastated over never fulfilling my original purpose in life?
What if a marker doesn't know what it was made for, and what its purpose in life is?
But as the army has very strict rules over using brains for constructive thought, especially when you lack substantial rank, I let the thought pass. Maybe one day I'll revisit this... perturbing yet pertinent train of thought.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Nomenclature
Startled. Then stunned. Then horrified.
I was all that, and more, when I discovered that there is, living on this same little island as I, another person who *gasp* has the same name as me. Lee, HANTING, Justin.
For close to 21 years, I've enjoyed the singular fortune of not having to meet anyone else with the same name as me. Ok, fine, there was this girl (4 years my senior) in RGS who was named Hanting too, but since that name was printed in a yearbook, I believe it's a typo, so it doesn't count. Hah.
Who doesn't want a unique name? People have increasingly found that unique names are better remembered by others, thus providing an added advantage in social or business circles. In fact, a Straits Times report carried this anecdote of this guy in the quarry business, who named his daughter Pebble and his son Rock (I wonder how much they hate their dad). In the same survey, they found more and more people giving themselves Christian names too, in an effort to be remembered better.
As for myself, even though "Hanting" is, or was, probably as unique a Chinese name as you can get (unlike names like Xiao Ming, which appears in thousands in Sentence Construction worksheets across the nation's schools), I began preparing long ago for this unfortunate eventuality, when pure chance would throw up another kid with my name. And that's where the problem begins.
Because, as you probably already well know, Christian names repeat too frequently. Think of... Ben. You have Benjamin Ang (aka Bang), Benjamin Koh (aka Ben Koh), Benjamin Tan (aka Ben). You have... Alex. Alex Ho (aka Alex), Alex Wee (aka Lex aka Worm). And we're not even counting all the Shauns, Kelvins, Adelines.
Every time I look in the mirror, I can't think of a Christian name that would suit myself, without infringing on another person's personality. Sylvester's too toned-down for me (ah see you are already thinking, is he talking about the Sim one or the Stallone one?), Brad's not macho enough, Vin Diesel makes me sound cheap. So taking on an existing name's out of the question for me.
Next, I tried try my hand at making a name for myself (no pun intended). For a while I thought I'll make myself sound like I'm a Honky, so maybe Cash Leong, or Money Leong. For a country that has citizens with names like Noodle Cheng, Toxic Pang and Fruit Chan, I thought I'd fit right in. But after violent protests from my fan club, I thought, ok, let's try more exotic, European-style names. Hence, Beelzebubbly, or maybe Quetzcoatly. Luciferous?
My Christian aunt promptly threw a fit. So that was the end of that.
Just before I gave up, I decided to go with the radical name *H(#&!. For those who don't know, it's pronounced "Crazy Sexy Cool With A Good Bod To Add", only said very, very fast. I gave it up soon though, because people kept mispronouncing it as *h)#&! (Crazydeludedpieceofshit).
So fare you well, Clark Hoo Swee Tiang. I'll stick around with Hanting for the time being. =)
I was all that, and more, when I discovered that there is, living on this same little island as I, another person who *gasp* has the same name as me. Lee, HANTING, Justin.
For close to 21 years, I've enjoyed the singular fortune of not having to meet anyone else with the same name as me. Ok, fine, there was this girl (4 years my senior) in RGS who was named Hanting too, but since that name was printed in a yearbook, I believe it's a typo, so it doesn't count. Hah.
Who doesn't want a unique name? People have increasingly found that unique names are better remembered by others, thus providing an added advantage in social or business circles. In fact, a Straits Times report carried this anecdote of this guy in the quarry business, who named his daughter Pebble and his son Rock (I wonder how much they hate their dad). In the same survey, they found more and more people giving themselves Christian names too, in an effort to be remembered better.
As for myself, even though "Hanting" is, or was, probably as unique a Chinese name as you can get (unlike names like Xiao Ming, which appears in thousands in Sentence Construction worksheets across the nation's schools), I began preparing long ago for this unfortunate eventuality, when pure chance would throw up another kid with my name. And that's where the problem begins.
Because, as you probably already well know, Christian names repeat too frequently. Think of... Ben. You have Benjamin Ang (aka Bang), Benjamin Koh (aka Ben Koh), Benjamin Tan (aka Ben). You have... Alex. Alex Ho (aka Alex), Alex Wee (aka Lex aka Worm). And we're not even counting all the Shauns, Kelvins, Adelines.
Every time I look in the mirror, I can't think of a Christian name that would suit myself, without infringing on another person's personality. Sylvester's too toned-down for me (ah see you are already thinking, is he talking about the Sim one or the Stallone one?), Brad's not macho enough, Vin Diesel makes me sound cheap. So taking on an existing name's out of the question for me.
Next, I tried try my hand at making a name for myself (no pun intended). For a while I thought I'll make myself sound like I'm a Honky, so maybe Cash Leong, or Money Leong. For a country that has citizens with names like Noodle Cheng, Toxic Pang and Fruit Chan, I thought I'd fit right in. But after violent protests from my fan club, I thought, ok, let's try more exotic, European-style names. Hence, Beelzebubbly, or maybe Quetzcoatly. Luciferous?
My Christian aunt promptly threw a fit. So that was the end of that.
Just before I gave up, I decided to go with the radical name *H(#&!. For those who don't know, it's pronounced "Crazy Sexy Cool With A Good Bod To Add", only said very, very fast. I gave it up soon though, because people kept mispronouncing it as *h)#&! (Crazydeludedpieceofshit).
So fare you well, Clark Hoo Swee Tiang. I'll stick around with Hanting for the time being. =)
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Accident 1 : Ground Zero (Short)
I admit, the very first thing that leapt to mind when the black BMW smashed into my bumper, was, "Who's the unlucky bugger who just got hit?"
Now, six hours after the horrid incident, I'm just too drained to write any more. The details, as they say, will be flowing in soon.
And though I am too tired to write any more, damn if I haven't earned the right to BITCH.
And though I am too tired to write any more, damn if I haven't earned the right to BITCH.
Accident 2 : The Perspective
Recently, the much-publicised Bloggies Awards have captivated, spellbound and intrigued me for much longer than I expected, when it consumed my life for almost over a minute. I personally think that the moment you start giving out awards for blogs, it's the same thing as organizing Singapore Idol, where the core talent of singing is overshadowed by the pressing demands of showbusiness.
This way, it's the best-designed blog that wins, not the blogs which mean the most. The best blogs (in terms of writing, meaning) often lose out just because they lack something (design, flair, panache), and can you really say you're happy then? Hands up, all those people who saw True Idol Daphne lose just because she lacked luck.
But I digress. One of the winning blogs was in fact by this lady who did nothing but BITCH. I've seen the site. All she does is BITCH, BITCH, and then BITCH some more. I think we need some responsiblity around here, man. Look, every time someone visits your blog, a bit of your mood rubs off. The more suicidal you are, the more depressed you are, the more BITCHY you are, the less your readers benefit in terms of mental wellbeing.
Yet, just to prove my point, let me tell you about my last two days, in a BITCHY way.
It all began with the maid leaving. Leaving under a cloud of pent-up unhappiness and mutual suspicions. We would have managed ok, normally, if everyone (excluding my mum) hadn't developed some degenerate slothiness due to over-reliance on the maid.
Fast forward to my brother. While the house slowly crumbles under an accumulation of dust, unwashed crockery and miscelleanous muck, he is mostly exempted from the house-keeping responsibilities as he is a student, and it's tough balancing practicing guitar, practicing guitar, and practicing guitar. Furthermore, all his leisure time is taken up by practicing guitar, so it's unfair to him if we expect him to upkeep the house too.
But it's no longer ok if you just up and leave for school expecting everyone to wait at home to open the lousy door for you. And that's what happened. After I arranged to meet a friend at 4pm, and was just about to leave the house, my mum tells me that I better rid myself of my degenerate slothiness, and fetch my brother from school. And open the gate for him.
It's pointless arguing how stupid it is to thrash all of one's plans just like that. It would still be ok if my mum and I could contact my brother and at least find out his plans. But noooo.... I think that out of all the brilliant services Starhub offers, like 16 Channel Mosiac Surfing (16CMS) and Conference Calls With A Thousand People Simultaneously (CCWATPS), one of the most important is where you dial an 8 digit number, causing the related phone to ring, and the other person picks up. It's the Receiving A Lousy Normal Call (RALNC) service. But I'm guessing my brother's subscribing to Starhub only for 16CMS and CCWATPS, because he certainly doesn't or cannot RALNC.
By the time the fan can hardly rotate anymore (on account of all the s*it hitting it), my 4pm-friend's become an acquaintance.
The next day, whilst rushing to finish chores for my dad, restore the house to a semblance of serviceability, wake my brother for school, being late to meet aforementioned acquaintance, and still maintaning a cheery disposition so I don't ruin my girlfriend's day, a lousy BMW hits my car.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the night is still young, there's more.
As I panic on account of having an extensive driving experience of 0 year(s) and 1 month(s), as stated in the Accident Report Form, I realize I have no one to call for help. My dad's overseas, my mum's at class, my brother's practicing guitar, my girlfriend's waiting for me to have dinner. I logically then turn to a complete stranger from a car repair workshop for guidance and help, since she obviously has no vested interest in helping me. Right. The same no-vested-interest way farmers would force feed their livestock.
When I finally manage to return the car to a silent home, I find out my girlfriend's family's still waiting for me for dinner. So I rush down, because I'm thinking, hey, my day's been s*itty, but that's no reason for screwing up other peoples' day. Yet, for some reason, maybe because I'm still joking about the whole thing and not removing my hair in clumps, I mislead everyone to think I'm still happy and all inside. And thus, I end up getting rubbed the wrong way entirely. Girlfriend, I really couldn't talk more tonight, I really didn't want to screw your mood.
My dear reader, the end of this fantastic day is nigh. I delude myself by thinking my family will be so concerned over my safety (the accident, remember?) that all will be forgotten and forgiven, at least for one night. But I was wrong, and it's probably my fault, for not coming up with a better reason than I GOT HIT FROM BEHIND. MY CAR WAS STATIONARY. DOES IT LOOK LIKE MY FAULT? My parents ask me how come I didn't handle the entire accident/insurance reporting/claiming better, how come I made an error in the reporting of that silly guy's name. Gee, yeah, I really shouldn't have let the shock and the stress of getting hit on a jammed PIE bother me, huh.
Tomorrow morning I will rectify the Accident Report Form. Then I will meet another friend. Then I will split myself to go for three birthday parties, while keeping in mind that no matter who I honour with my degenerate slothy presence, I will still piss two friends off and make them think I'm anti-social and a Daphne-hater.
Damn, all this bitching and I don't even earn a prize.
This way, it's the best-designed blog that wins, not the blogs which mean the most. The best blogs (in terms of writing, meaning) often lose out just because they lack something (design, flair, panache), and can you really say you're happy then? Hands up, all those people who saw True Idol Daphne lose just because she lacked luck.
But I digress. One of the winning blogs was in fact by this lady who did nothing but BITCH. I've seen the site. All she does is BITCH, BITCH, and then BITCH some more. I think we need some responsiblity around here, man. Look, every time someone visits your blog, a bit of your mood rubs off. The more suicidal you are, the more depressed you are, the more BITCHY you are, the less your readers benefit in terms of mental wellbeing.
Yet, just to prove my point, let me tell you about my last two days, in a BITCHY way.
It all began with the maid leaving. Leaving under a cloud of pent-up unhappiness and mutual suspicions. We would have managed ok, normally, if everyone (excluding my mum) hadn't developed some degenerate slothiness due to over-reliance on the maid.
Fast forward to my brother. While the house slowly crumbles under an accumulation of dust, unwashed crockery and miscelleanous muck, he is mostly exempted from the house-keeping responsibilities as he is a student, and it's tough balancing practicing guitar, practicing guitar, and practicing guitar. Furthermore, all his leisure time is taken up by practicing guitar, so it's unfair to him if we expect him to upkeep the house too.
But it's no longer ok if you just up and leave for school expecting everyone to wait at home to open the lousy door for you. And that's what happened. After I arranged to meet a friend at 4pm, and was just about to leave the house, my mum tells me that I better rid myself of my degenerate slothiness, and fetch my brother from school. And open the gate for him.
It's pointless arguing how stupid it is to thrash all of one's plans just like that. It would still be ok if my mum and I could contact my brother and at least find out his plans. But noooo.... I think that out of all the brilliant services Starhub offers, like 16 Channel Mosiac Surfing (16CMS) and Conference Calls With A Thousand People Simultaneously (CCWATPS), one of the most important is where you dial an 8 digit number, causing the related phone to ring, and the other person picks up. It's the Receiving A Lousy Normal Call (RALNC) service. But I'm guessing my brother's subscribing to Starhub only for 16CMS and CCWATPS, because he certainly doesn't or cannot RALNC.
By the time the fan can hardly rotate anymore (on account of all the s*it hitting it), my 4pm-friend's become an acquaintance.
The next day, whilst rushing to finish chores for my dad, restore the house to a semblance of serviceability, wake my brother for school, being late to meet aforementioned acquaintance, and still maintaning a cheery disposition so I don't ruin my girlfriend's day, a lousy BMW hits my car.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the night is still young, there's more.
As I panic on account of having an extensive driving experience of 0 year(s) and 1 month(s), as stated in the Accident Report Form, I realize I have no one to call for help. My dad's overseas, my mum's at class, my brother's practicing guitar, my girlfriend's waiting for me to have dinner. I logically then turn to a complete stranger from a car repair workshop for guidance and help, since she obviously has no vested interest in helping me. Right. The same no-vested-interest way farmers would force feed their livestock.
When I finally manage to return the car to a silent home, I find out my girlfriend's family's still waiting for me for dinner. So I rush down, because I'm thinking, hey, my day's been s*itty, but that's no reason for screwing up other peoples' day. Yet, for some reason, maybe because I'm still joking about the whole thing and not removing my hair in clumps, I mislead everyone to think I'm still happy and all inside. And thus, I end up getting rubbed the wrong way entirely. Girlfriend, I really couldn't talk more tonight, I really didn't want to screw your mood.
My dear reader, the end of this fantastic day is nigh. I delude myself by thinking my family will be so concerned over my safety (the accident, remember?) that all will be forgotten and forgiven, at least for one night. But I was wrong, and it's probably my fault, for not coming up with a better reason than I GOT HIT FROM BEHIND. MY CAR WAS STATIONARY. DOES IT LOOK LIKE MY FAULT? My parents ask me how come I didn't handle the entire accident/insurance reporting/claiming better, how come I made an error in the reporting of that silly guy's name. Gee, yeah, I really shouldn't have let the shock and the stress of getting hit on a jammed PIE bother me, huh.
Tomorrow morning I will rectify the Accident Report Form. Then I will meet another friend. Then I will split myself to go for three birthday parties, while keeping in mind that no matter who I honour with my degenerate slothy presence, I will still piss two friends off and make them think I'm anti-social and a Daphne-hater.
Damn, all this bitching and I don't even earn a prize.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
The Value of Art
Consider this: How is the value of an artistic work derived?
Art is unlike science in that it can never be accurately and adequately deconstructed and quantified. You can't say, oh, this painting is composed of 136 brushstrokes, 60% of which are good strong strokes while the remaining are mediocre strokes, but since the colours used blend in with each other, plus it is recognizable to both the young and the old, it is a work of art.
So where exactly does art appreciation begin, or end?
How does one know whether a dance piece, a painting, a song, is good, bad or excellent? Wouldn't a person's taste vary greatly from one individual to another, one society to another? Does an art critic, definitely schooled in the expression of his thoughts but not necessarily as cultured in his taste, automatically deserve more air time and respect than the man in the street?
I wanted to say once in secondary school, when my Lit teacher was unceremoniously savaging my critique of Shakespeare's work, 'Mam, do you know what you're talking about? You're not him. How would you dare to go far as to assume he meant to say all these things? What if you're completely off the mark, and in reality when Shakespeare was writing he was also high on drugs?"
I mean, doesn't it then occur to anyone that while it might be true that man's genius is often most reflected in the artisitic works he births, art critics are the ones who inflate or deflate an art piece's true value? Yet a paradox exists, for if we ever want an objective, quantifiable way of deriving the value of an art piece, beyond the mere swaying 'gut feeling' of the art critics, we will have to apply Science to value Art, and that is both unimaginable and impossible.
Rather, the question is, how many art critics does it take to make a piece of art, a work of art?
Art is unlike science in that it can never be accurately and adequately deconstructed and quantified. You can't say, oh, this painting is composed of 136 brushstrokes, 60% of which are good strong strokes while the remaining are mediocre strokes, but since the colours used blend in with each other, plus it is recognizable to both the young and the old, it is a work of art.
So where exactly does art appreciation begin, or end?
How does one know whether a dance piece, a painting, a song, is good, bad or excellent? Wouldn't a person's taste vary greatly from one individual to another, one society to another? Does an art critic, definitely schooled in the expression of his thoughts but not necessarily as cultured in his taste, automatically deserve more air time and respect than the man in the street?
I wanted to say once in secondary school, when my Lit teacher was unceremoniously savaging my critique of Shakespeare's work, 'Mam, do you know what you're talking about? You're not him. How would you dare to go far as to assume he meant to say all these things? What if you're completely off the mark, and in reality when Shakespeare was writing he was also high on drugs?"
I mean, doesn't it then occur to anyone that while it might be true that man's genius is often most reflected in the artisitic works he births, art critics are the ones who inflate or deflate an art piece's true value? Yet a paradox exists, for if we ever want an objective, quantifiable way of deriving the value of an art piece, beyond the mere swaying 'gut feeling' of the art critics, we will have to apply Science to value Art, and that is both unimaginable and impossible.
Rather, the question is, how many art critics does it take to make a piece of art, a work of art?
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
What You Wish For
As they say, be very, very careful of what you wish for.
When the dentist extracted my wisdom teeth, she had to suture the gaping holes in my gums by stitching them together. However, as my gums slowly regenerated, the stitches began to unwind and come loose.
As a result, I've been quite irritated at the way the loose threads flap around in my mouth whenever I talk or eat. A quick peek in the mirror reminded me of the Sentinels from Matrix. And like any normal person, I wished so hard that the stiches would somehow magically disappear.
Today, this very morning, three threads disappeared. They just weren't there anymore.
Gulp. =(
When the dentist extracted my wisdom teeth, she had to suture the gaping holes in my gums by stitching them together. However, as my gums slowly regenerated, the stitches began to unwind and come loose.
As a result, I've been quite irritated at the way the loose threads flap around in my mouth whenever I talk or eat. A quick peek in the mirror reminded me of the Sentinels from Matrix. And like any normal person, I wished so hard that the stiches would somehow magically disappear.
Today, this very morning, three threads disappeared. They just weren't there anymore.
Gulp. =(
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