Merry Christmas to everyone.
Last night as I was ironing my pink flowery shirt for midnight mass, I turned on the TV and heard discussions about what should be placed on Christmas Trees and what should not. Hardly inspiring given that I am such a decorative person. But seconds later I saw a familiar face and heard a familiar voice talking about what Christmas really is about. Father Valerian, one of three founding fathers of our very own Genesis II Choir, reminded me of what I, for one, definitely had to be reminded of: that Christmas itself is a celebration; a celebration of the birth of Jesus who was born as a gift to all of us; that when we exchange presents, we exchange Jesus in our lives.
Those few lines probably mean nothing to the non-believer and little to the skeptical, but for once this entire year, I didn't brush off the words of a priest as " darn preaching". Which perhaps motivated me to give just a little gift to any one out there who is going through a cold, dark and lonely Christmas this year. Those far away from home; those with partners far from their side; those without partners; those who search but can't seem to find themselves; those whose lives seem to be going down the drain; those who seem to have lost all aim in life. I can't give you the world, nor help you find what you are looking for, but what I can do is to show you a little something that might cheer you up a little, because you're not the only one who's down and out.
The lyrics of the song "Streets of London" by Ralph McTell were criticized of being too sad and depressing in the 1970s. But some 30 years later, the song still plays on the radio at least once a day, and it never fails to remind the world that things aren't as bad as they seem.
*************************************************************************************
Streets Of London
Have you seen the old man
In the closed-down market
Kicking up the paper, with his worn out shoes?
In his eyes you see no pride
And held loosely at his side
Yesterday's paper telling yesterday's news
So how can you tell me you're lonely
And say for you that the sun don't shine?
Let me take you by the hand and lead you
Through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind
Have you seen the old girl
Who walks the streets of London
Dirt in her hair and her clothes in rags?
She's no time for talking, She just keeps right on walking
Carrying her home in two carrier bags.
So how can you tell me you're lonely
And say for you that the sun don't shine?
Let me take you by the hand and lead you
Through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind
In the all night cafe at a quarter past eleven
Same old man is sitting there on his own
Looking at the world over the rim of his tea-cup
Each tea last an hour
Then he wanders home alone
So how can you tell me you're lonely
And say for you that the sun don't shine?
Let me take you by the hand and lead you
Through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind
And have you seen the old man
Outside the seaman's mission
Memory fading with the medal ribbons that he wears.
In our winter city, the rain cries a little pity
For one more forgotten hero
And a world that doesn't care
So how can you tell me you're lonely
And say for you that the sun don't shine?
Let me take you by the hand and lead you
Through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind
*************************************************************************************
Monday, December 24, 2007
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Christmas Reflections
I now remember why I wanted so much to get out of being in a relationship.
For some three years, I was never without a partner. And at the end of those three years, I couldn't help but ask myself: just who are you, Dominic Wong? Even my name sounded funny to me.
One was always there to make me feel like I didn't have my own personality; that I should always conform to her superficial wants and needs. Which is not to say that everything about her was superficial. Some of the most romantic times of my life were spent with her so much so that we played our relationship out almost like a chick flick. Except I wasn't the rich, bad boy hunk that she wanted so badly. I found myself retreating to music. My guitar became my wife and song became my only solace in a partnership which no one could seperate; except her.
When I finally got out of that emotional rut, I met someone who probably is the one person who knew me the best. Always tolerant, forgiving and patient to my wilful needs, she never failed to show me a side of myself that I never knew of. She gave me the confidence to take my music out of the bathroom and into the world. She made me feel like i was almost invincible; which led me to feel like I was a bird that was not caged but chained. I could fly freely but never beyond the length of the chain. I had to break free.
Which I did. And after more than a year, I think it was the best thing for us. To have had the one most supportive female person by my side for two years was my blessing, and I simply couldn't hold on to her the way she held on to me. It was fair for neither of us that way. Seeing the way things have worked out today for the both of us, I am not regretful that I made that choice, though it was a veyr painful one to make.
And now I'm beginning to see that with that decision I made, I failed to realize that I had also made a subconscious one to block out any romance that would come my way. It doesn't mean I didn't get excited at times when romance was just hovering above my head, but I never acted on anything.
And that was for the very same reason I chose to be alone. Being in a relationship made me dependant on my partner in every single way. And today, as Christmas draws near, I finally feel the pinch of not having someone by my side. Who can I call and ask to go on a nice Christmas evening date to see the lightup at Orchard Road with? With whom shall I go for Midnight Mass if I don't sing in the choir this year? Where shall I go after Midnight Mass? Who should I bring to nanny's place for Christmas lunch? Who will be with me in my room these few evenings to countdown to Christmas by watching travel shows and promising to make a snowy Christmas trip one day soon together, just you and me?
As the eve of the eve draws near, I can be sure of who will be by my side at any time: my Seagull. She will be with me to play out tunes that are too familiar; to cry with me when she knows that I can't play her the way I really want to. And so this year's Christmas will be the same as most other years: a lover in my arms, my heart somewhere else. I guess that's who I've been and who I still am: a restless soul with no real capability of settling down. I can only hope that that's not who I will stay for the rest of my life.
So as with last year, I know I need to spend some time alone; to figure out who I am alone; to fight my battles alone, for they are no one else's but mine.
And I'm not going to pretend. I'm lonely. I sure as hell am. But in no way am I afraid.
For some three years, I was never without a partner. And at the end of those three years, I couldn't help but ask myself: just who are you, Dominic Wong? Even my name sounded funny to me.
One was always there to make me feel like I didn't have my own personality; that I should always conform to her superficial wants and needs. Which is not to say that everything about her was superficial. Some of the most romantic times of my life were spent with her so much so that we played our relationship out almost like a chick flick. Except I wasn't the rich, bad boy hunk that she wanted so badly. I found myself retreating to music. My guitar became my wife and song became my only solace in a partnership which no one could seperate; except her.
When I finally got out of that emotional rut, I met someone who probably is the one person who knew me the best. Always tolerant, forgiving and patient to my wilful needs, she never failed to show me a side of myself that I never knew of. She gave me the confidence to take my music out of the bathroom and into the world. She made me feel like i was almost invincible; which led me to feel like I was a bird that was not caged but chained. I could fly freely but never beyond the length of the chain. I had to break free.
Which I did. And after more than a year, I think it was the best thing for us. To have had the one most supportive female person by my side for two years was my blessing, and I simply couldn't hold on to her the way she held on to me. It was fair for neither of us that way. Seeing the way things have worked out today for the both of us, I am not regretful that I made that choice, though it was a veyr painful one to make.
And now I'm beginning to see that with that decision I made, I failed to realize that I had also made a subconscious one to block out any romance that would come my way. It doesn't mean I didn't get excited at times when romance was just hovering above my head, but I never acted on anything.
And that was for the very same reason I chose to be alone. Being in a relationship made me dependant on my partner in every single way. And today, as Christmas draws near, I finally feel the pinch of not having someone by my side. Who can I call and ask to go on a nice Christmas evening date to see the lightup at Orchard Road with? With whom shall I go for Midnight Mass if I don't sing in the choir this year? Where shall I go after Midnight Mass? Who should I bring to nanny's place for Christmas lunch? Who will be with me in my room these few evenings to countdown to Christmas by watching travel shows and promising to make a snowy Christmas trip one day soon together, just you and me?
As the eve of the eve draws near, I can be sure of who will be by my side at any time: my Seagull. She will be with me to play out tunes that are too familiar; to cry with me when she knows that I can't play her the way I really want to. And so this year's Christmas will be the same as most other years: a lover in my arms, my heart somewhere else. I guess that's who I've been and who I still am: a restless soul with no real capability of settling down. I can only hope that that's not who I will stay for the rest of my life.
So as with last year, I know I need to spend some time alone; to figure out who I am alone; to fight my battles alone, for they are no one else's but mine.
And I'm not going to pretend. I'm lonely. I sure as hell am. But in no way am I afraid.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
That Problematic Accent
Cambodia was a great country. Seeing Phnom Penh (a potential for visual overload), Pursat (a quiet village that can be circled under an hour with heavenly views), Siem Reap (mainly a tourist area for visitors to Wat Angkor) and Battambang (a quiet and chilly town that had a certain charm to it even in the quiet night) was a very refreshing experience.
Any visitor to Cambodia would notice that their language is different from ours. The Cambodian language, known as Khmer, is extremely nasal and has many vowel sounds that may sound like gibberish to the uninitiated. But one would be delighted to know that most people in Phnom Penh do speak some level of English so getting around is not that big a problem. However, don't expect the Queen's English. With a native tongue that sounds more whiny than Vietnamese or even Thai, the Khmer accent is equally hard to get used to.
But the Cambodians have a reason for speaking English with a Khmer accent, simply because their first language is Khmer. It was this that made me feel culturally impure when I spoke to Cambodians and related to them that our first language in Singapore is English.
Singapore is an awkward melting pot of cultures. The true inhabitants of the land are the Malays, adn the rest of us can safely be categorized under "immigrants". With a 75% Chinese population, most of us immigrants came from China, others from India and a handful of Europeans (and/or their mixed offspring). Needless to say, our forefathers came to Singapore speaking their native languages (or dialects). These included Cantonese, Hokkien, some Mandarin, Tamil, Malayalam, Hindi, Spanish and Portugese. There was also a small community of creole speakers who spoke something called Bahasa Kristang (Language of the Christians). That was Singapore as recent as 60 years ago.
The government chose English as our first language. So though we have four National Languages, English was chosen as the language of commerce. Over the years, this has shaped Singapore into the way it is today. The reason why we are now a hub for so many industries is because we are, inter alia, an country that is accessible to all who speak English (which equates to most of the modern world anyway.
English has many different accents, even within England herself. A cockney speaker may not understand a Jeordie speaker, and that guy from Mersyside may sound like he was from a different country altogether. While the Queen's English is arguably the most authentic English, and also arguably the English that we take after as a result of us being a former Crown colony, the accent most comfortable to Singaporean ears is probably the American accent. About 90% of the shows that we watch on TV are American shows. British shows are hardly aired anymore. This causes a little bit of confusion in our tiny little island.
If you would just think back and ask yourself, "What English did I learn in school," you'd probably find yourself in a rut. Of the English teachers that I had, none were native English speakers (ie from England), but to the best of my memory, they spoke rather good English. Sure there were the odd few who had the residue of Chinese dialects in their English and some who insisted on wrong grammar but those were all reasonable mistakes that anyone would make in any living language. But if the English accent wasn't passed on to us by way of British English teachers, then just what accent do we have? Or more importantly, what accent are we supposed to have?
It all boils down to what we use English for. English is used to communicate with the world. However, it is by no means the most spoken language in the world. Millions of English speakers know English only because it is the most recent global lingua franca. So their accents vary from Latin influenced (ie Spain, Italy, Portugese), to Chinese influenced to Swahili influenced. So technically speaking, as long as your English can be understood by whoever you're supposed to communicate with, then it has served its purpose.
Which brings me to a statement that an angmoh in Cambodia made about the American accent. According to him, Cambodians spoke with a slight American accent because a lot of their tuition teachers are American. Another agreed and said that if you travelled to Singapore, all the girls there speak with an American accent as well. Sounds like good news? Not a chance in hell. His exact words following that were, "It's one hell of a turn off when you meet an Asian girl and she speaks to you in that American accent. It's just disgusting." I did not know where to put my face and continued packing my things, pretending that I didn't hear anything.
I would have approached the guy and asked him to rethink his statement and on hindsight, maybe I should have (if nothing more than for him to get a Singaporean perspective and maybe get me a few beers). But the reflex action to turn away was much stronger because I knew what he said to be true. More and more young people in Singapore have started speaking with that slight American twang. It first starts with the occassional rolled "r" behind words like "for" and "sure" and many more. Then it progresses to change the stresses of the syllables to make itself more and more parallel to the American accent. A smattering of words like "like", "for real", and "no shit" are also a part of this process.
You see, there is nothing wrong with trying to pick up an accent. I myself am a language buff and I've, on more than one occassion, pissed friends off by pestering them to teach me words and sounds in their respective languages. But the thing about it is, I will never speak as Tamil as fluently as a Tamil Indian, or Malay as fluently as a Malay, simply because I am neither Tamil nor Malay.
Singaporean English was never related to American English. The way our parents speak, the way our teachers speak, and the way our Ministers speak is, in every sense of the word, our very own Singaporean accent. The Singaporean accent, though similar to British English, is also influenced by our local languages. As a result, our "p" in "party" and "t" in "to" is slightly softer than in British English; the stresses we put on our notes, though again similar to that in British English, is less expressive because of the expression words we have like "lah, lor, hor, ah, uh" (which are in itself a very complicated matter to foriegners). Singaporean English never had a history of rolling the 'r' (perhaps with the odd case of the very purist Tamil who takes pride in that particular sound that no other language in the world other than Tamil has) simply because us Southern Chinese always had a problem pronouncing even the non-rolled 'r'.
In short, living languages like English change all the time. Accents change all the time. but such changes come at a natural pace and are usually due to foreign invasions or other more drastically natural events. Though the invasion of American TV into our homes is no less an invasion than one with guns and grenades, I think it is time to just stop and think. If we have the intellectual capacity to work on changing our accents to emulate the Americans, we should be able to just ask ourselves why we're doing that. Is it because it's cooler to sound like an American, or is it that usually unusual way that we Singaporeans like to fight back conformity with?
Whichever reason it is, it's time to stop fooling ourselves. America is a great, fun and free country with wild parties and a cool accent. But we will never ever be Americans. Not by changing our accents anyway. If we'd just look within our country and culture, we'd realize that our accent really doesn't sound too bad. After all, who else in the world can speak with a Singaporean accent better than us Singaporeans?
So you thought that messing up your stresses and rolling your 'r' would lift you up in the eyes of the people of the world?
Don't be stupid.
Don't be disgusting.
Think of what that angmoh guy in Cambodia said.
Any visitor to Cambodia would notice that their language is different from ours. The Cambodian language, known as Khmer, is extremely nasal and has many vowel sounds that may sound like gibberish to the uninitiated. But one would be delighted to know that most people in Phnom Penh do speak some level of English so getting around is not that big a problem. However, don't expect the Queen's English. With a native tongue that sounds more whiny than Vietnamese or even Thai, the Khmer accent is equally hard to get used to.
But the Cambodians have a reason for speaking English with a Khmer accent, simply because their first language is Khmer. It was this that made me feel culturally impure when I spoke to Cambodians and related to them that our first language in Singapore is English.
Singapore is an awkward melting pot of cultures. The true inhabitants of the land are the Malays, adn the rest of us can safely be categorized under "immigrants". With a 75% Chinese population, most of us immigrants came from China, others from India and a handful of Europeans (and/or their mixed offspring). Needless to say, our forefathers came to Singapore speaking their native languages (or dialects). These included Cantonese, Hokkien, some Mandarin, Tamil, Malayalam, Hindi, Spanish and Portugese. There was also a small community of creole speakers who spoke something called Bahasa Kristang (Language of the Christians). That was Singapore as recent as 60 years ago.
The government chose English as our first language. So though we have four National Languages, English was chosen as the language of commerce. Over the years, this has shaped Singapore into the way it is today. The reason why we are now a hub for so many industries is because we are, inter alia, an country that is accessible to all who speak English (which equates to most of the modern world anyway.
English has many different accents, even within England herself. A cockney speaker may not understand a Jeordie speaker, and that guy from Mersyside may sound like he was from a different country altogether. While the Queen's English is arguably the most authentic English, and also arguably the English that we take after as a result of us being a former Crown colony, the accent most comfortable to Singaporean ears is probably the American accent. About 90% of the shows that we watch on TV are American shows. British shows are hardly aired anymore. This causes a little bit of confusion in our tiny little island.
If you would just think back and ask yourself, "What English did I learn in school," you'd probably find yourself in a rut. Of the English teachers that I had, none were native English speakers (ie from England), but to the best of my memory, they spoke rather good English. Sure there were the odd few who had the residue of Chinese dialects in their English and some who insisted on wrong grammar but those were all reasonable mistakes that anyone would make in any living language. But if the English accent wasn't passed on to us by way of British English teachers, then just what accent do we have? Or more importantly, what accent are we supposed to have?
It all boils down to what we use English for. English is used to communicate with the world. However, it is by no means the most spoken language in the world. Millions of English speakers know English only because it is the most recent global lingua franca. So their accents vary from Latin influenced (ie Spain, Italy, Portugese), to Chinese influenced to Swahili influenced. So technically speaking, as long as your English can be understood by whoever you're supposed to communicate with, then it has served its purpose.
Which brings me to a statement that an angmoh in Cambodia made about the American accent. According to him, Cambodians spoke with a slight American accent because a lot of their tuition teachers are American. Another agreed and said that if you travelled to Singapore, all the girls there speak with an American accent as well. Sounds like good news? Not a chance in hell. His exact words following that were, "It's one hell of a turn off when you meet an Asian girl and she speaks to you in that American accent. It's just disgusting." I did not know where to put my face and continued packing my things, pretending that I didn't hear anything.
I would have approached the guy and asked him to rethink his statement and on hindsight, maybe I should have (if nothing more than for him to get a Singaporean perspective and maybe get me a few beers). But the reflex action to turn away was much stronger because I knew what he said to be true. More and more young people in Singapore have started speaking with that slight American twang. It first starts with the occassional rolled "r" behind words like "for" and "sure" and many more. Then it progresses to change the stresses of the syllables to make itself more and more parallel to the American accent. A smattering of words like "like", "for real", and "no shit" are also a part of this process.
You see, there is nothing wrong with trying to pick up an accent. I myself am a language buff and I've, on more than one occassion, pissed friends off by pestering them to teach me words and sounds in their respective languages. But the thing about it is, I will never speak as Tamil as fluently as a Tamil Indian, or Malay as fluently as a Malay, simply because I am neither Tamil nor Malay.
Singaporean English was never related to American English. The way our parents speak, the way our teachers speak, and the way our Ministers speak is, in every sense of the word, our very own Singaporean accent. The Singaporean accent, though similar to British English, is also influenced by our local languages. As a result, our "p" in "party" and "t" in "to" is slightly softer than in British English; the stresses we put on our notes, though again similar to that in British English, is less expressive because of the expression words we have like "lah, lor, hor, ah, uh" (which are in itself a very complicated matter to foriegners). Singaporean English never had a history of rolling the 'r' (perhaps with the odd case of the very purist Tamil who takes pride in that particular sound that no other language in the world other than Tamil has) simply because us Southern Chinese always had a problem pronouncing even the non-rolled 'r'.
In short, living languages like English change all the time. Accents change all the time. but such changes come at a natural pace and are usually due to foreign invasions or other more drastically natural events. Though the invasion of American TV into our homes is no less an invasion than one with guns and grenades, I think it is time to just stop and think. If we have the intellectual capacity to work on changing our accents to emulate the Americans, we should be able to just ask ourselves why we're doing that. Is it because it's cooler to sound like an American, or is it that usually unusual way that we Singaporeans like to fight back conformity with?
Whichever reason it is, it's time to stop fooling ourselves. America is a great, fun and free country with wild parties and a cool accent. But we will never ever be Americans. Not by changing our accents anyway. If we'd just look within our country and culture, we'd realize that our accent really doesn't sound too bad. After all, who else in the world can speak with a Singaporean accent better than us Singaporeans?
So you thought that messing up your stresses and rolling your 'r' would lift you up in the eyes of the people of the world?
Don't be stupid.
Don't be disgusting.
Think of what that angmoh guy in Cambodia said.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Why The Lies
An encounter with a partner I haven't worked with in the past year also led me back to an album which has been out of sight and mind for some time.
In 1994, the Lovehunters released a self-titled English album which contained, with the notable exception of "Heart of Gold", their original songs. I started to search my mind for this particular song which I remember had beautiful melancholic lyrics that kept me writing them on every desk I could get my pen on in Secondary School. The album has since gone missing in my home. If anyone has information on (or better, a copy of) their self-titled album or any of their other Malay albums, please please please get in touch with me.
So here it is, to the best of my memory.
*********************************************************************************
Why The Lies
Take me to the painter's house
I promise you I'll sketch a smile
So smile at me, just smile at me
See the birds fly in the sky
Why can't I be singing songs of lullabies
Please tell me why
Why can't I paint a picture of you and I
The songs we shared
The times we held each other
All those times that passed us by
Can you try to tell me why
Tell me now, tell me that you care
Then I'll be sure that I'll be there
When you need me
When you call for me
I want to make you smile
Please let me try
Torn apart I must be strong
To mend my heart
Standing all alone without you here
I want you to be near
This fairy tale was giving faith to me
I can't seem to find the truth
Behind the lies I tell myself
And now you're gone
I've got to try to let you go
All the pain inside
Please let me try
Hanging on to emptiness
The promises that we once made
So why the lies
Can you tell me why
All the pain inside
Baby I can't hide
Dream a dream that won't come true
Living a lie I can't face the truth
I want to see you smile
Just to see you smile
Take me to the painter's house
I promise you I'll sketch a smile
So smile at me
Just smile at me
*********************************************************************************
In 1994, the Lovehunters released a self-titled English album which contained, with the notable exception of "Heart of Gold", their original songs. I started to search my mind for this particular song which I remember had beautiful melancholic lyrics that kept me writing them on every desk I could get my pen on in Secondary School. The album has since gone missing in my home. If anyone has information on (or better, a copy of) their self-titled album or any of their other Malay albums, please please please get in touch with me.
So here it is, to the best of my memory.
*********************************************************************************
Why The Lies
Take me to the painter's house
I promise you I'll sketch a smile
So smile at me, just smile at me
See the birds fly in the sky
Why can't I be singing songs of lullabies
Please tell me why
Why can't I paint a picture of you and I
The songs we shared
The times we held each other
All those times that passed us by
Can you try to tell me why
Tell me now, tell me that you care
Then I'll be sure that I'll be there
When you need me
When you call for me
I want to make you smile
Please let me try
Torn apart I must be strong
To mend my heart
Standing all alone without you here
I want you to be near
This fairy tale was giving faith to me
I can't seem to find the truth
Behind the lies I tell myself
And now you're gone
I've got to try to let you go
All the pain inside
Please let me try
Hanging on to emptiness
The promises that we once made
So why the lies
Can you tell me why
All the pain inside
Baby I can't hide
Dream a dream that won't come true
Living a lie I can't face the truth
I want to see you smile
Just to see you smile
Take me to the painter's house
I promise you I'll sketch a smile
So smile at me
Just smile at me
*********************************************************************************
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
A Walnut's Christmas
As Christmas draws near, people's lives get turned upside down. Parents get all gittery preparing to buy presents for nieces and nephews; siblings get all moody while they jostle for the glitter markers in the house to write lovey dovey messages to their partners; the choir gets busy as they prepare for carolling; the indoor pubs fill up because everyone just wants to forget about work and bask in the annual festivity. And where does that leave those without partners or those without money to feed to bartenders?
Christmas for a Roman Catholic me has always been exciting. From when I was a toddler I remember literally waiting under the Christmas Tree at home to see if Santa really came on his reindeer sledge to give me my presents. He never came, of course, but the presents stil magically appeared under the Tree the next morning bearing the love of "Mummy & Papa", "Chair Chair" and "Kor Kor". Even now when I think back to those Christmas mornings, I smile in blissful joy.
That joy also comes with a nagging sadness that seems to flow endlessly despite how many times I try to wring it dry. For I am not that innocent child waiting under the tree anymore nor am I my siblings' 'little baby brother' anymore. To know that those moments will forever be just a fragment of the memories that I still am creating makes me bewildered at why I never learn to treasure good things before they come to pass.
As a child I always wanted to grow up. When i was in the rigid school system I always wanted out. Now that I cannot remember the ins and outs of living as a child, as well as studying from 7.20 am to 2.00 pm, I cannot help but ask myself if I was foolish to not have cherished those moments. There was much more time for me to bond with my family, to get to know my classmates better, to play sports more, to be more invlved in drama, to study harder, and the list just goes on. As a growing adult, I know that I have to tell myself to just move on.
Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. The day the saviour came into this world. Though he came on a cold winter's night, he illuminated the darkness of the sky with his being and filled the air with warmth.
Christmas is a time you pick your girlfriend up from her place in your best suit to go for Midnight Mass.
Christmas is a time bells ring at the stroke of midnight, signalling Christ's arrival.
Christmas is a time when you cuddle up with your girlfriend just next to the fireplace (that's the tiny balcony for us Singaporeans) and talk about the past year together whilst exchanging loving glances.
Christmas is a time when all those complicated feelings come rushing into me. Memories from every Christmas come back to me every year, with each year's recollections ironically less prominent than the next.
Christmas is a time when I try everything in my power to crack open the rock hard shell of a walnut with my bare hands, only to come to the sudden realization that the walnut that won't crack is but a reflection of myself.
Christmas for a Roman Catholic me has always been exciting. From when I was a toddler I remember literally waiting under the Christmas Tree at home to see if Santa really came on his reindeer sledge to give me my presents. He never came, of course, but the presents stil magically appeared under the Tree the next morning bearing the love of "Mummy & Papa", "Chair Chair" and "Kor Kor". Even now when I think back to those Christmas mornings, I smile in blissful joy.
That joy also comes with a nagging sadness that seems to flow endlessly despite how many times I try to wring it dry. For I am not that innocent child waiting under the tree anymore nor am I my siblings' 'little baby brother' anymore. To know that those moments will forever be just a fragment of the memories that I still am creating makes me bewildered at why I never learn to treasure good things before they come to pass.
As a child I always wanted to grow up. When i was in the rigid school system I always wanted out. Now that I cannot remember the ins and outs of living as a child, as well as studying from 7.20 am to 2.00 pm, I cannot help but ask myself if I was foolish to not have cherished those moments. There was much more time for me to bond with my family, to get to know my classmates better, to play sports more, to be more invlved in drama, to study harder, and the list just goes on. As a growing adult, I know that I have to tell myself to just move on.
Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. The day the saviour came into this world. Though he came on a cold winter's night, he illuminated the darkness of the sky with his being and filled the air with warmth.
Christmas is a time you pick your girlfriend up from her place in your best suit to go for Midnight Mass.
Christmas is a time bells ring at the stroke of midnight, signalling Christ's arrival.
Christmas is a time when you cuddle up with your girlfriend just next to the fireplace (that's the tiny balcony for us Singaporeans) and talk about the past year together whilst exchanging loving glances.
Christmas is a time when all those complicated feelings come rushing into me. Memories from every Christmas come back to me every year, with each year's recollections ironically less prominent than the next.
Christmas is a time when I try everything in my power to crack open the rock hard shell of a walnut with my bare hands, only to come to the sudden realization that the walnut that won't crack is but a reflection of myself.
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Child Within
“If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?
For I must be traveling on now.
There’s just too many places I’ve got to see.”
****************************************************************************
As a student I pass through each day thinking of where my studies might take me.
Would I end up as a worker bee in a colony of dissatisfied drones who have let themselves be descended way too deep into the hive to be shown a way out?
Would I complete my National Service, go to the University, come out with an average or above average degree, carry balls for the next five years and retire after ten to enjoy the rest of my life smoking cigars to my death?
Or would I end up on the streets begging for food as a monk having renounced all worldly desires and material wants.
As a student I find no logical explaination to what I feel about my future. To me, the future is now. Perhaps the phrase is a little to cliche for my liking but it makes sense. Remember those times in Primary School when you'd think "If only I could be like those Secondary School boys. They're so matured;" only to realize that that innate child-like feeling remained in you throughout secondary school life and beyond.
The truth is that we are all children of the world. Yet another cliche that makes sense. In the blink of an eye, my teenage years have come to pass. In just under 4 months my age will begin with the digit '2' and in another blink of an eye, it will begin with the digit '5'. Yet, I still feel like a child at times. I wish I could cuddle in my bed and cry myself to sleep only to know that my mother will wake me up the next morning and make me realize that the world has spun another half-round upon its axis: tomorrow has come.
Some people suppress the child in them. Some people grow up too fast and tell themselves that they cannot live their lives the way they used to. They tell themselves that they have to begin living like grown-ups do: to be disciplined in their work, to always be punctual, to never give up no matter how hard the going gets. I salute all those people who have chosen to live their lives that way and have actually succeeded. But if my humble observation serves me correctly, many people who have achieved success in that respect have also succeeded in another unfortunate aspect: turning a deaf ear to the dreams of the child within them.
The child in me has never given up. As I filter myself into the fast lane leading up to adulthood, I now make a conscious decision to never shut that child in me out. Whenever someone asks me what my ambition is, I will tell them that I want to be a singer, a musician, an actor, a performer. When someone asks me "Why on earth would you want to do that,” I will tell them that it is my childhood dream and that I am determined not to disappoint that child in me.
I would then ask that person, "What has the child in you been trying to say to you?"
****************************************************************************
"Everyday is an endless stream of cigarettes and magazines.
And each town looks the same to me: the movies and the factories.
And every stranger's face reminds me that I long to be...
Homeward bound."
For I must be traveling on now.
There’s just too many places I’ve got to see.”
****************************************************************************
As a student I pass through each day thinking of where my studies might take me.
Would I end up as a worker bee in a colony of dissatisfied drones who have let themselves be descended way too deep into the hive to be shown a way out?
Would I complete my National Service, go to the University, come out with an average or above average degree, carry balls for the next five years and retire after ten to enjoy the rest of my life smoking cigars to my death?
Or would I end up on the streets begging for food as a monk having renounced all worldly desires and material wants.
As a student I find no logical explaination to what I feel about my future. To me, the future is now. Perhaps the phrase is a little to cliche for my liking but it makes sense. Remember those times in Primary School when you'd think "If only I could be like those Secondary School boys. They're so matured;" only to realize that that innate child-like feeling remained in you throughout secondary school life and beyond.
The truth is that we are all children of the world. Yet another cliche that makes sense. In the blink of an eye, my teenage years have come to pass. In just under 4 months my age will begin with the digit '2' and in another blink of an eye, it will begin with the digit '5'. Yet, I still feel like a child at times. I wish I could cuddle in my bed and cry myself to sleep only to know that my mother will wake me up the next morning and make me realize that the world has spun another half-round upon its axis: tomorrow has come.
Some people suppress the child in them. Some people grow up too fast and tell themselves that they cannot live their lives the way they used to. They tell themselves that they have to begin living like grown-ups do: to be disciplined in their work, to always be punctual, to never give up no matter how hard the going gets. I salute all those people who have chosen to live their lives that way and have actually succeeded. But if my humble observation serves me correctly, many people who have achieved success in that respect have also succeeded in another unfortunate aspect: turning a deaf ear to the dreams of the child within them.
The child in me has never given up. As I filter myself into the fast lane leading up to adulthood, I now make a conscious decision to never shut that child in me out. Whenever someone asks me what my ambition is, I will tell them that I want to be a singer, a musician, an actor, a performer. When someone asks me "Why on earth would you want to do that,” I will tell them that it is my childhood dream and that I am determined not to disappoint that child in me.
I would then ask that person, "What has the child in you been trying to say to you?"
****************************************************************************
"Everyday is an endless stream of cigarettes and magazines.
And each town looks the same to me: the movies and the factories.
And every stranger's face reminds me that I long to be...
Homeward bound."
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
A Weakened Cornea
I went through all my posts from the very first one to the last, including all those unpublished ones as well. I have to admit that there has been a gradual change in the content and style of my posts.
When I set up my blog, I was like a teenager deprived of sex. You see so much of it on TV, the internet, even the radio, but you just don't get enough. I was like that. There were many thoughts in my mind about many things and I didn't have a outlet through which I could vent.
This sudden depravation came about less than 4 months ago when it suddenly struck me that I saw normal daily situations in an overtly normal fashion, as the normal person does. This surprised me because when i was in Secondary School, I had the tendency to "over-think" daily occurances and draw unnecessarily complicated conclusions from them. Some of that got lost along the way I guess. So I made a conscious decision to return to a state of mind similar to that, but not nearly as psychotic.
And it worked. I felt a sudden surge of objectivity and even subjectivity that I felt was beyond me. I didn't quite see things as clearly as I did over the past few years but I enjoyed the awareness that I couldn't quie be sure about anything at all. I then used my blog to record whatever was significant enough for me to actually go through the writing process. The idea was basically to see the extraordinary in the ordinary.
A good example would be the little snippet of a girl who gave her account of her sexual growth. That post made me think from an entirely different angle and I got so involved in it that I could actually feel myself become that girl in the post. *I'm not admitting that I'm a girl though* Another one would be a very early post discussing our innate desire for drama in our lives whch leads most of us to become addicts to serial dramas.
The ponderance of why certain events happen in a certain way was a extremely enriching experience and one that has left me in an awkward limbo. In a way, i still see things in that highly sensitised fashion. I continue to make mental notes of how a certain view or event can be twisted in different ways. I still fantaize about how to craft those those into a readable post. But I now have to deal with a different problem.
They say that good food once eaten is a delicacy, twice eaten is a luxury, thrice eaten a chore. I now see how this is relevant. A chanced sight at the extraordinary in the ordinary leads to you trying to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. It eventually results in the extraordinary becoming the ordinary.
When I set up my blog, I was like a teenager deprived of sex. You see so much of it on TV, the internet, even the radio, but you just don't get enough. I was like that. There were many thoughts in my mind about many things and I didn't have a outlet through which I could vent.
This sudden depravation came about less than 4 months ago when it suddenly struck me that I saw normal daily situations in an overtly normal fashion, as the normal person does. This surprised me because when i was in Secondary School, I had the tendency to "over-think" daily occurances and draw unnecessarily complicated conclusions from them. Some of that got lost along the way I guess. So I made a conscious decision to return to a state of mind similar to that, but not nearly as psychotic.
And it worked. I felt a sudden surge of objectivity and even subjectivity that I felt was beyond me. I didn't quite see things as clearly as I did over the past few years but I enjoyed the awareness that I couldn't quie be sure about anything at all. I then used my blog to record whatever was significant enough for me to actually go through the writing process. The idea was basically to see the extraordinary in the ordinary.
A good example would be the little snippet of a girl who gave her account of her sexual growth. That post made me think from an entirely different angle and I got so involved in it that I could actually feel myself become that girl in the post. *I'm not admitting that I'm a girl though* Another one would be a very early post discussing our innate desire for drama in our lives whch leads most of us to become addicts to serial dramas.
The ponderance of why certain events happen in a certain way was a extremely enriching experience and one that has left me in an awkward limbo. In a way, i still see things in that highly sensitised fashion. I continue to make mental notes of how a certain view or event can be twisted in different ways. I still fantaize about how to craft those those into a readable post. But I now have to deal with a different problem.
They say that good food once eaten is a delicacy, twice eaten is a luxury, thrice eaten a chore. I now see how this is relevant. A chanced sight at the extraordinary in the ordinary leads to you trying to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. It eventually results in the extraordinary becoming the ordinary.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Our Singaporean Lifestyle
A day at work would describe the typical Singaporean. Every morning as you enter the train station, you make a mental note that the daily tussle begins just after you scan your ez-link card and walkthrough those battlegates.
You scuttle past everyone and come to the escalator which bears an unmistakable sign saying "Keep Left". Few Singaporeans fail to notice the sign but countless more simply ignore it.
You then come to the platform, almost numbed by the lack of feeling and consideration for others that your fellow Singaporeans can have. "Well, maybe they just didn't realise they were blocking everyone else," you think. On the platform are lines that indicate the angle at which you should wait in order to let people getting off the train to dismount with ease as well to ensure that you get in as fast as possible. You wait in line behind the yellow line and your train finally arrives. You then realise that in the few seconds before the doors of the train open, tens of fellow Singaporeans simply push their way through, disregarding the yellow arrows that were painstakingly drawn and reducing the decent respect that all human beings should have for each other to an absolute zero. It appears that all that matters to your fellow Singaporeans is that they get into the train.
Well you finally get into the train all sticky and sweaty and filled with disgust. The door closes as you compress your body into the packed train that seems like it wouldn't fit even one more mouse into the cabin. You breathe a sigh of relief that the train is on the move again and that the cabin has accepted you in it. Then you take a glimpse into what lies deeper into the cabin: pockets of empty space that at least 10 people could fill but for some strange reason is left as it is. It seems that someone's got a bad case of body odour somewhere around there. Or does it?
As some people get off the train and more people get on, it only seems like the natural thing to do is to move into the empty spaces inside the cabin. This, you realise, rarely happens. So you wait patiently for your stop, while fending off the "tsk" and "hai" of your fellow Singaporean commuters who seem to think that the accidental brushing of an elbow is an indecent display of affection, even in a crowded train.
You finally arrive at your stop and you anticipate your ultimate liberation from this hell-hole they call the MRT. The train stops. You use your body to indicate that you wish to make your way to the door. nothing. You say "excuse me" in a loud voice. nothing. Finally, you realise that the only way your fellow Singaporeans would make way for you to get to the door is to violently push your way through, preferably while making remarks like "haiyoh". Most of the time though, the age old "tsk" works rather well.
Liberation at last! Or so you thought. You see that about 30 people exit from each door at the same time. But that doesn't really bother you. But no words would be able to describe the scene before you as you stand in awe right beside the closing cabin door. Working adults dressed in the best office clothes you thought possible rush out of each cabin door practically lunging themselves in the direction of the escalators. Your mind suddenly gets jolted back to your primary school canteen where everyone would rush to buy the 'limited-for-the-recess' country flag erasers for 10 cents. Never in your life did you imagine that the working world would bring you back to view an image even remotely similar to that, but now it did. Grown, working-class men and women dressed in their best attire rushing for... erasers worth 10 cents?
As you resign yourself to the fact that you have indeed returned to Primary School once again after all those years of slogging at various tertiary institutions, you can't help but stick those earphones in there to drown out the sound of the Great Singapore Rush that has, by now, grown rather repulsive.
You scuttle past everyone and come to the escalator which bears an unmistakable sign saying "Keep Left". Few Singaporeans fail to notice the sign but countless more simply ignore it.
You then come to the platform, almost numbed by the lack of feeling and consideration for others that your fellow Singaporeans can have. "Well, maybe they just didn't realise they were blocking everyone else," you think. On the platform are lines that indicate the angle at which you should wait in order to let people getting off the train to dismount with ease as well to ensure that you get in as fast as possible. You wait in line behind the yellow line and your train finally arrives. You then realise that in the few seconds before the doors of the train open, tens of fellow Singaporeans simply push their way through, disregarding the yellow arrows that were painstakingly drawn and reducing the decent respect that all human beings should have for each other to an absolute zero. It appears that all that matters to your fellow Singaporeans is that they get into the train.
Well you finally get into the train all sticky and sweaty and filled with disgust. The door closes as you compress your body into the packed train that seems like it wouldn't fit even one more mouse into the cabin. You breathe a sigh of relief that the train is on the move again and that the cabin has accepted you in it. Then you take a glimpse into what lies deeper into the cabin: pockets of empty space that at least 10 people could fill but for some strange reason is left as it is. It seems that someone's got a bad case of body odour somewhere around there. Or does it?
As some people get off the train and more people get on, it only seems like the natural thing to do is to move into the empty spaces inside the cabin. This, you realise, rarely happens. So you wait patiently for your stop, while fending off the "tsk" and "hai" of your fellow Singaporean commuters who seem to think that the accidental brushing of an elbow is an indecent display of affection, even in a crowded train.
You finally arrive at your stop and you anticipate your ultimate liberation from this hell-hole they call the MRT. The train stops. You use your body to indicate that you wish to make your way to the door. nothing. You say "excuse me" in a loud voice. nothing. Finally, you realise that the only way your fellow Singaporeans would make way for you to get to the door is to violently push your way through, preferably while making remarks like "haiyoh". Most of the time though, the age old "tsk" works rather well.
Liberation at last! Or so you thought. You see that about 30 people exit from each door at the same time. But that doesn't really bother you. But no words would be able to describe the scene before you as you stand in awe right beside the closing cabin door. Working adults dressed in the best office clothes you thought possible rush out of each cabin door practically lunging themselves in the direction of the escalators. Your mind suddenly gets jolted back to your primary school canteen where everyone would rush to buy the 'limited-for-the-recess' country flag erasers for 10 cents. Never in your life did you imagine that the working world would bring you back to view an image even remotely similar to that, but now it did. Grown, working-class men and women dressed in their best attire rushing for... erasers worth 10 cents?
As you resign yourself to the fact that you have indeed returned to Primary School once again after all those years of slogging at various tertiary institutions, you can't help but stick those earphones in there to drown out the sound of the Great Singapore Rush that has, by now, grown rather repulsive.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Writer's Block
When I got into major quarrels with her, I remember that the first thing that I wanted to do was to walk away. To leave things as they were, to not have to deal with the issues that were thrust right into our faces. I never did have the courage to walk away though, and all I did was threaten to walk away; which probably gve her the idea that I never would. Not that day, not the next, not ever. Because I may not have been the best guy around, but I did my best to stay around.
Well my mind was jolted back to this awkward contradiction between my desire to walk away and the lack of courage to. I wanted to walk away because having those arguements made no sense to me. On the other hand, I didn't want to leave things hanging. Contrary to what most people think, I liked to kiss my girlfriend goodbye everytime we had to say goodbye. It's a little hard to do when you walk out of the house in the middle of an arguement isn't it?
The fact is, there still is a certain kind of longing to leave that is deeply etched in the person that I am. So throughout these few weeks that I've had a case of 'writer's-block', I've been trying to figure out just what is so attractive to me about the concept of leaving.
There are few things that can fall on both sides of the line. Leaving is one of them. Any person who leaves his company, girlfriend, family, country or anything else, can and will be labelled as a coward by some, and a hero by others. To quit your job or breakup with your girlfriend is not an easy thing to do hence the bravado; then again compared to facing your job/girlfriend every single day when you know you don't exactly want them, leaving seems like the easier thing to do and hence the cowardice alleged by some.
When you walk away from someone, you turn on back on her, which means that you walk in a direction opposite to her from now on and probably for a long long time. If you should ever reurn, she would have gone on without you, enjoyed life without you, heck, she could even be happily married with children, and none of these events included you as a part of it. Now depending on hw you look at it, would you be a coward or a hero to leave her?
Similarly, when you leave your country, you turn your back on her. For the next few years or decades of your life, you will never see the streets that you have walked on. You will never see the area that you grew up in. You will never see the people with whom you grew up with; not your parents, not your childhood friends, not the mee-pok man down the lorong. Sure they might visit you wherever you are once in a while, but how different would that be from meeting what you might call a 'familiar stranger'?
Perhaps the most painful part about leaving is walking out of the lives of the people that you care about. Your family and friends. How many of them would leave with you even if you asked them to? One, if you're lucky? To start your life away from a place you have called home for the most part of your life is definitely something frightening but utterly attractive to some. In fact, some people thrive on the unfamiliarity of location, lifestyle and cultures of different places around the world. They choose to live their lives like urban nomads and the truth is, they are probably what real jet-setters are like; not the suit-donning senior executives who seem to garner the respect and admiration of many for 'travelling the world', when when they've seen all around the world are the insides of planes, trains, offices and cafes that are almost exactly the same anywhere in the world.
So would you leave if anyone asked you to?
*This cannot be taken as an analysis of the concept of leaving, just extremely random rants.*
Well my mind was jolted back to this awkward contradiction between my desire to walk away and the lack of courage to. I wanted to walk away because having those arguements made no sense to me. On the other hand, I didn't want to leave things hanging. Contrary to what most people think, I liked to kiss my girlfriend goodbye everytime we had to say goodbye. It's a little hard to do when you walk out of the house in the middle of an arguement isn't it?
The fact is, there still is a certain kind of longing to leave that is deeply etched in the person that I am. So throughout these few weeks that I've had a case of 'writer's-block', I've been trying to figure out just what is so attractive to me about the concept of leaving.
There are few things that can fall on both sides of the line. Leaving is one of them. Any person who leaves his company, girlfriend, family, country or anything else, can and will be labelled as a coward by some, and a hero by others. To quit your job or breakup with your girlfriend is not an easy thing to do hence the bravado; then again compared to facing your job/girlfriend every single day when you know you don't exactly want them, leaving seems like the easier thing to do and hence the cowardice alleged by some.
When you walk away from someone, you turn on back on her, which means that you walk in a direction opposite to her from now on and probably for a long long time. If you should ever reurn, she would have gone on without you, enjoyed life without you, heck, she could even be happily married with children, and none of these events included you as a part of it. Now depending on hw you look at it, would you be a coward or a hero to leave her?
Similarly, when you leave your country, you turn your back on her. For the next few years or decades of your life, you will never see the streets that you have walked on. You will never see the area that you grew up in. You will never see the people with whom you grew up with; not your parents, not your childhood friends, not the mee-pok man down the lorong. Sure they might visit you wherever you are once in a while, but how different would that be from meeting what you might call a 'familiar stranger'?
Perhaps the most painful part about leaving is walking out of the lives of the people that you care about. Your family and friends. How many of them would leave with you even if you asked them to? One, if you're lucky? To start your life away from a place you have called home for the most part of your life is definitely something frightening but utterly attractive to some. In fact, some people thrive on the unfamiliarity of location, lifestyle and cultures of different places around the world. They choose to live their lives like urban nomads and the truth is, they are probably what real jet-setters are like; not the suit-donning senior executives who seem to garner the respect and admiration of many for 'travelling the world', when when they've seen all around the world are the insides of planes, trains, offices and cafes that are almost exactly the same anywhere in the world.
So would you leave if anyone asked you to?
*This cannot be taken as an analysis of the concept of leaving, just extremely random rants.*
Monday, September 17, 2007
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Dawn To Dusk...Dusk To Dawn
One thing that can never be changed is the amount of time we have in a day. Our 24 hours are divided into different parts of the day and depending the amount of sunlight that shines on us.
On our sunny little island, the sun usually rises at about 6.30 a.m. I have, on more than one occassion, stayed up late enough to actually see the transition of the colour of the sky, and I must say that it is utterly disappointing. There are so many metaphors/idoms that revolve around daybreak. "Dawn of a new era" symbolises a bright new future for new beginning. To "dawn on" something is to have an enlightening realization of something. But the real dawn is far less appealing than these phrases that evoke a sense of new birth in a normal person. Sunrise breaks the fabric of the tranquil night sky. Bit by bit, ugly rays of sunlight force their way through the solid darkness under which true feelings are able to present themselves without pretense or avoidance. Eventually, all that arises other than the burning hot sun is the knowledge that another monotonous day has begun.
Then begins what we generally call the 'day'. Most people get out of their beds to go to school, work, or to do household chores. Some play golf and swim all day, breaking for food and drink in between. The day to be detailed no more than this because our existence belongs to it.
Then comes the time where most people stop their working day, pack their bags and go somewhere where they can spend some time appreciating the end of the day. Most people spend this time on the train. They get on when the sky's still bright and when they arrive at their destination, darkness has fallen and night has come. Dusk is the process of the sun retreating from its throne in the sky into the deepest valleys of the earth. In contrast to dawn, sunlight fades away bit by bit, leaving people to think that a glimmer of hope lies within those last rays projected from the sun.
Little do they know that those rays are only distractions from the real hope. Real hope that exists in darkness. When the sun goes down, there is no need to pretend to be happy when you're not. There's no need to be courteous to people you don't want to be courteous to. When night falls, one's character truly shines out, in defiance of the fact that the glaring rays of the sun shine no more. People go to pubs and clubs only at night. They can only enjoy themselves at such places of entertainment at night because only then can they bring themselves to admit that they are unhappy beings in need of some happiness, however superficial and shortlived. When the sun still sits high up on its throne in the sky, it subliminally reminds everyone that they are being watched. Every twitch of the eyebrow can be seen by virtue of the sun's light-giving traits. So people deal with dark and light, by creating a different persona for the hours when the sun is in the sky. So much so that that persona envelops a person's life and eventually devours the heart of his soul.
At the end of the day, this might seem like the rantings of an unnerved person. Truth is, it is hard to see the truth once we've been reigned into the eye of a tornado. You seem to stay still, you seem to be calm despite chaos all around, but does that calm stem from knowledge or foolishness? Ask any 25 year old working girl about which face is her true face: the one with make-up or the one without and she'll have a hard time trying to figure it out. She may tell you without flinching that the one without make-up is her real face, for she came into this world without any make-up on. But you can always trust that she will walk away from that conversation confused about the question, the answer to the question, and even more bewildered about her answer to the question.
On our sunny little island, the sun usually rises at about 6.30 a.m. I have, on more than one occassion, stayed up late enough to actually see the transition of the colour of the sky, and I must say that it is utterly disappointing. There are so many metaphors/idoms that revolve around daybreak. "Dawn of a new era" symbolises a bright new future for new beginning. To "dawn on" something is to have an enlightening realization of something. But the real dawn is far less appealing than these phrases that evoke a sense of new birth in a normal person. Sunrise breaks the fabric of the tranquil night sky. Bit by bit, ugly rays of sunlight force their way through the solid darkness under which true feelings are able to present themselves without pretense or avoidance. Eventually, all that arises other than the burning hot sun is the knowledge that another monotonous day has begun.
Then begins what we generally call the 'day'. Most people get out of their beds to go to school, work, or to do household chores. Some play golf and swim all day, breaking for food and drink in between. The day to be detailed no more than this because our existence belongs to it.
Then comes the time where most people stop their working day, pack their bags and go somewhere where they can spend some time appreciating the end of the day. Most people spend this time on the train. They get on when the sky's still bright and when they arrive at their destination, darkness has fallen and night has come. Dusk is the process of the sun retreating from its throne in the sky into the deepest valleys of the earth. In contrast to dawn, sunlight fades away bit by bit, leaving people to think that a glimmer of hope lies within those last rays projected from the sun.
Little do they know that those rays are only distractions from the real hope. Real hope that exists in darkness. When the sun goes down, there is no need to pretend to be happy when you're not. There's no need to be courteous to people you don't want to be courteous to. When night falls, one's character truly shines out, in defiance of the fact that the glaring rays of the sun shine no more. People go to pubs and clubs only at night. They can only enjoy themselves at such places of entertainment at night because only then can they bring themselves to admit that they are unhappy beings in need of some happiness, however superficial and shortlived. When the sun still sits high up on its throne in the sky, it subliminally reminds everyone that they are being watched. Every twitch of the eyebrow can be seen by virtue of the sun's light-giving traits. So people deal with dark and light, by creating a different persona for the hours when the sun is in the sky. So much so that that persona envelops a person's life and eventually devours the heart of his soul.
At the end of the day, this might seem like the rantings of an unnerved person. Truth is, it is hard to see the truth once we've been reigned into the eye of a tornado. You seem to stay still, you seem to be calm despite chaos all around, but does that calm stem from knowledge or foolishness? Ask any 25 year old working girl about which face is her true face: the one with make-up or the one without and she'll have a hard time trying to figure it out. She may tell you without flinching that the one without make-up is her real face, for she came into this world without any make-up on. But you can always trust that she will walk away from that conversation confused about the question, the answer to the question, and even more bewildered about her answer to the question.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Tempted To Cry
If I could just take the first step and let you know how I feel
I could be the hand you hold on to in the deepest darkest hours
Just wash away those memories they're hardly worth a dime
Come away with me now this is what is real
I can't lie on my bed while I know you're sunk in yours
Tempted to cry
I could be the hand you hold on to in the deepest darkest hours
Just wash away those memories they're hardly worth a dime
Come away with me now this is what is real
I can't lie on my bed while I know you're sunk in yours
Tempted to cry
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
The Death Of Us All
Last night was yet another dinner night. A restaurant half filled with family, lots of food and drink (but we were spared the alcohol 'cause it was a weekday.. ironic isn't it?) and lots of random chatter.
Being the youngest cousin in the family, I've always been a listener at these parties. There really isn't anyone to talk to. The next cousin is 24 and the eldest in the generation below me is 14. It might seem like there'd be a lot of things to talk about since I'm right smack in between their ages but think again. We've been leading our entire lives with no relation to each other except for these parties. We're at different stages of our journey and have absolutely nothing in common in terms of school, work or even interests. Its not to say that we're all not close to one another cause we are. I'm just trying to paint a backdrop of why I seem to be more used to listening than to actually talking and mingling (socializing sounds like a wrong word to use within the family).
So anyway, last night's topic at my side of the table was, strangely, death. The 50 smths and the 60 smths were talking about old times when Mr Eng of Eng's 'kolo-mee' used have a pushcart instead of a unit at Dunman Food Centre; when mahjong used to extend to the wee hours of the morning (they were only 30 smths and could afford the lack of sleep) followed by supper afterward; the 27 bowls of gu-bak-kway-teow after a night of mahjong shared amongst the 6 of them headed by one man called Robin Tan Tian Chye. That's how it all started.
Robin Tan Tian Chye was everything a man could want to be. Fluent in at least 3 languages, single, always available and was most noted for his cheekiness (which could sometimes be rather vulgar) even in front of the elders. No, he wasn't blood related but his family and mine were so close since the days at Marshall Road that he was little less than my uncle ever since I was born. Uncle Robin passed away at slightly over 60 in Australia, a country he so loved and had become a citizen, after close to 5 months of pain and suffering. His jovial self shone through his pancreatic cancer, a rare cancer that somehow struck him so suddenly. Even in his last days, sundng frail yet strong, his last words to me over the phone were "Uncle Robin loves you you know." And hours later, he finally succumbed with a loud yet peaceful gasp.
Pancreatic cancer is relatively rare. Which brought my father to talk about his sister, who was diagnosed about 5 years ago with cancer of the nose, another cancer that though relatively rare, is strangely common in Cantonese people. My father boarded a plane to Australia, where she had made her home to see her one last time. She succumbed just a few hours before my Papa's plane landed so he didn't get to see her before she passed. I've never dared ask him what he felt when he heard the news. But how else can it feel to get on an aeroplane to fly for 8 hours to see a dying sister only to have her move on before you even land?
What these two people shared, other than passing from cancer, was that they came back to their birthplace one last time before they left this world. Uncle Robin came down for 5 weeks, the longest ever since he got his Australian citizenship. Ku-ma came back just before she was diagnosed with the cancer, which spread tremendously quickly. Both had a lot of fun back home, visiting relatives, savouring all our local dishes, Ku-ma even went on a shopping trip to JB for 2 days in a row. Then they 'went back' to Australia.. to die. Did they know they were going to go, thus made their way back to Singapore for one last time? No one will ever know and now that they're probably somewhere better, it's better not to discuss.
You see, that's the problem with death. You can't discuss death as if it were a health science issue because there's no treatment for death. You can't talk about it from a humanitarian point of view because its not a wrong which the UN or other similar forces can remedy or give aid to. So we live in silence, consciously choosing not to talk about death because to do so would be morbid and foul, not to mention inauspicious.
Which also leads to a bigger problem: we all fear death. And the fear of death will bring it about prematurely, if not controlled. Uncle Robin once mentioned this, "I'm not scared of AIDS, because I not gatal. But I'm scared of cancer". And cancer was what he finally gave in to. There is a scientific term called 'auto-suggestion', which means that whatever you 'suggest' to your brain, your body automates. Simply put, the more you think you're ging to die of cancer, the more likely that you will die of cancer.
But what is the point of all this jibber-jabber, mambo-jambo about death? For there is only so much we can say and so little we can do. When we come to the end of our lives, we come to the end of our lives. What's there to talk about? Nothing could be further from the truth. Death is life seen from a different angle whether you like it or not. The world may portray life to be all that there is: hope, love, faith, patience. What they don't tell you is that the very same hope, love, faith and patience are at the very core of death itself.
So the next time you find yourself inexplicably stepping back onto a pavement when you were about to jaywalk, just take note that death might have just whizzed by you in the form of a car. The next time you get a heat stroke and pass out, remember that death was with you through it all, but left you at the last moment. And the next time you get so drunk that you fall down an escalator without knowing it, do make a little offering to your guardian angel, cause death could have taken you then but your guardian angel changed death's mind.
Being the youngest cousin in the family, I've always been a listener at these parties. There really isn't anyone to talk to. The next cousin is 24 and the eldest in the generation below me is 14. It might seem like there'd be a lot of things to talk about since I'm right smack in between their ages but think again. We've been leading our entire lives with no relation to each other except for these parties. We're at different stages of our journey and have absolutely nothing in common in terms of school, work or even interests. Its not to say that we're all not close to one another cause we are. I'm just trying to paint a backdrop of why I seem to be more used to listening than to actually talking and mingling (socializing sounds like a wrong word to use within the family).
So anyway, last night's topic at my side of the table was, strangely, death. The 50 smths and the 60 smths were talking about old times when Mr Eng of Eng's 'kolo-mee' used have a pushcart instead of a unit at Dunman Food Centre; when mahjong used to extend to the wee hours of the morning (they were only 30 smths and could afford the lack of sleep) followed by supper afterward; the 27 bowls of gu-bak-kway-teow after a night of mahjong shared amongst the 6 of them headed by one man called Robin Tan Tian Chye. That's how it all started.
Robin Tan Tian Chye was everything a man could want to be. Fluent in at least 3 languages, single, always available and was most noted for his cheekiness (which could sometimes be rather vulgar) even in front of the elders. No, he wasn't blood related but his family and mine were so close since the days at Marshall Road that he was little less than my uncle ever since I was born. Uncle Robin passed away at slightly over 60 in Australia, a country he so loved and had become a citizen, after close to 5 months of pain and suffering. His jovial self shone through his pancreatic cancer, a rare cancer that somehow struck him so suddenly. Even in his last days, sundng frail yet strong, his last words to me over the phone were "Uncle Robin loves you you know." And hours later, he finally succumbed with a loud yet peaceful gasp.
Pancreatic cancer is relatively rare. Which brought my father to talk about his sister, who was diagnosed about 5 years ago with cancer of the nose, another cancer that though relatively rare, is strangely common in Cantonese people. My father boarded a plane to Australia, where she had made her home to see her one last time. She succumbed just a few hours before my Papa's plane landed so he didn't get to see her before she passed. I've never dared ask him what he felt when he heard the news. But how else can it feel to get on an aeroplane to fly for 8 hours to see a dying sister only to have her move on before you even land?
What these two people shared, other than passing from cancer, was that they came back to their birthplace one last time before they left this world. Uncle Robin came down for 5 weeks, the longest ever since he got his Australian citizenship. Ku-ma came back just before she was diagnosed with the cancer, which spread tremendously quickly. Both had a lot of fun back home, visiting relatives, savouring all our local dishes, Ku-ma even went on a shopping trip to JB for 2 days in a row. Then they 'went back' to Australia.. to die. Did they know they were going to go, thus made their way back to Singapore for one last time? No one will ever know and now that they're probably somewhere better, it's better not to discuss.
You see, that's the problem with death. You can't discuss death as if it were a health science issue because there's no treatment for death. You can't talk about it from a humanitarian point of view because its not a wrong which the UN or other similar forces can remedy or give aid to. So we live in silence, consciously choosing not to talk about death because to do so would be morbid and foul, not to mention inauspicious.
Which also leads to a bigger problem: we all fear death. And the fear of death will bring it about prematurely, if not controlled. Uncle Robin once mentioned this, "I'm not scared of AIDS, because I not gatal. But I'm scared of cancer". And cancer was what he finally gave in to. There is a scientific term called 'auto-suggestion', which means that whatever you 'suggest' to your brain, your body automates. Simply put, the more you think you're ging to die of cancer, the more likely that you will die of cancer.
But what is the point of all this jibber-jabber, mambo-jambo about death? For there is only so much we can say and so little we can do. When we come to the end of our lives, we come to the end of our lives. What's there to talk about? Nothing could be further from the truth. Death is life seen from a different angle whether you like it or not. The world may portray life to be all that there is: hope, love, faith, patience. What they don't tell you is that the very same hope, love, faith and patience are at the very core of death itself.
So the next time you find yourself inexplicably stepping back onto a pavement when you were about to jaywalk, just take note that death might have just whizzed by you in the form of a car. The next time you get a heat stroke and pass out, remember that death was with you through it all, but left you at the last moment. And the next time you get so drunk that you fall down an escalator without knowing it, do make a little offering to your guardian angel, cause death could have taken you then but your guardian angel changed death's mind.
Blaze Of Glory
So I'm crazy over Bon Jovi these few days. I can't help it. They're the greatest band that ever lived. Well at least the only band thats still together as of now.
**Each night i go to bed
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
No I ain't looking for forgivness
But before I'm six-foot-deep
Lord I gotta ask a favour
And I hope you'll understand
You see I've lived life to the fullest
Let this boy die like a man
Staring down a bullet
As I make my final stand... **
-Blaze Of Glory, written for the movie "Young Guns 2"
**Each night i go to bed
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
No I ain't looking for forgivness
But before I'm six-foot-deep
Lord I gotta ask a favour
And I hope you'll understand
You see I've lived life to the fullest
Let this boy die like a man
Staring down a bullet
As I make my final stand... **
-Blaze Of Glory, written for the movie "Young Guns 2"
Monday, September 3, 2007
Keep The Faith
**I've been walking in the footsteps
Of society's lies
I don't like what I see no more
Sometimes I wish that I was blind
Sometimes I wait forever
Just to stand out in the rain
So that no one sees me crying
Try to wash away this pain
Mother mother
These things I've done I can't erase
Every night I fall from grace
Its hard with the world in your face
Try to hold on
Try to hold on**
Its funny how what Bon jovi wrote more than 10 years ago seems to fit so well into today's context. I guess that's what you call timeless lyrics.
Of society's lies
I don't like what I see no more
Sometimes I wish that I was blind
Sometimes I wait forever
Just to stand out in the rain
So that no one sees me crying
Try to wash away this pain
Mother mother
These things I've done I can't erase
Every night I fall from grace
Its hard with the world in your face
Try to hold on
Try to hold on**
Its funny how what Bon jovi wrote more than 10 years ago seems to fit so well into today's context. I guess that's what you call timeless lyrics.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
To A Girl I Hardly Know
Sometimes memories flood my mind unexpectedly. Memories that I don't want to have. Memories that I wish would just pass me by rather than enter me. But the fact is they do.
I stumbled upon your blog today. Seeing pictures of you and that sweet smile of yours, I can't help but fantasize about the days that we would have had if I actually had you by my side. But I never did. I never dared to pull you in and hold you close to me.
Thinking about that part of my life, the few times that we've met, I've always had this special feeling for you. Something that I really can't describe even till this day. But my eyes weren't meant to roam. I guess the time wasn't right for us. And you slowly faded away..
We lived our lives from then the way it would have played out even if we hadn't known of each other's existence. I never really was a significant part of your life and neither were you in mine. But every once in a while I think of you. I smile.
The time could be right for us now. You've been single haven't you? So have I. But I lack the intestinal fortitude to approach you. We seem to belong to different dimensions. We seem to exist in the same plane and yet our worlds are so far apart. What makes me smile might make you cry.
Don't get me wrong. I do want to be the one for you. I want to be the one to hold you and tell you that everything's alright. I want to banish all those memories that you and him created. But the only way I can even come close to that is to make new memories, of you and I.
I'm afraid. I'm afraid that to start a new life with you, I'd have to go back to a hidden place in my mind where I've dumped all the disappointment, all the hurt and all the pain from your world, confident that I'd never have to go through them again.
I might be wrong. We might be the best thing that could ever happen to the both of us. Please tell me if I'm wrong.
I stumbled upon your blog today. Seeing pictures of you and that sweet smile of yours, I can't help but fantasize about the days that we would have had if I actually had you by my side. But I never did. I never dared to pull you in and hold you close to me.
Thinking about that part of my life, the few times that we've met, I've always had this special feeling for you. Something that I really can't describe even till this day. But my eyes weren't meant to roam. I guess the time wasn't right for us. And you slowly faded away..
We lived our lives from then the way it would have played out even if we hadn't known of each other's existence. I never really was a significant part of your life and neither were you in mine. But every once in a while I think of you. I smile.
The time could be right for us now. You've been single haven't you? So have I. But I lack the intestinal fortitude to approach you. We seem to belong to different dimensions. We seem to exist in the same plane and yet our worlds are so far apart. What makes me smile might make you cry.
Don't get me wrong. I do want to be the one for you. I want to be the one to hold you and tell you that everything's alright. I want to banish all those memories that you and him created. But the only way I can even come close to that is to make new memories, of you and I.
I'm afraid. I'm afraid that to start a new life with you, I'd have to go back to a hidden place in my mind where I've dumped all the disappointment, all the hurt and all the pain from your world, confident that I'd never have to go through them again.
I might be wrong. We might be the best thing that could ever happen to the both of us. Please tell me if I'm wrong.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Road Less Chosen
Today I begin my day in a different style. I do the same things no doubt, but things are different. It's satisfying because now I embark on a journey which not many people get the chance to take. It's the road less travelled, perhaps.
Today I look at myself in the mirror. I look exactly the same. I don't know where my new journey will take me but I can be sure that this is my dream come true. This is the first step to chasing my dream. A life in what I love to do. Whether I make it depends on many factors but am I determined enough not to drown in a pool of hopeful dreamers and fall back to a stable life with stable income.
Today, as I exit my door to have the usual afternoon beer at a certain brewery, I take note of myself. What I have done for the past 19 years, what I will acomplish as my life unfolds, whatever happens from now on, good or bad, must never change who I am and who I have been my entire life. Everyone loves to chase their dream but not many are able to do it. For those who can many fall out along the way.
And for those who have actually fulfilled their dreams, how many can actually remember the booze, smokes and dirt of a life they once lived.
Today I look at myself in the mirror. I look exactly the same. I don't know where my new journey will take me but I can be sure that this is my dream come true. This is the first step to chasing my dream. A life in what I love to do. Whether I make it depends on many factors but am I determined enough not to drown in a pool of hopeful dreamers and fall back to a stable life with stable income.
Today, as I exit my door to have the usual afternoon beer at a certain brewery, I take note of myself. What I have done for the past 19 years, what I will acomplish as my life unfolds, whatever happens from now on, good or bad, must never change who I am and who I have been my entire life. Everyone loves to chase their dream but not many are able to do it. For those who can many fall out along the way.
And for those who have actually fulfilled their dreams, how many can actually remember the booze, smokes and dirt of a life they once lived.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Night Of Gay Gazettes
Tonight was a great night.
After many months of Mishima-ising, I'm glad we had a little party to make sure everyone's not totally Mishima-ised. Actually, it was more for me to realize that everyone else had moved on and it's really not healthy to remain Mishima-ised for too long.
For those of you who don't know, Mishima Yukio was a Japanese author whose works toggled between the really gay and the really disturbing. Mishima's skill lay not in convincing his readers of his ideals and philospohy on life (more death really) but more in communicating the beauty of what he saw in those ideals. The result is a really disturbing aftertaste which left me glazed for months and truth be told, I still am pretty caught up in Mishima's dream world.
But tonight's gathering let me know, in its own special way, that as actors (or directors or whatever) we move on. We learn by absorbing scripts that we come across and set them neatly aside after we're done with them. I guess that's how actors live. If not, the word 'actor' would have to be synonymous with 'philosophical', 'confused' and eventually 'crazy'.
But well, this is meant to be a light hearted post so focussing more on the party, it was really great. From Sonny and Serene's beautiful home to the delicious food to every single person there.
Nureen, Siti for being crazy as ever.
Sherilyn.. gula melaka? Melekit?
Kevin was really sweet in his own way, as usual. Don't worry, we're not losing contact this time buddy.
Andrew and the missus were hilarious and yet serious at the same time. Wonder how they manage that.
Shirin, I think the funniest thing of the night was you quietly crawling off to the corner when asked to play charades.
Rubitha telling spooky theatre stories and Philip just dismissing all of them as 'vibrations'.
Bridget looking well rested and ready for more acting. Do take care though!
Elizabeth for feeling the need to touch everyone in the house in some way before she made her exit.
Neomi for sharing so much about Japan and how the world is so linked up with one another. Oh and for informing me that the area I stayed in in Tokyo was a slum area rather noted for its sneaky activies.
Who can forget Richard. This post is actually titled after his line, "I'm watching for everything you say. Just let one word slip and by tomorrow, you'll be in the gay gazette and EEEEEVERYONE (*high pitched voice*) will know!"
That's definitely not EVERYONE who was there but you get my point. It was a great party to mark the ending of my connection with Mishima:Women in Love. And a new beginning as well. I'll spare you the juicy details. =P
Dom
After many months of Mishima-ising, I'm glad we had a little party to make sure everyone's not totally Mishima-ised. Actually, it was more for me to realize that everyone else had moved on and it's really not healthy to remain Mishima-ised for too long.
For those of you who don't know, Mishima Yukio was a Japanese author whose works toggled between the really gay and the really disturbing. Mishima's skill lay not in convincing his readers of his ideals and philospohy on life (more death really) but more in communicating the beauty of what he saw in those ideals. The result is a really disturbing aftertaste which left me glazed for months and truth be told, I still am pretty caught up in Mishima's dream world.
But tonight's gathering let me know, in its own special way, that as actors (or directors or whatever) we move on. We learn by absorbing scripts that we come across and set them neatly aside after we're done with them. I guess that's how actors live. If not, the word 'actor' would have to be synonymous with 'philosophical', 'confused' and eventually 'crazy'.
But well, this is meant to be a light hearted post so focussing more on the party, it was really great. From Sonny and Serene's beautiful home to the delicious food to every single person there.
Nureen, Siti for being crazy as ever.
Sherilyn.. gula melaka? Melekit?
Kevin was really sweet in his own way, as usual. Don't worry, we're not losing contact this time buddy.
Andrew and the missus were hilarious and yet serious at the same time. Wonder how they manage that.
Shirin, I think the funniest thing of the night was you quietly crawling off to the corner when asked to play charades.
Rubitha telling spooky theatre stories and Philip just dismissing all of them as 'vibrations'.
Bridget looking well rested and ready for more acting. Do take care though!
Elizabeth for feeling the need to touch everyone in the house in some way before she made her exit.
Neomi for sharing so much about Japan and how the world is so linked up with one another. Oh and for informing me that the area I stayed in in Tokyo was a slum area rather noted for its sneaky activies.
Who can forget Richard. This post is actually titled after his line, "I'm watching for everything you say. Just let one word slip and by tomorrow, you'll be in the gay gazette and EEEEEVERYONE (*high pitched voice*) will know!"
That's definitely not EVERYONE who was there but you get my point. It was a great party to mark the ending of my connection with Mishima:Women in Love. And a new beginning as well. I'll spare you the juicy details. =P
Dom
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Open Up
***Sure we love it. That sudden sensation that passes through the body is simply undescribable. Actually it's a little like peeing but its wayyyyy better than that. It makes me twitch where I never knew could twitch, both on the outside and inside. And after the initial surge, it's like there's this invisible shield of happiness and satisfaction around my body. It's like nothing in this world could take this contentment from me.
But you know, coming here wasn't an easy thing. Oh, *giggle* not coming coming but.. you get what I mean. I mean bringing myself to actually doing it wasn't an easy thing. I was curious about the mystery and stuff surrounding sex since I don't know when but it was just a case of wanting to taste the forbidden fruit. And when this fruit that looked so delicious from afar was finally dangling before my very eyes, I just couldn't. I don't know how many guys I actually left hanging right in the centre of my room looking desperate and dishevelled. I felt bad about the situation but I just couldn't.
I've never been a promiscuous girl. In fact I don't think there's such a thing. We're naturally shy and honestly, we're not that much into sex as well. I know guys just want to have their fun, shoot their load and then fall right off to sleep. It's just the way they're wired and I don't blame them for being that way. In fact sometimes I find it rather cute - the way they suddenly seem to have had every ounce of energy expelled together with their cum.
That gentle boy kept his eyes deeply focused on mine all the time and time seemed to have stood still. He kissed my forehead and said that it might hurt a little (sheesh, like he'd know). Then he did something we've never done before. He took my legs and held them by each side of his thigh. My little girl was wide open to him. Still looking straight into my eyes, he went in. Oh my God it hurt so much I felt like a little girl again. I didn't orgasm nor did it feel entirely good. I felt a little weird down there and I couldn't sit cross legged for a few days without feeling uncomfortable.
Stop giving me that look ok. I'm getting to my main point already! *rolls eyes*
You see, a demure and feminine girl like me *winkwink* keeps her legs as close together as possible throughout most of the day. Girls who open their legs wide are viewed by the world as cheap. But that night, as I prepared to take my boyfriend to a place where no man had ever been before, I opened my legs wide. I didn't care if the world thought I was a slut because all that mattered was that he didn't think I was. And it took us so long in our relationship for me to really trust in him, to know that he wouldn't treat me as a slut in order for me to bring myself to have sex with him. In fact, it was only then that I knew why couples usually say 'making love' instead.
To have my guy's dick inside of me might have been painful (well they do say that love hurts), but I felt like an empty part of me was suddenly complete. It was as if I had been missing out on something for 16 years and suddenly reconciliation brought with it emotions and physical sensations that were out of this world.
So there I was, lying on my bed stripped of all clothing, absolutely vulnerable to him standing before me, legs wide open to him like a slut waiting to be penetrated and when he finally entered me.. my pussy was gripped on to him, not wanting to let go. And that's exactly how I felt after we did it. I never wanted to let him go.
We broke up after a while because we didn't seem be going in the same direction. I've had a couple of partners after him and the same complicated emotions pass through my body every time I make love to someone. I begin in the same vulnerable position, open my slutty legs wide, wrap them round his waist and anticipate him completing that void in my physical existence.
I've begun to control my emotions though. I've seen enough men to know that they can't really keep their dicks to their own partners. And for that, I sacrifice a bit of my own pleasure. I've begun to fake orgasms just to see that look on those faces. The look that screams “I'm a man.. she needs me” Little does he know how vulnerable he seems through my eyes as I fake each moan and twitch, controlling the exact moment when he cums.
Why do I still have sex then? I guess its the inevitable fate of every girl to become hardened against the stupid gender we call 'man' and yet still believe that one day, I might just meet that special guy to whom opening my legs wouldn't deem me a slut, to whom being vulnerable to would mean gaining protection. But most importantly, a guy who won't expel all his promises and our memories together with his cum. Cos even if I licked up every drop of it, I would never be able to open my legs to him the same way, exposing all my weaknesses and vulnerabilities, anymore.***
So now we know why girls make such a big deal out of sex. And guys who are girls inside as well.
But you know, coming here wasn't an easy thing. Oh, *giggle* not coming coming but.. you get what I mean. I mean bringing myself to actually doing it wasn't an easy thing. I was curious about the mystery and stuff surrounding sex since I don't know when but it was just a case of wanting to taste the forbidden fruit. And when this fruit that looked so delicious from afar was finally dangling before my very eyes, I just couldn't. I don't know how many guys I actually left hanging right in the centre of my room looking desperate and dishevelled. I felt bad about the situation but I just couldn't.
I've never been a promiscuous girl. In fact I don't think there's such a thing. We're naturally shy and honestly, we're not that much into sex as well. I know guys just want to have their fun, shoot their load and then fall right off to sleep. It's just the way they're wired and I don't blame them for being that way. In fact sometimes I find it rather cute - the way they suddenly seem to have had every ounce of energy expelled together with their cum.
That gentle boy kept his eyes deeply focused on mine all the time and time seemed to have stood still. He kissed my forehead and said that it might hurt a little (sheesh, like he'd know). Then he did something we've never done before. He took my legs and held them by each side of his thigh. My little girl was wide open to him. Still looking straight into my eyes, he went in. Oh my God it hurt so much I felt like a little girl again. I didn't orgasm nor did it feel entirely good. I felt a little weird down there and I couldn't sit cross legged for a few days without feeling uncomfortable.
Stop giving me that look ok. I'm getting to my main point already! *rolls eyes*
You see, a demure and feminine girl like me *winkwink* keeps her legs as close together as possible throughout most of the day. Girls who open their legs wide are viewed by the world as cheap. But that night, as I prepared to take my boyfriend to a place where no man had ever been before, I opened my legs wide. I didn't care if the world thought I was a slut because all that mattered was that he didn't think I was. And it took us so long in our relationship for me to really trust in him, to know that he wouldn't treat me as a slut in order for me to bring myself to have sex with him. In fact, it was only then that I knew why couples usually say 'making love' instead.
To have my guy's dick inside of me might have been painful (well they do say that love hurts), but I felt like an empty part of me was suddenly complete. It was as if I had been missing out on something for 16 years and suddenly reconciliation brought with it emotions and physical sensations that were out of this world.
So there I was, lying on my bed stripped of all clothing, absolutely vulnerable to him standing before me, legs wide open to him like a slut waiting to be penetrated and when he finally entered me.. my pussy was gripped on to him, not wanting to let go. And that's exactly how I felt after we did it. I never wanted to let him go.
We broke up after a while because we didn't seem be going in the same direction. I've had a couple of partners after him and the same complicated emotions pass through my body every time I make love to someone. I begin in the same vulnerable position, open my slutty legs wide, wrap them round his waist and anticipate him completing that void in my physical existence.
I've begun to control my emotions though. I've seen enough men to know that they can't really keep their dicks to their own partners. And for that, I sacrifice a bit of my own pleasure. I've begun to fake orgasms just to see that look on those faces. The look that screams “I'm a man.. she needs me” Little does he know how vulnerable he seems through my eyes as I fake each moan and twitch, controlling the exact moment when he cums.
Why do I still have sex then? I guess its the inevitable fate of every girl to become hardened against the stupid gender we call 'man' and yet still believe that one day, I might just meet that special guy to whom opening my legs wouldn't deem me a slut, to whom being vulnerable to would mean gaining protection. But most importantly, a guy who won't expel all his promises and our memories together with his cum. Cos even if I licked up every drop of it, I would never be able to open my legs to him the same way, exposing all my weaknesses and vulnerabilities, anymore.***
So now we know why girls make such a big deal out of sex. And guys who are girls inside as well.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Scumbag
They say life is a learning journey. I think I can finally succumb to that notion. I learnt something last night that I should never have had to learn but I did.
They say clubs are a dangerous place. Even as I reach the anniversary of my 20th year of life on earth, my mother never fails to paint an extremely rough place whenevr I mention I'm going to a club. Gangsta rap, drugs, booze and guns seem part of her oftentime melodramatic description. I never really let it get to me though because over the past 3 years that I've been an occassional clubber, nothing's really happened.
But last night made me learn that though drugs are one thing you should be apprehensive about in clubs and when you're ponted at with a gun, though not really a big problem in our little island, you should just calmly say a prayer and try to walk away, the biggest problem in clubs is the very people who frequent them in the first place, guys in particular.
Last night, I found out how much of a scumbag some guys can be. Well to be fair, there just one particular scumbag who has a history of being a scumbag in the first place. And I should have seen through the entire act to know that a leopard simply cannot change its spots. I would and could never grope or force a girl to kiss me if she didn't want to (though sometimes I wish I had it in me to do so) and nothing's going to change that. Unfortunately the converse is true as well.
Last night, I let someone that I cared about get past my eyes, which led to the most frustrating and not to mention infuriating 25 minutes of my teenage life. As I countdown the days to the big day when i'll kiss my teenage years goodbye, I can only hope and do whatever is in my power to make sure no one walks away the way I did 3 years ago. I can only hope that scumbags stay where they should and preferably out of my sight. My tolerance for sneaky wolves like that has worn thin despite only 2 main chance encounters over a few years.
To everyone else last night, its not nice the way things turned out but I'm not the one who owes anyone an apology. But since most of you were looking enjoyably high, talking shit and strutting around in heels which are usually seen beneath a girl's feet, I guess the night didn't come to that bad an end after all. As for that scumbag, my rage clearly wasn't just about what happened last night and its time for me to let go. And today's the time I will. But the night showed me that despite how much people may change, their core remains the same. Good luck to finding out.
They say clubs are a dangerous place. Even as I reach the anniversary of my 20th year of life on earth, my mother never fails to paint an extremely rough place whenevr I mention I'm going to a club. Gangsta rap, drugs, booze and guns seem part of her oftentime melodramatic description. I never really let it get to me though because over the past 3 years that I've been an occassional clubber, nothing's really happened.
But last night made me learn that though drugs are one thing you should be apprehensive about in clubs and when you're ponted at with a gun, though not really a big problem in our little island, you should just calmly say a prayer and try to walk away, the biggest problem in clubs is the very people who frequent them in the first place, guys in particular.
Last night, I found out how much of a scumbag some guys can be. Well to be fair, there just one particular scumbag who has a history of being a scumbag in the first place. And I should have seen through the entire act to know that a leopard simply cannot change its spots. I would and could never grope or force a girl to kiss me if she didn't want to (though sometimes I wish I had it in me to do so) and nothing's going to change that. Unfortunately the converse is true as well.
Last night, I let someone that I cared about get past my eyes, which led to the most frustrating and not to mention infuriating 25 minutes of my teenage life. As I countdown the days to the big day when i'll kiss my teenage years goodbye, I can only hope and do whatever is in my power to make sure no one walks away the way I did 3 years ago. I can only hope that scumbags stay where they should and preferably out of my sight. My tolerance for sneaky wolves like that has worn thin despite only 2 main chance encounters over a few years.
To everyone else last night, its not nice the way things turned out but I'm not the one who owes anyone an apology. But since most of you were looking enjoyably high, talking shit and strutting around in heels which are usually seen beneath a girl's feet, I guess the night didn't come to that bad an end after all. As for that scumbag, my rage clearly wasn't just about what happened last night and its time for me to let go. And today's the time I will. But the night showed me that despite how much people may change, their core remains the same. Good luck to finding out.
Monday, August 13, 2007
342 Minutes (The Father Says Its Time)
I knew that I had gone to see a
Little bit of the world
To bring some joy and happiness
To a special little girl
That was all the time I had
Before my job was done
I came into this world
As your dearest firstborn son
I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay with you that night
For my father called me home now
And I’m right by his side
You held me in your arms
And you made everything alright
Please Ma don’t you cry
I’ll see you when the father says its time
This is how its meant to be
Ma please oh please let it be
I’m grateful for the times you carried
Me around to see
The beauty in this world
Even if it was just for a while
Turn your tender face to mine
That was all that really mattered all the time
I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay with you that night
For my father called me home now
And I’m right by his side
You held me in your arms
And you made everything alright
Please Ma don’t you cry
I’ll see you when the father says its time
Ma don’t keep my memory before your eyes
For I’m stronger than I was when I succumbed that very night
Ma I know you’ll live while I am here like yesterday
I love you don’t you know, I’m afraid to hurt you if I stay.
I promise that you’ll always be our
Precious little boy
And you gave us in your own way
All your faith and subtle joy
Keep within our hearts what you tried to say
You will keep us safe, by the only father’s grace.
I held you in my arms and you made everything alright
Please son wait a while
We’ll see you the father says its time
Little bit of the world
To bring some joy and happiness
To a special little girl
That was all the time I had
Before my job was done
I came into this world
As your dearest firstborn son
I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay with you that night
For my father called me home now
And I’m right by his side
You held me in your arms
And you made everything alright
Please Ma don’t you cry
I’ll see you when the father says its time
This is how its meant to be
Ma please oh please let it be
I’m grateful for the times you carried
Me around to see
The beauty in this world
Even if it was just for a while
Turn your tender face to mine
That was all that really mattered all the time
I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay with you that night
For my father called me home now
And I’m right by his side
You held me in your arms
And you made everything alright
Please Ma don’t you cry
I’ll see you when the father says its time
Ma don’t keep my memory before your eyes
For I’m stronger than I was when I succumbed that very night
Ma I know you’ll live while I am here like yesterday
I love you don’t you know, I’m afraid to hurt you if I stay.
I promise that you’ll always be our
Precious little boy
And you gave us in your own way
All your faith and subtle joy
Keep within our hearts what you tried to say
You will keep us safe, by the only father’s grace.
I held you in my arms and you made everything alright
Please son wait a while
We’ll see you the father says its time
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Sooner or Later...
So we've all been caught up with the question of what is true love. And for those who haven't, take it as a blessing or curse, whichever way you wish. Life's what you make of it anyway.
Now what exactly is true love? When you see a couple walking hand in hand along a beach with happy smiles on their faces, just like you saw them do 50 years ago, is that true love right before your eyes? Is it your mother, who is always complaining about how useless a man your father is but still irons his shirts every morning before giving him a sweet kiss goodbye (ahh, those few seconds of silence in the house), truly in love?
A quick glance through Friendster will show us hundreds of pictures of our friends with their partners. At the movies, at a restaurant, at the beach, in bed, on the plane, at his birthday party etc. There've been many times when I've been happy at seeing these photos, but a lot of the time, I just can't help but wonder how true their 'love' is. How long are they going to last? Sooner or later......
The fact is, no one knows what's going to happen sooner or later. So why bother about whether this love is true? Isn't it more important that more time is spent together, that more happy (as well as sad) memories are created within this time? We can never know if our love is true, but when its happening right in front of our eyes, it's got to be real.
*Apologies for the recent spate of soapy entries. This whole wishy-washy lamentation about love ends here.*
Now what exactly is true love? When you see a couple walking hand in hand along a beach with happy smiles on their faces, just like you saw them do 50 years ago, is that true love right before your eyes? Is it your mother, who is always complaining about how useless a man your father is but still irons his shirts every morning before giving him a sweet kiss goodbye (ahh, those few seconds of silence in the house), truly in love?
A quick glance through Friendster will show us hundreds of pictures of our friends with their partners. At the movies, at a restaurant, at the beach, in bed, on the plane, at his birthday party etc. There've been many times when I've been happy at seeing these photos, but a lot of the time, I just can't help but wonder how true their 'love' is. How long are they going to last? Sooner or later......
The fact is, no one knows what's going to happen sooner or later. So why bother about whether this love is true? Isn't it more important that more time is spent together, that more happy (as well as sad) memories are created within this time? We can never know if our love is true, but when its happening right in front of our eyes, it's got to be real.
*Apologies for the recent spate of soapy entries. This whole wishy-washy lamentation about love ends here.*
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
What Are You, Stupid.. Pt.II
When I flip through the recesses of my mind to find snippets of you, I see beyond your bedroom, beyond your physical person. I wonder if you saw beyond me too. Maybe I didn't let you.
When she was in my life, it was as if the world just stopped revolving. I had done everything my strength allowed me to do for her. But her presence was like a misplayed note of an unskilled pianist playing a classical masterpiece.
Before I met you, I never believed that anyone understood me better than myself. You were like the perfect stabilizer for my unsettled soul. But your presence was like a mistimed beat of a skilled percussionist.
She continues to occupy an important place in my heart. Someone I loved with my head in the clouds and eventually, hated. I'd be in the gutter if not for her absence but I can't help but wonder where I'd be if she never showed up in the first place.
You continue to be that person who knows me best; even when I didn't have my head in the clouds, you were a person I loved. Perhaps you'd never hear of it but I've always known that you would play a more important part in my life than anyone else. I am who I am today because you made me believe in what I am, not to resist it. No matter where you are, what you do or who you become, I wish I could be around to see you achieve great things.
A mis-played note; a mis-timed beat. Even the most experienced musician fears these two 'misses'. It would be stupid to argue which is a better mistake to make. Playing the right note a split second after the 'miss' is not an option. Neither is replaying a beat. But what he does when he makes them is to take the misses he has made, recognize where he is in the score, and then weave out the remainder of the piece beautifully. Only then can he be called a great musician.
*This post is dedicated to two important people in my life now who have made me understand, or at least think I understand, what I thought I never would. I have to thank one for her stupidity and the other for questioning the inherent stupidity of human beings.*
When she was in my life, it was as if the world just stopped revolving. I had done everything my strength allowed me to do for her. But her presence was like a misplayed note of an unskilled pianist playing a classical masterpiece.
Before I met you, I never believed that anyone understood me better than myself. You were like the perfect stabilizer for my unsettled soul. But your presence was like a mistimed beat of a skilled percussionist.
She continues to occupy an important place in my heart. Someone I loved with my head in the clouds and eventually, hated. I'd be in the gutter if not for her absence but I can't help but wonder where I'd be if she never showed up in the first place.
You continue to be that person who knows me best; even when I didn't have my head in the clouds, you were a person I loved. Perhaps you'd never hear of it but I've always known that you would play a more important part in my life than anyone else. I am who I am today because you made me believe in what I am, not to resist it. No matter where you are, what you do or who you become, I wish I could be around to see you achieve great things.
A mis-played note; a mis-timed beat. Even the most experienced musician fears these two 'misses'. It would be stupid to argue which is a better mistake to make. Playing the right note a split second after the 'miss' is not an option. Neither is replaying a beat. But what he does when he makes them is to take the misses he has made, recognize where he is in the score, and then weave out the remainder of the piece beautifully. Only then can he be called a great musician.
*This post is dedicated to two important people in my life now who have made me understand, or at least think I understand, what I thought I never would. I have to thank one for her stupidity and the other for questioning the inherent stupidity of human beings.*
Sunday, July 29, 2007
See Thru You
Packed up my bags today
Don't know where to go
I think I'll just stray
I know what I have to do
Out of reach and out of sight of you
Looking down from way up here
I'm hearing things you would never share
Baby you don't have to make me crawl
I just don't know when to make the call
Everytime I see that place
That "I may wake to see your face"
I always pray.
Its so hard to see you
Every little thing you say or do
Let me look inside you
Far behind that beautiful face
Let me see through you
Make my way back to the days
when I could just reach out
And touch your pretty face
Snapping back to how I'd fall
falling down where I can see you no more
Every dream I dream of you
That I may wake when this comes true
Anywhere that you want me to be
I will be there for you
As long as you're with me
Don't know where to go
I think I'll just stray
I know what I have to do
Out of reach and out of sight of you
Looking down from way up here
I'm hearing things you would never share
Baby you don't have to make me crawl
I just don't know when to make the call
Everytime I see that place
That "I may wake to see your face"
I always pray.
Its so hard to see you
Every little thing you say or do
Let me look inside you
Far behind that beautiful face
Let me see through you
Make my way back to the days
when I could just reach out
And touch your pretty face
Snapping back to how I'd fall
falling down where I can see you no more
Every dream I dream of you
That I may wake when this comes true
Anywhere that you want me to be
I will be there for you
As long as you're with me
Friday, July 27, 2007
A Scheut Calling
***Out of faith, hope and love, which is the greatest? It's love. That's why we have to start loving everybody regardless of race, religion or how good they look. We eat rice everyday, not shit.. so we have to watch our words.
God loves us so much. That is why he wants for us not to lay back and be oblivious to the things around us. He sends us in a circle to see the good and the bad and then come home.
So love yourself. If you don't love yourself, how can you love others? If you don't love others, how can you have faith? If you don't have faith, then there's no hope. If there's no hope, you're hopeless!***
Despite how harsh his last sentence sounded and how rebelliously I answered him, the jovial 60 year old taxi driver who had a loving picture of his family as well as a "God Loves All Of Us" sign on his dashboard, his words remain ringing in my head as a sign that life is a journey. No matter how you steer, that journey should inevitably end in one full circle.
God loves us so much. That is why he wants for us not to lay back and be oblivious to the things around us. He sends us in a circle to see the good and the bad and then come home.
So love yourself. If you don't love yourself, how can you love others? If you don't love others, how can you have faith? If you don't have faith, then there's no hope. If there's no hope, you're hopeless!***
Despite how harsh his last sentence sounded and how rebelliously I answered him, the jovial 60 year old taxi driver who had a loving picture of his family as well as a "God Loves All Of Us" sign on his dashboard, his words remain ringing in my head as a sign that life is a journey. No matter how you steer, that journey should inevitably end in one full circle.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
One Pregnant Lady
A couple of months ago, I was walking along a street doing nothing other than checking out every single person that I passed by. Of course, there were the girls with big boobs, guys who looked like they just woke up from sleep (wash your hair man!) and those who simply looked like they walked here from China. Nothing out of the ordinary until one particular human being caught my attention. She made me stop in my tracks and just look in a way that would have gotten me arrested if she had screamed or alleged harrasment.
A pregnant lady. Complete with a maternity dress, matching handbag and low heels. The aura surrounding her reeked of the 'corporate air-conditioning' syndrome but that was not what struck me. What struck me was how much beauty I actually saw in this lady.
For starters, she was a very beautiful lady. I could imagine her being the school belle from secondary school all the way up to her university days. In fact, I imagined all the deprived corporate men just freezing the moment she walked into the office at 9 a.m. every morning. But this lady's beauty exuded from a source other than her flawless complexion and swollen breasts. This lady was pregnant.
Being the adolescent boy that I am, I linked the bulging tummy to the act that actually brought about the pregnancy in the first place. Like they say, one bulge begets another. But it was not rough, horny thoughts that accompanied these images in my mind but rather the realization of what sex really is. The making of new life.
For once, I realized that when bangbus and xxxproposal and the likes of it are stripped away, all you have is an innate desire to create new life. This is an entirely different matter from creating your own pencil holder at D&T class or making your own ondeh ondeh. Sex is the fulfilment of the primal desires of two people who need to join their bodies together for that special purpose: to bring new life into this world; which is why orgasam means (and feels) so much more when attained with a partner. Jacking off is a physical thing. Embracing the lady whom you love so much while you ejaculate deep inside her is much more than just a physical thing.
For those of us who have never experienced such pleasures of life (or creation of life), I'm sure most of us will experience it someday. For the apprehensive lot, it is a conscious choice not to bring life into this world which they believe is so full of evil and hurt and complicated emotions. For me, I think the droning of the Catholic church's principles have worked: it is not your choice to refuse or discard of the gifts that God gives you.
I tend to agree with that 'principle' a lot. Perhaps we all feel that this evil world today is a terrible one which isn't a good condition for living. But if you had a choice, would you have chosen not to be born? If our parents had thought 'I can't bring a child into the world as it is today's back then, we couldn't even be here right now. So give that child a chance. Give your child a chance.
Oh and by the way, just a couple of weeks after I saw that beautiful pregnant lady, I found out that my sister was pregnant. My mind began to start the same thought process that had been trigeered off by that lady but I stopped myself. I just had to.
A pregnant lady. Complete with a maternity dress, matching handbag and low heels. The aura surrounding her reeked of the 'corporate air-conditioning' syndrome but that was not what struck me. What struck me was how much beauty I actually saw in this lady.
For starters, she was a very beautiful lady. I could imagine her being the school belle from secondary school all the way up to her university days. In fact, I imagined all the deprived corporate men just freezing the moment she walked into the office at 9 a.m. every morning. But this lady's beauty exuded from a source other than her flawless complexion and swollen breasts. This lady was pregnant.
Being the adolescent boy that I am, I linked the bulging tummy to the act that actually brought about the pregnancy in the first place. Like they say, one bulge begets another. But it was not rough, horny thoughts that accompanied these images in my mind but rather the realization of what sex really is. The making of new life.
For once, I realized that when bangbus and xxxproposal and the likes of it are stripped away, all you have is an innate desire to create new life. This is an entirely different matter from creating your own pencil holder at D&T class or making your own ondeh ondeh. Sex is the fulfilment of the primal desires of two people who need to join their bodies together for that special purpose: to bring new life into this world; which is why orgasam means (and feels) so much more when attained with a partner. Jacking off is a physical thing. Embracing the lady whom you love so much while you ejaculate deep inside her is much more than just a physical thing.
For those of us who have never experienced such pleasures of life (or creation of life), I'm sure most of us will experience it someday. For the apprehensive lot, it is a conscious choice not to bring life into this world which they believe is so full of evil and hurt and complicated emotions. For me, I think the droning of the Catholic church's principles have worked: it is not your choice to refuse or discard of the gifts that God gives you.
I tend to agree with that 'principle' a lot. Perhaps we all feel that this evil world today is a terrible one which isn't a good condition for living. But if you had a choice, would you have chosen not to be born? If our parents had thought 'I can't bring a child into the world as it is today's back then, we couldn't even be here right now. So give that child a chance. Give your child a chance.
Oh and by the way, just a couple of weeks after I saw that beautiful pregnant lady, I found out that my sister was pregnant. My mind began to start the same thought process that had been trigeered off by that lady but I stopped myself. I just had to.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Wedding Bells Ring
"Do you take this man as your lawfully wedded husband, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish till death do you part?"
"Take this ring as
a sign of my love and fidelity
in the name of the Father and
of the Son and of the Holy Spirit"
"In the most Holy presence of God, I now pronounce you man and wife."
"What God has joined together, man must not divide."
Since I was 10 years old, I would periodically attend weddings in church as an altar server and, more recently, as a choir boy. The Catholic rituals remain the same. The roles at the altar remain the same. But the feelings that are aroused in me have changed without me noticing.
As a little boy of 10, all I ever looked forward to was the angpow that we got at the end of the mass. Sometimes $20, sometimes $8, rarely $10 (its a Chinese custom to give odd multiples of $10 at funerals). As I grew a little older with puberty setting in, I started staring at the brides. And I realized that a girl really looks the prettiest on her wedding day. Its the love and excitement in her eyes I think.
And now as I grow into a little man, I have absolutely no idea what I feel when I sing for a wedding. The sensible part of me claps and smiles at two people in love finally tying the knot; the coming together of two families formerly oblivious to one another, now joined as relatives.
The emotional part of me just collapses to reject what an idealistic teenager who thought that his was the only girl in the world untouched by promiscuity, vanity and materialism would have bled for not too long ago.
"Take this ring as
a sign of my love and fidelity
in the name of the Father and
of the Son and of the Holy Spirit"
"In the most Holy presence of God, I now pronounce you man and wife."
"What God has joined together, man must not divide."
Since I was 10 years old, I would periodically attend weddings in church as an altar server and, more recently, as a choir boy. The Catholic rituals remain the same. The roles at the altar remain the same. But the feelings that are aroused in me have changed without me noticing.
As a little boy of 10, all I ever looked forward to was the angpow that we got at the end of the mass. Sometimes $20, sometimes $8, rarely $10 (its a Chinese custom to give odd multiples of $10 at funerals). As I grew a little older with puberty setting in, I started staring at the brides. And I realized that a girl really looks the prettiest on her wedding day. Its the love and excitement in her eyes I think.
And now as I grow into a little man, I have absolutely no idea what I feel when I sing for a wedding. The sensible part of me claps and smiles at two people in love finally tying the knot; the coming together of two families formerly oblivious to one another, now joined as relatives.
The emotional part of me just collapses to reject what an idealistic teenager who thought that his was the only girl in the world untouched by promiscuity, vanity and materialism would have bled for not too long ago.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
I Miss..
I miss waking up in the morning not knowing where I will be going or what I'll be doing today.
I missing walking to the public bath in my yugata where beyond the door lie many naked men of all ages who seem to make nothing of the nudity that brings only awkwardness to the unaquainted foreigner.
I miss receiving that message from my best friend from halfway across the world just asking "if everything's ok over there".
I miss speaking in a language I'm unfamiliar with and yet love so much.
I miss getting excited over seeing mundane and uninteresting things like dustbins and the seats on the subway.
I miss the realization that I got everyday that wherever I went, no one knew or cared who I was.
I miss finding out that even though Japan is a small country, people are different everywhere.
I miss thinking back and remembering that Jurong and Bedok were 2 very different places with very different people so what's surprising about Nagasaki and Tokyo's contrast?
I miss resisting the temptation to go where the road takes me, remembering that I wasted hours just trying to find my way out of a certain wretched neighbourhood.
I miss the fear inside of me when I faced the prospect of sleeping out in the streets that day.
I miss knowing the fact that the people I loved and cared about were a 7 hour plane ride away.
I miss the luxury that I had of seeing the blossoming of the sakura at its different stages throughout that beautiful country.
I miss the feeling that overwhelmed me when I saw Leon's face at Yokosuka station.
I miss how my English sentence structure was messed up for the first 30 min we were together.
I miss the snow up in Hakone. It snowed for 2 friends on an unbelievable trip together and stopped the moment we left the mountains.
I miss the club we almost got lucky at before kind-hearted friends pulled us off and treated us to a mexican feast.
I miss walking into the mirror despite a warning from Leon that same night.
I miss that Sunday morning when my best friend called from halfway across the world saying that we were both going to be back home soon.
It really was soon.
I made the trip.
We made the trip.
I missed home.
Now we're back and I still miss home whenever I think of leaving.
But people always leave. It's only a matter of time before that someone leaves.
What will you do then?
Will you run away as well, or will you settle down and wait?
Only you can tell which is the easier way out.
Then, you've the awful option of following your heart.
I missing walking to the public bath in my yugata where beyond the door lie many naked men of all ages who seem to make nothing of the nudity that brings only awkwardness to the unaquainted foreigner.
I miss receiving that message from my best friend from halfway across the world just asking "if everything's ok over there".
I miss speaking in a language I'm unfamiliar with and yet love so much.
I miss getting excited over seeing mundane and uninteresting things like dustbins and the seats on the subway.
I miss the realization that I got everyday that wherever I went, no one knew or cared who I was.
I miss finding out that even though Japan is a small country, people are different everywhere.
I miss thinking back and remembering that Jurong and Bedok were 2 very different places with very different people so what's surprising about Nagasaki and Tokyo's contrast?
I miss resisting the temptation to go where the road takes me, remembering that I wasted hours just trying to find my way out of a certain wretched neighbourhood.
I miss the fear inside of me when I faced the prospect of sleeping out in the streets that day.
I miss knowing the fact that the people I loved and cared about were a 7 hour plane ride away.
I miss the luxury that I had of seeing the blossoming of the sakura at its different stages throughout that beautiful country.
I miss the feeling that overwhelmed me when I saw Leon's face at Yokosuka station.
I miss how my English sentence structure was messed up for the first 30 min we were together.
I miss the snow up in Hakone. It snowed for 2 friends on an unbelievable trip together and stopped the moment we left the mountains.
I miss the club we almost got lucky at before kind-hearted friends pulled us off and treated us to a mexican feast.
I miss walking into the mirror despite a warning from Leon that same night.
I miss that Sunday morning when my best friend called from halfway across the world saying that we were both going to be back home soon.
It really was soon.
I made the trip.
We made the trip.
I missed home.
Now we're back and I still miss home whenever I think of leaving.
But people always leave. It's only a matter of time before that someone leaves.
What will you do then?
Will you run away as well, or will you settle down and wait?
Only you can tell which is the easier way out.
Then, you've the awful option of following your heart.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Face In The Mirror
To look within one's self is a most disgusting thing to do.
People try their entire lives trying to reason why they are who they are, and who they ought to be instead. All this is in vain isn't it? Perhaps a person is born a certain way, and the journey through wanting to be someone else is just a waste of time, energy and emotion.
What do you see when you reach down into the deepest parts of yourself? Is it a cold hard core in spite of your warm, hospitable exterior? Is it a conniving instigator that contrasts your kind and peace-loving appearance? Or do you see a warm red heart that pulsates with such emotion and feeling that, left unsurpressed, would implode and leave your body just as it is: a hollow shell.
We have our own impressions of ourselves. But how much do those impressions match with the ones that others have gained of us? Ever looked out a window and felt a contemplation so strong that you thought you could look out forever? A window belongs in its pane but spends most of its life opened either on the inside or out. For if it stays in its pane forever, all it would be is a glass panel that serves no other purpose than to let light pass through. Are you a window that swings towards the ways of the world or a firm and self-assertive transparent glass panel?
Looking into a mirror is a creepy thing to do. You know exactly where that pimple is, and exactly which angle from which to look and not see it. You know what colour and style your hair should be modelled in to complement the tone of your skin. But despite all these things that you know, something, somehow is oddly unfamiliar.
People try their entire lives trying to reason why they are who they are, and who they ought to be instead. All this is in vain isn't it? Perhaps a person is born a certain way, and the journey through wanting to be someone else is just a waste of time, energy and emotion.
What do you see when you reach down into the deepest parts of yourself? Is it a cold hard core in spite of your warm, hospitable exterior? Is it a conniving instigator that contrasts your kind and peace-loving appearance? Or do you see a warm red heart that pulsates with such emotion and feeling that, left unsurpressed, would implode and leave your body just as it is: a hollow shell.
We have our own impressions of ourselves. But how much do those impressions match with the ones that others have gained of us? Ever looked out a window and felt a contemplation so strong that you thought you could look out forever? A window belongs in its pane but spends most of its life opened either on the inside or out. For if it stays in its pane forever, all it would be is a glass panel that serves no other purpose than to let light pass through. Are you a window that swings towards the ways of the world or a firm and self-assertive transparent glass panel?
Looking into a mirror is a creepy thing to do. You know exactly where that pimple is, and exactly which angle from which to look and not see it. You know what colour and style your hair should be modelled in to complement the tone of your skin. But despite all these things that you know, something, somehow is oddly unfamiliar.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Monday, July 9, 2007
Something To Fight For
Have you ever felt that in order to keep living, you have to perpetually find something to fight for?
When I was in Primary School, i fought for my freedom. In Secondary School, while still fighting for my freedom, I fought for the things I loved. On the volleyball courts I fought, as a libero, to make sure no ball hits the ground in my turf, no matter how hard the spike was. On stage I fought to satisfy the audience and to convey the message of the scriptwriter (or director lah). Off stage I fought to make sure no one interfered in my love for and involvement in all these things. I fought so hard to love someone. That was once upon a time.
Sometimes I wonder if it would be better if my country was at war. I imagine myself enlisted to serve in every war that is fought. It wouldn't matter that I don't believe in what my country is fighting for. The point is that my country is fighting a war and I have to be a part of it. To be in a foreign land fighting for a cause. Going to sleep at night with no knowledge of where and how I might wake up or if I might wake up at all. To know that if God gave me one more day to live, I'd have to live my life to the fullest because he might just take me away anytime.
It might be said that it is all a matter of perception. That we could live each day as if it were our last even in a place as peaceful as ours. That we don't have stare death straight in the eye to appreciate the luxury of living. But we're human beings. Hand us things on a silver platter and chances are we aren't going to give a damn about it. It is only when food is unavailable that we value what we have to eat. It is only when we're incarcerated that we know how harsh it is to lose our freedom. It is only when we lose our soul that we realize how it is like to be nothing more than a living corpse.
So let's all search for something to fight for. It could be the love for music. It could be the senseless belief that love conquers all. It could be an idealistic passion. But then again, most of us already have something we never stop fighting for: the desire for material wealth at the expense of all other pastimes and pursuits. Give up a chance to make a million dollars just to sit and listen to the sounds of the sea that you truly love.. What are you, stupid?
When I was in Primary School, i fought for my freedom. In Secondary School, while still fighting for my freedom, I fought for the things I loved. On the volleyball courts I fought, as a libero, to make sure no ball hits the ground in my turf, no matter how hard the spike was. On stage I fought to satisfy the audience and to convey the message of the scriptwriter (or director lah). Off stage I fought to make sure no one interfered in my love for and involvement in all these things. I fought so hard to love someone. That was once upon a time.
Sometimes I wonder if it would be better if my country was at war. I imagine myself enlisted to serve in every war that is fought. It wouldn't matter that I don't believe in what my country is fighting for. The point is that my country is fighting a war and I have to be a part of it. To be in a foreign land fighting for a cause. Going to sleep at night with no knowledge of where and how I might wake up or if I might wake up at all. To know that if God gave me one more day to live, I'd have to live my life to the fullest because he might just take me away anytime.
It might be said that it is all a matter of perception. That we could live each day as if it were our last even in a place as peaceful as ours. That we don't have stare death straight in the eye to appreciate the luxury of living. But we're human beings. Hand us things on a silver platter and chances are we aren't going to give a damn about it. It is only when food is unavailable that we value what we have to eat. It is only when we're incarcerated that we know how harsh it is to lose our freedom. It is only when we lose our soul that we realize how it is like to be nothing more than a living corpse.
So let's all search for something to fight for. It could be the love for music. It could be the senseless belief that love conquers all. It could be an idealistic passion. But then again, most of us already have something we never stop fighting for: the desire for material wealth at the expense of all other pastimes and pursuits. Give up a chance to make a million dollars just to sit and listen to the sounds of the sea that you truly love.. What are you, stupid?
Sunday, July 1, 2007
I Thought I Knew
Those were the best times we shared.
We would stay in your home the entire day
with nothing to do or say.
But we knew we had each other
for as long as we wanted..
We would dress up and head out
and you'd hit me for not dressing well.
I would be so proud of the beauty walking next to me
cause we knew it'd last forever.
We'd swear we were the only lovers in this world.
Nothing else really mattered.
Music, theatre, dance,
they never mattered when you weren't there.
When I had to cry on stage I'd think of you leaving me.
When I had to laugh I'd think of your smile.
Through all the things we shared,
We knew it would last forever.
Remember walking on the sand?
Childishly kicking the beach into my eyes.
I said, "Even if the desert made me blind,
Nothing could keep me from seeing your beauty"
You'd just smile and rest your head
and I knew we would last forever.
Remember when we watched the sunset
at the same beach we walked along.
You sat beside me, as you did a thousand times before.
The orange blaze of the setting sun
made a perfect backdrop for our unending love.
And I knew we would last forever.
Remember when you looked up at me,
your eyes filled with fear.
We had been through many phases and each time we knew
we would last forever.
Then your lips parted,
"He's all that I ever wanted."
And I knew I couldn't love forever.
We would stay in your home the entire day
with nothing to do or say.
But we knew we had each other
for as long as we wanted..
We would dress up and head out
and you'd hit me for not dressing well.
I would be so proud of the beauty walking next to me
cause we knew it'd last forever.
We'd swear we were the only lovers in this world.
Nothing else really mattered.
Music, theatre, dance,
they never mattered when you weren't there.
When I had to cry on stage I'd think of you leaving me.
When I had to laugh I'd think of your smile.
Through all the things we shared,
We knew it would last forever.
Remember walking on the sand?
Childishly kicking the beach into my eyes.
I said, "Even if the desert made me blind,
Nothing could keep me from seeing your beauty"
You'd just smile and rest your head
and I knew we would last forever.
Remember when we watched the sunset
at the same beach we walked along.
You sat beside me, as you did a thousand times before.
The orange blaze of the setting sun
made a perfect backdrop for our unending love.
And I knew we would last forever.
Remember when you looked up at me,
your eyes filled with fear.
We had been through many phases and each time we knew
we would last forever.
Then your lips parted,
"He's all that I ever wanted."
And I knew I couldn't love forever.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Living Like A Star... Ronin
Ronin was formed somewhere in 2002 or thereabout and I've always thought that if there was going to be a local band that would succeed, Ronin would be it. Not that they were the best band around or that I particularly liked them but their music just stood out from the rest. At a time where the Alternative Rock scene was slowly morphing itself into the oh-so-big (or maybe not-so-big) genre that we call 'Indie' today and Electrico was getting all the media attention, Ronin was quietly making their music behind the scenes. They finally released an album in 2005. How the sales turned out nobody really knows but it was good to hear a local band getting some airtime on local radio.
To people who know Ronin, they would probably tell you that the frontman, Levan Wee, was what drove their music forward. A wild looking albino who wores shades at any time of day (or night) was probably among the wildest singers you would ever see around here. Levan would rip his shirt off, he'd lie on the floor and gyrate in a way that I'd never seen before, even on videos. He would use vulgarities over the PA system after agreeing with the organizers simply because that was who he was. And then he'd innocently apologise to the disgruntled organizers after the show. That was what he showed his fans at the time.
I thought of Levan as a crazy guy. At some point I even found him an extremist, a posseur. I definitely saluted him as someone with intestinal fortitude because growing up in a society like ours, going against conformity is not as easy as we often think it is. But there was just something about Levan that never held well with me. Maybe it was the way he never made eye contact with the audience; maybe it was the way he spoke in a funny way (pls forgive me if he's got some kind of speech deficiency that I don't know about); maybe it was the way he gave me the impression that he didn't want to be approached. The list goes on.
Now with my weird mix of like and dislike for the guy, let's talk about the recent split. I am nobody to judge or even comment on his or his band's decision to part ways. Being in a band is a great commitment and there are many things that could happen. We don't know all that so it's not fair to say anything about it. But I would like to say something about is Levan's attitude at their final gig together.
Levan evaded the cameras from STOMP and while his former band were sporting enough to talk about the split, he wasn't. From the videos that are available on Stompcast, I would think that even the greatest fan of Ronin would have been utterly disgusted by their frontman. One would think that a last gig would invoke feelings of nostalgia, especially in a frontman. That certainly didn't happen for Levan. While talking to the audience between songs and thanking them for their support over the years in a totally insincere fashion, he let out sniggers and sounds that gave away his unhappiness. just before singing Black Maria, he said,"This song doesn't mean a thing.". Maybe he never realized that this was Ronin's no.1 track on the airwaves for some time. Or maybe he never realized that what he said could translate to Ronin's fans as "You suckers. Thanks for your support. We could have done without you. You thought that Ronin was so full of meaning? Well like I said you're suckers. Our songs don't mean a thing. It's bullshit. Thanks for subscribing to crap. Now we're done."
If that's what he meant, then he's wrong. Ronin did make some good music. In terms of style they were probably a classic rock/hard rock group, seething with an 80s aroma. Some songs had pretty applaudable lyrics as well. My particular favourite was 'Crazy Son', a slow ballad that every musician could relate to. Black Maria, in my opinion, betrayed Ronin's style a little, deviating from the feel of Crazy Son and Revoluion (which, incidentally, doesn't exactly suit Singapore's society but kudos to the good music).
Musicians would swear upon their mums that it isn't true and non-musicians probably wouldn't even care, but in the 5 years or so that Ronin were in the scene, they contributed a huge deal to local music. Who would have thought that a group of students would be able to pull the business a band off. Who would have thought that we'd be hearing songs by a local artist on the radio again (since Angel Of The Night by the Lovehunters abt 12yrs ago)? Ronin did it.
But who would have thought that one day Levan Wee would be living it up like a star and ending the life of Ronin with a rude whimper? Even I certainly didn't expect that.
To people who know Ronin, they would probably tell you that the frontman, Levan Wee, was what drove their music forward. A wild looking albino who wores shades at any time of day (or night) was probably among the wildest singers you would ever see around here. Levan would rip his shirt off, he'd lie on the floor and gyrate in a way that I'd never seen before, even on videos. He would use vulgarities over the PA system after agreeing with the organizers simply because that was who he was. And then he'd innocently apologise to the disgruntled organizers after the show. That was what he showed his fans at the time.
I thought of Levan as a crazy guy. At some point I even found him an extremist, a posseur. I definitely saluted him as someone with intestinal fortitude because growing up in a society like ours, going against conformity is not as easy as we often think it is. But there was just something about Levan that never held well with me. Maybe it was the way he never made eye contact with the audience; maybe it was the way he spoke in a funny way (pls forgive me if he's got some kind of speech deficiency that I don't know about); maybe it was the way he gave me the impression that he didn't want to be approached. The list goes on.
Now with my weird mix of like and dislike for the guy, let's talk about the recent split. I am nobody to judge or even comment on his or his band's decision to part ways. Being in a band is a great commitment and there are many things that could happen. We don't know all that so it's not fair to say anything about it. But I would like to say something about is Levan's attitude at their final gig together.
Levan evaded the cameras from STOMP and while his former band were sporting enough to talk about the split, he wasn't. From the videos that are available on Stompcast, I would think that even the greatest fan of Ronin would have been utterly disgusted by their frontman. One would think that a last gig would invoke feelings of nostalgia, especially in a frontman. That certainly didn't happen for Levan. While talking to the audience between songs and thanking them for their support over the years in a totally insincere fashion, he let out sniggers and sounds that gave away his unhappiness. just before singing Black Maria, he said,"This song doesn't mean a thing.". Maybe he never realized that this was Ronin's no.1 track on the airwaves for some time. Or maybe he never realized that what he said could translate to Ronin's fans as "You suckers. Thanks for your support. We could have done without you. You thought that Ronin was so full of meaning? Well like I said you're suckers. Our songs don't mean a thing. It's bullshit. Thanks for subscribing to crap. Now we're done."
If that's what he meant, then he's wrong. Ronin did make some good music. In terms of style they were probably a classic rock/hard rock group, seething with an 80s aroma. Some songs had pretty applaudable lyrics as well. My particular favourite was 'Crazy Son', a slow ballad that every musician could relate to. Black Maria, in my opinion, betrayed Ronin's style a little, deviating from the feel of Crazy Son and Revoluion (which, incidentally, doesn't exactly suit Singapore's society but kudos to the good music).
Musicians would swear upon their mums that it isn't true and non-musicians probably wouldn't even care, but in the 5 years or so that Ronin were in the scene, they contributed a huge deal to local music. Who would have thought that a group of students would be able to pull the business a band off. Who would have thought that we'd be hearing songs by a local artist on the radio again (since Angel Of The Night by the Lovehunters abt 12yrs ago)? Ronin did it.
But who would have thought that one day Levan Wee would be living it up like a star and ending the life of Ronin with a rude whimper? Even I certainly didn't expect that.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
You wait... I wait for nothing..
I don't think there's any word in the entire world that is more vulgar than the four letter word. Not the F word but the W word. W-a-i-t.
I fear waiting. More than the shoulder to shoulder, ass to ass rush hour crowds, I fear waiting for a bus to come. Or a train for that matter. There is nothing to do when waiting. I just.... wait. But the harsh fact of reality is, my life is filled with waiting. A trip to Borders to get that book I always wanted requires me to stand in line to wait for my turn to pay. When my turn finally comes, the barcode label on my book is faulty so the cashier says, "One moment, sir," which we all know is just a polite substitute for the vile four letter word. While I do wait for the cashier to come back, there is nothing left to do other than to pretend that those awkward stares from behind do not exist and that the cashier at the adjacent counter isn't sniggering at yet another stupid customer who's incapable of making sure a barcode label is in order before taking a book to the counter. Wait.
I hear the call to be an ambitious young man and to fight for what I want in life every day, perhaps even every minute. But fighting isn't a Spartan thing anymore where i can just go to the battlefield, slog it out and either emerge victorious or not emerge at all. Fighting means setting my goals, planning how I am going to achieve those goals before i sit back in that warm seat of mine and...? W-A-I-T. Wait for this part of my education to be over. Wait for the figure that people call my age to crawl just slightly higher before I'm eligible to register for a course. There is nothing to do but wait.
But life's bigger than just queues and ambitions. I have at some point in my teenage years been told that there is someone out there with whom I'm destined to enjoy the rest of my life with.
"So I'll go find her.."
"Nah.. you can't go out looking for love. you've got to wait for it to come to you."
"But I don't want to wait. If she's out there and we're meant to be, I'll find her won't I?"
"You've got to be patient. Stay still and one day you will find each other. And when you do, oh.. that would be the day when fire feels cool and snow turns warm in your hands. You'll just know it."
So I wait. Dawn turns to dusk and dusk turns to dawn again and again and again. And still, I wait. there is nothing else to do but wait. But waiting can be dangerous. If you wait too much, your whole life will soon be filled with waiting. Have you ever sat on a bench waiting for someone to pick you up from school at 2 pm sharp, but at 3.30 pm he's still not there? Every car that passes brings with it a glimmer of hope that will only pass by. Soon that glimmer fades and you only turn your gaze to cars that share the same colour as the one supposed to pick you. And soon, even that new hopeful shine pales in comparison to the solace that you have found in waiting.
Waiting is the anticipation of a hope being fulfilled. It is sad that those who wait eagerly for their desires don't realize that once they stop waiting, they stop hoping simply because there is nothing else to hope for. It is the same reason why vampires can never have dreams. The poor immortal beings will always fulfil their dreams no matter how long it takes and soon they have nothing else to dream for. A life without hopes and dreams is a life not worth living. For what drives a human being's humanity is the desire for unattainable things.
So tommorow again I will wait for the water to heat up before I take my shower. I will wait for the train to come before I get on it. I will wait for the day to end before I get off work. I wait for the perfect one to find where I am and turn my night into day. I wait for my life to end knowing that within my corpse is a heart filled with bitter wants and unsatisfied needs that helped me go on living life when I was alive. Or just maybe the same heart that pumps litres of blood through my body and never waits to let time pass is already dead.
I fear waiting. More than the shoulder to shoulder, ass to ass rush hour crowds, I fear waiting for a bus to come. Or a train for that matter. There is nothing to do when waiting. I just.... wait. But the harsh fact of reality is, my life is filled with waiting. A trip to Borders to get that book I always wanted requires me to stand in line to wait for my turn to pay. When my turn finally comes, the barcode label on my book is faulty so the cashier says, "One moment, sir," which we all know is just a polite substitute for the vile four letter word. While I do wait for the cashier to come back, there is nothing left to do other than to pretend that those awkward stares from behind do not exist and that the cashier at the adjacent counter isn't sniggering at yet another stupid customer who's incapable of making sure a barcode label is in order before taking a book to the counter. Wait.
I hear the call to be an ambitious young man and to fight for what I want in life every day, perhaps even every minute. But fighting isn't a Spartan thing anymore where i can just go to the battlefield, slog it out and either emerge victorious or not emerge at all. Fighting means setting my goals, planning how I am going to achieve those goals before i sit back in that warm seat of mine and...? W-A-I-T. Wait for this part of my education to be over. Wait for the figure that people call my age to crawl just slightly higher before I'm eligible to register for a course. There is nothing to do but wait.
But life's bigger than just queues and ambitions. I have at some point in my teenage years been told that there is someone out there with whom I'm destined to enjoy the rest of my life with.
"So I'll go find her.."
"Nah.. you can't go out looking for love. you've got to wait for it to come to you."
"But I don't want to wait. If she's out there and we're meant to be, I'll find her won't I?"
"You've got to be patient. Stay still and one day you will find each other. And when you do, oh.. that would be the day when fire feels cool and snow turns warm in your hands. You'll just know it."
So I wait. Dawn turns to dusk and dusk turns to dawn again and again and again. And still, I wait. there is nothing else to do but wait. But waiting can be dangerous. If you wait too much, your whole life will soon be filled with waiting. Have you ever sat on a bench waiting for someone to pick you up from school at 2 pm sharp, but at 3.30 pm he's still not there? Every car that passes brings with it a glimmer of hope that will only pass by. Soon that glimmer fades and you only turn your gaze to cars that share the same colour as the one supposed to pick you. And soon, even that new hopeful shine pales in comparison to the solace that you have found in waiting.
Waiting is the anticipation of a hope being fulfilled. It is sad that those who wait eagerly for their desires don't realize that once they stop waiting, they stop hoping simply because there is nothing else to hope for. It is the same reason why vampires can never have dreams. The poor immortal beings will always fulfil their dreams no matter how long it takes and soon they have nothing else to dream for. A life without hopes and dreams is a life not worth living. For what drives a human being's humanity is the desire for unattainable things.
So tommorow again I will wait for the water to heat up before I take my shower. I will wait for the train to come before I get on it. I will wait for the day to end before I get off work. I wait for the perfect one to find where I am and turn my night into day. I wait for my life to end knowing that within my corpse is a heart filled with bitter wants and unsatisfied needs that helped me go on living life when I was alive. Or just maybe the same heart that pumps litres of blood through my body and never waits to let time pass is already dead.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
The Need To Know
As I countdown the days to going back to school, I can only sit back in my room in front of my humongous TV screen and watch as many shows as I can. TV serials need absolutely no introduction. I've been hooked to a couple of really popular shows like "The OC", "One Tree Hill" and "Prison Break" recently. This, together with my Jap-drama DVDs and you'll know that I have a year's worth of watching right here in my bedroom. Sometimes TV can be an even more potent drug than morphine or cocaine but they all do one thing: mess up your mind.
Any TV junkie would understand how easy it is to start the episodes the very minute morning coffee's over with. This never used to be that much of a problem before the DVD fad and, more recently, the online TV option came about. What used to be an early morning relaxation before the daily grind has now become the daily grind itself. Just what does TV have over us?
For starters, we all love to have drama in our lives. Unfortunately for us, the drama that we fantasize about doesn't exactly match up with reality. TV offers a different dimention altogether. You KNOW that your dreams are going unfurl in front of you. You KNOW that Haley and Nathan are going to get back together (hey I'm still on Season 2 ok) but even if they don't, you KNOW that something good will come out the whole situation. We KNOW almost evrything that is going to happen but what excites us is the HOW.
In what I like to call 'scripted-reality', there are no boundaries. Or rather, the writer sets the boundaries. And like you guessed, the writer is a human being after all. What the writer isn't is a realist. Sure you've got 'realist' plays and TV's supposed to be 'realist' as well but how much of REAL LIFE is reflected in all these stories? Close to none. The jist of it might remind you of real life but in 'scripted reality', there are countless opportunities for the characters to make up for something when they've screwed up. X's father has an affair, thinks that his family is gone, but then realizes that his mother has an affair as well. Both parents, who obviously find themselves standing on level ground, make up and live happily ever after.. affiar-free.
Life doesn't offer us those opporunities, those chances. You forget to say something at your cosuin's wedding, you don't get a chance to say it again. You get your girlfriend pregnant, you're not going to have a chance to go back and put on a condom again. You hesitate to tell someone you love her, you're not going to have a chance to tell her just before she goes for her summer break (One Tree Hill). TV has all those chances. But they're not for us, they're made for the characters in the story. But we all wish our lives were like that don't we? Countless opportunities to do or say what we've always wanted to. But we don't. So we watch...
Any TV junkie would understand how easy it is to start the episodes the very minute morning coffee's over with. This never used to be that much of a problem before the DVD fad and, more recently, the online TV option came about. What used to be an early morning relaxation before the daily grind has now become the daily grind itself. Just what does TV have over us?
For starters, we all love to have drama in our lives. Unfortunately for us, the drama that we fantasize about doesn't exactly match up with reality. TV offers a different dimention altogether. You KNOW that your dreams are going unfurl in front of you. You KNOW that Haley and Nathan are going to get back together (hey I'm still on Season 2 ok) but even if they don't, you KNOW that something good will come out the whole situation. We KNOW almost evrything that is going to happen but what excites us is the HOW.
In what I like to call 'scripted-reality', there are no boundaries. Or rather, the writer sets the boundaries. And like you guessed, the writer is a human being after all. What the writer isn't is a realist. Sure you've got 'realist' plays and TV's supposed to be 'realist' as well but how much of REAL LIFE is reflected in all these stories? Close to none. The jist of it might remind you of real life but in 'scripted reality', there are countless opportunities for the characters to make up for something when they've screwed up. X's father has an affair, thinks that his family is gone, but then realizes that his mother has an affair as well. Both parents, who obviously find themselves standing on level ground, make up and live happily ever after.. affiar-free.
Life doesn't offer us those opporunities, those chances. You forget to say something at your cosuin's wedding, you don't get a chance to say it again. You get your girlfriend pregnant, you're not going to have a chance to go back and put on a condom again. You hesitate to tell someone you love her, you're not going to have a chance to tell her just before she goes for her summer break (One Tree Hill). TV has all those chances. But they're not for us, they're made for the characters in the story. But we all wish our lives were like that don't we? Countless opportunities to do or say what we've always wanted to. But we don't. So we watch...
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Finally, a blog!
So there's always this thing about keping up with the times. I guess its just about time that I should create ablog. Having resisted the idea for more than two years while all my peers set up their own outlet for expression, maybe it really is time.
Well I've been free for close to a year now and the freedom I've always wanted feels great. But our world being a not-so-perfect one also means that freedom can sometimes equate to lonliness. And of course, that's a great thing cause at least its an indication of my humanity.
Since this is a first blog entry I guess its courteous that I give a short update to what's been going on in my life off late.
This year has started off as a great year with me finally visiting my dream destination: Japan. Another reason that makes 2007 great is that I've started music lessons with a teacher I feel rather comfortable with and I just hope and pray that I can stay with her for as long as possible.
My best friend's just returned from the U.S. after a 3 month stay and we now share dreams we never thought would be common between us. Of course there is a downside to his stay over there.. due to how easily I'm assimilated into the activities ofthe people around me, I find myself doing one out of two things in my free time: Baseball OR Skateboarding. Again, these are two things NEITHER of us thought we'd ever do.
I'm rediscovering literature, with a focus on Japanese literature. This was brought on by the fact that I'm rehearsing for a play written by the infamous Mishima Yukio. The man staged a coup at the Japanese Self Defence Force Headquarters and when it turned out ot be a flop, commited sepuku or ritual suicide at the same place. His works are as fine as they can get without being explicit.
I've secured a place for my internship at Mallal & Namazie so I don't have to worry about that for a while. School this term hasn't been really good so I'm hoping that when I go back next week, things will somehow just work out fine. But then again.. ours is an inperfect world.
That seems to be all I can and should say for now.
Well I've been free for close to a year now and the freedom I've always wanted feels great. But our world being a not-so-perfect one also means that freedom can sometimes equate to lonliness. And of course, that's a great thing cause at least its an indication of my humanity.
Since this is a first blog entry I guess its courteous that I give a short update to what's been going on in my life off late.
This year has started off as a great year with me finally visiting my dream destination: Japan. Another reason that makes 2007 great is that I've started music lessons with a teacher I feel rather comfortable with and I just hope and pray that I can stay with her for as long as possible.
My best friend's just returned from the U.S. after a 3 month stay and we now share dreams we never thought would be common between us. Of course there is a downside to his stay over there.. due to how easily I'm assimilated into the activities ofthe people around me, I find myself doing one out of two things in my free time: Baseball OR Skateboarding. Again, these are two things NEITHER of us thought we'd ever do.
I'm rediscovering literature, with a focus on Japanese literature. This was brought on by the fact that I'm rehearsing for a play written by the infamous Mishima Yukio. The man staged a coup at the Japanese Self Defence Force Headquarters and when it turned out ot be a flop, commited sepuku or ritual suicide at the same place. His works are as fine as they can get without being explicit.
I've secured a place for my internship at Mallal & Namazie so I don't have to worry about that for a while. School this term hasn't been really good so I'm hoping that when I go back next week, things will somehow just work out fine. But then again.. ours is an inperfect world.
That seems to be all I can and should say for now.
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