A Short Story

On a cold and stormy night, there was a desperate knock on the castle door. The housekeeper scampered to answer it while pondering the purpose of the call at such late hour. Stood beneath the pale moonlight, was a young lady in an old hooded cloak, soaked to the skin.

“I lost my horse in the storm. May I impose on you for shelter, least till morning breaks?” The young lady implored.

“Oh my. You poor dear, do come in,” the kind servant invited. “I will have the maids fix you up with dry clothes while I inform the mistress.”

The lady of the household was Lady Gillian, Duchess of Everington. Once dubbed the name ‘the old tortoise’ by villagers who felt that her ladyship has inappropriately outlived almost all who were kin to her. A most peculiar lady, even by standards of royalty, who has a certain insistence that her rose garden remained blossomed, even in winter. Some said that she would have slumbered in her deathbed, if not for a dying wish to see her only grandson, Prince Marius, wedded to a true princess and honour the royal lineage.

“She may stay. Though the room in the east-wing is only where she shall slumber”, the Duchess instructed with such an air of authority that the servants scurried upon her very last word.

The room in the east-wing was as intimidating as it was majestic. Stretching over three stories high, it seemed almost like a great hall if not for the lack of furniture, save a single structure that rested staunchly in the middle of the room. Framed within four wooden posters with carvings of forest trees and creatures, were mattresses, piled high enough to reach the ceiling. The young lady counted. There were twenty mattresses in all.

The housekeeper ushered her to climb to the top, using a splinted pole ladder that did not command much confidence. It was upon the twentieth mattress that the young lady slept, till the break of dawn.

“I do trust that the night was kind to you,” the duchess queried when the young lady offered her greetings the following morning.

“Let nothing take away my gratitude for your generosity my lady. But last night was a night I found no rest, no slumber and no cheer. While the castle slept, my body carped of discomfort. And so it was a night of unrest, like the storm that battered the castle walls.”

Silence suddenly fell upon the castle. It was an uneasy silence which seemed to have lasted an eternity. And then what appeared to be a veil of despair was lifted by a single smile. A single smile that ushered in a sense of hope and faith not felt since the birth of the young prince.

The old duchess finally spoke, “then it must be, as I have hoped through the many winters that I have hoped. You are the one! As only one fair by birth and virtuous in upbringing would have found discomfort, by a single pea concealed beneath her sheets and mattresses of twenty. A single pea indeed, and from a single pea, I have found a princess!”

The castle erupted in cheer and rejoicing. Lady Gillian strolled towards the young lady and clasped her hand with approval, “what say you my dear?”

“It was haemorrhoids,” the young lady replied.


~~ The End ~~

a quick one

I know, I have not posted anything since August!! Reason being is that I'm writing up my thesis and with so much writing going one, the last thing I want to do is to write when I get home, which is a time for the mind to rest.

However, just a quick one, there is something which I'm just really proud to share..... I was just awarded the Dean's Award in Teaching Excellence - the first ever to be awarded to a sessional tutor.

What can I say? Just feeling very proud of it at the moment.

A Tune on the Radio

I was sitting in my office the other day pretending to work while envisioning the beaches of Tahiti before a familiar tune on the Internet radio brought me back to reality.

“Count on me Singapore… … count on me Singapore… …”

My immediate response was a peculiar blend of mild astonishment and nonchalant disregard; a little like how you would feel if a friend pointed out that you had lint on your jacket. An inquisitive thought dawned upon me as I pondered to myself in a moment of self-enlightenment;

“National day oreadi meh?”

The 9th of August is a day you can easily overlook if you have lived, as I have, for more than eight years overseas. Even when I was living in Singapore, the significance of the 9th of August appeared nothing more than a day on the calendar which I did not have to attend school. That of course changed when I was serving in the army, because national day became a management project that yielded long hours and countless stay-ins so that your scholar-commanding officer may gain leverage for promotion. But then again, the 9th of August never received the same kind of brand recognition as say for instance, the 4th of July which we associate vividly with the red and white stripes.

So when I was asked to write an article on patriotism and Singapore, I realised immediately that the stringing of the two words in a coherent sentence by itself, presented a daunting challenge.

While most of us associate Singaporeans with efficiency, competitiveness and exquisite social grace, patriotism appears to be the last on our list of national core values. For instance, we are probably the only country where the majority of the citizens have no idea what the anthem is on about. Our commitment to the country is grounded on the recital of the national pledge so frequently in school that we can regurgitate the words with ease without ever having spent a moment to ponder its meaning.

Patriotism and Singaporeans appear go together like peas and Clorox.

Perhaps unlike the Americans, the emergence of the nation was not built on war and our military is not glamorised by glorified impressions on the big screen – think for instance, Sheikh Haikel in Army Daze. Our very young history does not command much grandeur compared to dynasties of ancient kings and royal lineage. Our story started with a lost Srivijaya prince who mistook a tiger for a lion and henceforth named the island based on a misconception (this really is a matter of personal opinion because lions are only found in India and Africa; our nation should have been named Haripore).

Despite a lack of splendour there is, however, pride in our historical development – a fairytale about how an island with no natural resources (save mosquitoes) advanced into a developed nation with one of the highest living standards in the world. Over forty-one years on national day, we are timely reminded of our achievement, or otherwise as Dr Chee put it, the achievement of one man and his party.

In a society of meritocracy however, one forgets very quickly about the past, and anticipates in keen earnest of what future the nation has installed for him or her. As so candidly portrayed in a recent televised forum with MM Lee, the mindset of the third generation is less concerned with ‘what you have done for us’ and more of ‘what else can you do for us’. If this is true, patriotism then becomes a conflicting notion when matched against personal agenda.

The talk about patriotism is hardly relevant. For one thing, I feel it is too Americanised a concept that entails stars and striped underwear and unacquainted cries for freedom.

Behind the cynicism, scepticism and perpetual grumble against price hikes and high transportation costs, there is love that resides within the blood of a Singaporean. As we rail against the restrictions to our lives back home, we find ourselves defending the same interest when being questioned by a foreigner. While the boys whine about the time lost in NS, you see pride in their eyes when they share stories of character building when they served their nation. Though I forget sometimes what the 9th of August really means, the tune on the radio that day brought back fond memories of my family and how we would sit together on national days waiting in anticipation for the fireworks.

Singapore is after all, a place where I grew up, where I made friends and a place which has kept my family safe. It has given me an identity, as evident when I count ‘one, two, tree, instead of three’, and despite my proclivity for nitpicking its political, socio-cultural and economical landscape, Singapore remains a place where home is.

So I sat there in my office as the tune played over the Internet, I logged onto Straits Times to see what message our Prime Minster has for us this year. I then looked around to make sure there was no one else in the office. Perhaps I was just trying to kill time or maybe I did not want the moment go to waste, I found myself singing along to the rest of the chorus.

Walking Fossil

It doesn’t feel like that long ago when I started teaching, yet without any warning, three years have passed by. I remember walking into my very first tutorial, I had to put on a shirt, proper cotton pants and leather shoes to give the impression that I was older and wiser. The age difference between the students and myself wasn’t that far apart and it didn’t take long before we communicated at a level you would on a Friday evening at the pub.

Time flies as swiftly as my monthly cash injection mysteriously disappears (yes I bought that damn ski goggles). It was an entirely different feeling when I met my students this semester. I introduced myself and so did they, “hi my name is girlie and I’m 19 years old.” There was a sudden twitch on my brow, possibly the instantaneous formation of wrinkles, and I felt like a walking fossil. The age gap is moving towards a decade and no longer could I pretend that I had youthful exuberance to spare. I was having a conversation with my colleague and I realised that I no longer use the word ‘my students’, instead I call them ‘the kids.’ Where did all that time go? That, I suppose is the problem with studying at the same University for 8 years. You stroll along the same corridor on a daily basis and you feel like everyone around you are getting younger and it really isn’t your fault. The last thing I need is to be stuck in a time capsule, which is why I’m pretty sure I’m not going to pursue academia for my career.

My Top Ten
You know that a generation gap exists when :

• you play Eric Moo in your car and your passengers say, “is he still alive?”
• you invite someone over for dinner and she talks about how she was in junior high when the spice girls appeared, and you realise you were already in Uni then
• you wonder why the kids support Taiwanese bands that name themselves with three-letter-acronyms
• you get frustrated because you can’t hear what in the bloody world Jay Chou is singing about
• you bought tickets to watch a tribute to Louis Armstrong
• you feel that the spoken language is better served with adjectives (as opposed to “I’m like….. it is like…..and then it’s like…..”)
• you think that World of War Craft is evil
• you stick to the speed limit when you drive
• you enjoy a 21 year Scotch on a week night (and not down it like the crazy Vietnamese)
• you know that Laurel and Hardy is not a designer label

my new toy 

Beyond the White Yonder

I feel battered. Perhaps carrying a washing machine, fridge and bed-frame up and down two flights of stairs has something to do with it. Otherwise it will be old bones complaining about staying up too late while being intoxicated at the same time. Instead of driving home to call it a night, I find myself in the office typing a blog entry. I really wanted to write for the last couple of weeks, but I found it just too hard to take time off from my work. I have to write tonight, even though there appears to a backlog of sentiments organised in a manner that humbles my office of utter chaos, I feel the need to pen (keyboard) something down tonight.

It is going to be a very long and hard semester and I’m not a hundred percent certain that I’m up for the challenge. For one thing, I want to complete writing my thesis by October so that I can enjoy my trip to Tennessee in November. Given my rate of writing a quarter page a day, I seriously doubt that a thesis can be fabricated….. I mean constructed …. within that time period. I’m uncertain where I can draw that kind of strength from, but I’m sure more focus and less mental wandering beyond the shores of ‘wouldn’t it be nice if…..’ might help.

My lady boss just announced that I will have four tutorials to teach this sem, that is four classes in a row!! Six hours straight, and I feel sorry for my last class already. I will be as drained as a deflated whoopee cushion that wheezes a puny sniffer by the time I’m done with the first three tutorials. Henceforth, Thursdays shall be known as grouchy-Thursday, or leave-me-alone-Thursday, or if-you-think-my-bad-hairday-was-bad-try-asking-about-my-wellbeing-on-Thursdays-Thursday.

The winter break has been great though. I do wish that I got more accomplished with my research but the distraction from exam marking, exam admin and mating-dance sort of sidetracked me more often than I liked. The ski trip was brilliant though and I can’t wait to hit the slopes again. I can just close my eyes and see the lavish blanket of snow and feel the winter air battering my ski mask as the slopes reveal a pathway beyond the white yonder.

Speaking of which, I’m struggling. Really struggling to keep my wallet in my pocket because I have set my eyes on this pair of Oakley ski goggles that I’m convinced will make my life complete. Never mind that I’ll probably only ski once more this season and it won’t be two more years before I’ll see snow again, but it will make my life complete. Never mind that I already have a fully functional, double-lens Scott ski goggles that more than serves my functional needs, the Oakley ski goggles will make my life complete. Never mind that the opportunity cost of a new ski goggles will buy me four full tanks of petrol, or 28 plates of roast duck rice, the Oakley ski goggles will make my life complete. Life can sometimes be a struggle when you have so many hours to procrastinate from doing your work, and the ageless notion rings in your mind as you scroll through ebay pages…. ….. to click or not to click…….

Untold Cosmic Powers

It was June I told myself, June that the flowers will bloom, all will end well and I will complete writing my thesis and live happily ever after. Well as a start, flowers don’t bloom in winter, my thesis isn’t due till March 2007, and I can’t live happily ever after when I don’t have a cent in my retirement fund. The targets were unrealistic I have to admit, but I can always use unrealistic targets as a good source of motivation. It works like this; create a pressure cooker to induce unnecessary stress, tap into stress induced to generate motivation for drudgery and at the same time, fairly distribute residual stress to annoy anyone who is somehow connected to me by blood, relationship or proximity.

I came to realise that through reasons unexplainable by biology, there is an inbuilt mechanism in me that dictates my productive output. It is a little like the digital timer I use to turn my column heater on/ off at certain hours of the day. When the off switch is flicked, no matter how much stress is being cumulated through self-infliction, the stress energy gets stored in a certain reservoir resulting in no productive output whatsoever. This mechanism appears to triggered by solar power. I came to this deduction because I notice that when the clock reads between 12pm (which is half hour after I usually wake up) and 6pm, I contribute as much to my academic endeavors as the soft-shell turtle’s contribute to a nation’s GDP (I don’t know what that means, but I always wanted to use ‘soft-shell turtle’ in an analogy). However, when the clock hits 6pm and the sun has set, a certain enigmatic force which has a certain resemblance to mom’s voice whispering in my ear if I have done my homework (think they call it guilt), will release a surge of impulse to write at least two whole paragraphs of my thesis. Quite uncanny really. But I musts say that this sudden rush of mental force can be quite draining, thus leaving me often with no choice but to retreat to my living room not long after to watch a DVD, preferably Stephen Chow, or watch the World Cup, or write a blog entry.

At this rate, think I’ll finish my thesis at the end of the World Cup, in South Africa.

The Story With World Cup

It is 10:40pm on a Friday evening and I’m sitting in my office typing an entry on my blog. It doesn’t really bother me that much, although I must admit that it used to. Not doing anything eventful used to feel like being robbed and an embarrassing occurrence that I need to hide from. I guess given the life I’m leading now, weekends is just a schematic conception, as everyday, if I chooses can be a long weekend.

It is the world cup again. The world cup is something quite special for me, as it is three world cups ago that I found my passion for football (that’s FOOTBALL not soccer) and found a very special friend whom I still call buddy till today. It was really strange, this bloke in class whom I didn’t think much of save his smelly T-shirt, became my best of friends just because I was so desperate to find someone to bet with. A phone call to a stranger whom I never once said hi to despite spending two years in the same class, and suddenly he became my witness in my journey through life. Since I’m talking about him, I should just drop him a line…… …..

…… …. poor fella, I woke him up in the middle of his slumber. He is prepping himself to watch the first game. Years have past us by and I do feel sorry that he is now a working man and needs to catch up with sleep after spending hours earning his money (a concept still rather foreign to me). I do wish that the clock will turn back to the days where we didn’t need to think beyond what happens after the school bell rings, yet I take a lot of pride and comfort that friendships like this just don’t change. Little thoughts like these make feel like a blessed man.

I'm Blogging Again!

I’m blogging again! What are the odds? I’m sure my disappearance has been as noticed and I have been missed like how Eskimos miss the cold. I really wasn’t in the mood to blog over the last couple of weeks. For one thing, my workload had me spending too many hours before the computer, and the last thing I wanted to do was to unwind my day by romancing with the keyboard before I go to bed. Not to mention that by this coming Thursday, I will celebrate my 7-week anniversary over my dry cough. It is getting better now although I gotta stick close to my inhaler like an asthmatic. I love that inhaler, coz whenever you flaunt it before you shove it in your mouth and breathe deeply like a hybertensionaric (don’t even know if that word exists), people look away! You get the feeling that they get uncomfortable being put in a position to whether to offer a word of concern and risk a moment of awkwardness, or offer a sympathetic eye. In the midst of all the clumsy options, it will appear best to look away. I love it!

I’m really pissing my friends off lately. Coz all I can talk about is my infatuation with snow. I hope this infatuation thing won’t get out of hand but itz really exhilarating while it lasts. There appears to be a new story to tell, a new adventure waiting to unravel (walking to the supermarket to buy peanuts can turn out to be an adventure when you are infatuated) each day. I’m even finding the motivation to get into the office early (that’s 11am) just to start the day off sooner in hope for some stirring moment to take place. It really has been a while since I was infatuated (the last time was probably Vietnam, but I was pretty confused between being intoxicated – literally and infatuation). I really find myself in a strange dilemma between dropping the whole leaky heart ordeal and focus on my work, or continue to grin like an imbecile every time snow drops an email. Oh what the heck, I still have March next year before my tenure is over.

Okey I’m just saying this. I’ve been busy taking one step forward and five steps back with my research. Effectively, more than four months of work have gone down the drain. Tomorrow marks a new day where I will try to get my work back on track, now that the semester is almost over. I think I will dearly miss teaching when my short academic career is done. I received a lovely email today from a student, who had the kindest word to say. It is messages like this that make me want to teach, even if it is for free – not marking though, I’ll charge an arm and a leg for marking.

I’m really rambling on this entry. Can’t focus (wonder why). Hopefully this’ll mark a start to my blogging habits once again. It is nice to take a month break from blogs and focus on other things (snow). But watch this space, it wouldn’t be long before I rediscover my routine.

Over and out.

Water Parade

I feel like doing absolutely nothing, apart from maybe staring at the dust on my monitor screen in anticipation to clap my hands if the speck of dust moves. I have 8 hours of sleep behind me yet I still feel like I need more. My identity card says I’m 28 yrs old yet I feel like 60. I’m coughing as well, which adds further evidence that my preliminary observation may not be too far from the truth. Tuesday was meant to be my research day, yet I’m halfway into declaring it to be a ‘no-work’ day, and instead spend time to complete my sandcastle construction project.

Maybe I’m burned out, as the last few weeks have been really hectic. I actually worked to 2am in the office for three days straight. It was a great experience actually when I finally got my work done. The sense of achievement was almost as good as getting a full-house in poker. I needed to write a paper from scratch and I actually did it in five days. I was rather proud of myself with the thought that I could finally call myself an academic. My self-praise and celebration were short-lived when arnette announced that she had a deadline to complete five papers in a week. I suddenly felt like a tadpole in a well. The anticlimax was like a dying cartoon jingle played through a broken speaker.

I really wish that this cough will go away. It is something that I can never get used to, despite suffering from viral coughs twice in a year. You tell yourself, maybe it’ll go away the next day, but you still find yourself croaking your lungs out in the morning. Traditionally, this kind of cough would only leave me alone after four weeks, but I’m still naive enough to hope. Drink lots of water they say, so I end up visiting the toilet as often as I need to procrastinate when I work. I think I’ve tried everything in the cabinet, cough syrup (with and without codeine), chinese herbs, vitamin C, zinc and garlic extracts, cough drops and here is a new one, Manuka honey. Maybe I’m getting desperate. I have three more days before CG is coming over for dinner and I’m pretty keen to make an impression. I guess coughing away while you make the red-wine sauce ain’t really the kind of impression I want to make. I’m running out of ideas continue to drink lots of water I guess and perhaps make the washing-closet my second home.

Wonder who might be reading this?

Chee Soon Juan gets sued again. If we get a dollar every time that happens, we might collect enough for one week’s worth of ERP expenses. Poor Chee, you have to feel for him, he is like a political rag doll that is flung around by the big boys, yet he comes back with puppy eyes and asks for more. To most Singaporeans, Chee has the political standing of a crippled insect whose place is to make the lives of the big guns just that bit less perfect. He is an annoyance, and much as I am no fan of his, I feel that he has an important role to play.

In Singapore, placing the word ‘opposition’ in the same sentence with the word ‘PAP’ gives a forlorn sense of futileness. Given the stringent rules in the game, there aren’t many ways one can play the devil’s advocate. You can follow the rules, do everything right and perhaps find inconspicuous longevity in the political game as Chiam has. Or be the quiet citizen who may every now and then blog his political view while harbouring a nervous suspicion over who may actually be reading those words. Or the last and least celebrated approach, the soap-box-squealing ex-psychology lecturer who collects summons for defamation suits instead of Christmas cards.

Chee is no fool. He is pushed against the corner with nothing to lose which ironically releases his damaging worst. He cries foul as often as the government gives away money before election, yet he is not just a balloon of hot air. He is Dan Brown when it comes to fabricating conspiracy theories and he uses the old saying ‘there is no smoke without fire’ to good effect. Yet at the same time, his allegations are not completely baseless. Not backed with facts, because if he was able to, he wouldn’t be bankrupted. He listens to the whispers at coffee shops and amplifies them. He suffers the consequences with the hope of becoming a political martyr despite having only his wife, 3 daughters and a few fellow bankruptees who would care enough to celebrate his endeavors.

In Chee’s most recent and strategic outcry, he draws the parallels between the NKF saga and the national governance of Singapore. Just before General Election some more, perfect. Be it a knee-jerk reaction or a traditional practice of fanning the smoke, the Strait Times announces that Chee’s allegation is dignified by a defamation suit. And as predictably as a B-grade chick’s flick, Chee will lose the suit – how do you prove that the government does not operate in transparency? The logic of proving that an allegation is not not correct is quite hopeless; especially when you are trying to say that to Davinder Singh. Chee will sit in a cell with a daily 45mins break to brush his teeth for 7 weeks, but he will do so with a smile. Suddenly, the word nepotism will ring at the back of people’s head – Chee 1, Lee 0. But it will soon be forgotten when the government announces new shares to give away. Chee continues to sit in his cell, but what the heck, you can’t be bankrupted twice.

Bum On My Lounge Floor

It is the 7th April. I really should be sitting in my new office, peering through my window blinds at the lunch hour traffic as I procrastinate my day away in blissful daydreaming. Yet, I still find myself engaging in an extended liaison between my bum cheeks and my lounge carpet because I have to work from home. It has been more than a month and the new office was meant to be ready before the Germans surrendered. They say I’ll be at my new desk next Tuesday, but I know that with a bit of luck, I should be happy if the office was ready before Christmas.

Working from home is not easy. Apart from having to work on the floor, there are the distractions of mid-day TV programmes like Oprah and Judge Judy and self-inflicted commitments such as keeping my PSP company and regular testing of the springs on my Slumberland mattress. There is also Raft the furry white cat. Raft is my neighbour’s cat and I have taken a keen adoration for it. I’m not really cat lover, but since I spend so much time at home nowadays, Raft is my only window for mammal-mammal interaction. He is a really adorable cat with fur soft as erm…. fur, and a face that looks perpetually squished against a glass door. I think I should stop letting it into my house, as I suspect that the owner smells something fishy, and that is not just the tuna and chicken treat I feed Raft when I’m in the mood for feline affection.

Work is also getting increasingly demanding. Despite spending more than 2 years in my research, it only just occurred to me that PhD is actually a difficult ordeal. Most candidates would have figured that out in the first six months, but I say why waste time worrying when you could take it easy and spend time indulging yourself in squandering scholarship money? Being in my final year, the story is quite different now. It is not really the amount of work I have to do, because after living the life of a maltreated cur in the army, hard work doesn’t bother me. It is the stress and frustration of not knowing what to do that drives me up the wall and sometimes through it. It is the feeling of being lost in a forest somewhere in Poland with aid of a needle-less compass. At the end of the day when the frustration gets the better of you, you would turn to the clock in seek of an escape… … the clock reads 6pm, perhaps it is time to take a break – you deserve it. You would then pack up with weary eyes and look forward to….. …. Alas! You realised that you have been rob from the pleasure of going home after work!

I need my office, they better have it by Tuesday. Otherwise we will have one fat cat in the neighbourhood.

a chat with Jameson

It has been a very long week and I’m weary. I would love to say there hasn’t been any entry in this blog for more than a fortnight because I have been too busy living a life. Instead, I have been too busy pondering about one. It is the end of the day and I figured that I’ll pen down a few lines before I turn in for the night. I really don’t have anything in mind which I particularly want to share; there are thoughts in my mind, and they waft across like ink in water – formless, silent yet restless.

My lounge is dimly lid by four burning candles, each releasing a subtle scent; a strange mix of blueberry and ocean breeze. Nora is weeping the blues in her sweetly haunting vocals. Jameson swims in my old English rock glass… … good’O Jameson. I take solace in my introspection… ….

Sometimes I wonder where I am heading, which is probably ironic since everything appears to be so well-planned ahead of me. Maybe paradoxically, it is within these plans that I find restlessness. The problem with a plan is that when doubts creep in, like seeping water of a leaky vessel, faith threatens to fall apart. It is a very dangerous thing to lose, faith is. Not in religious means, as I still stand within an under-defined realm when religion is concerned. Faith that I am heading in the right direction and despite the momentary discomfort, everything will be just fine. I wish that I could find it within myself to find these words but more often than not, I choose the easy way out by seeking reassurance from an external source. Otherwise, I would find myself living within my past glory and completely forgetting about the journey ahead.

Where is the line? The line that differentiates dwelling, if not being engulfed in the past from drawing strength from memories of yesteryears? This wisdom escapes me. I draw a smile when I sometimes take a stroll down memory lane and relive some of the warmest memories that I will always bring with me. Yet the same memories will sadden me when I realise that I will not find them again when tomorrow comes. I wish that life can be simpler sometimes, where you could go to bed with certainty that you would wake with optimism, not doubts.

I wish…. …. I close my eyes and I wish….. …

Sun, Sand, Beach, Beer, Babes, Ball and Frisbee

Sand and sun, beach, beer, babes, ball and Frisbee; these are the ingredients that can rejuvenate even the weariest mind. There is something about beach day that makes me fall in love with life all over again. I remember a time when I would spend every weekend at Sunset bay to collect bruises over volleyball, drink beer to further aggravate the dehydration and indulge myself over the romance of having sand in my hair and all over a tired body that begs for a nice cold shower right after.

How many years have it been since I have taken those days for granted? It really is difficult nowadays to spend a day at the beach, and I can only imagine that it will get increasingly harder. While the sand and the sun are still there, the demands of a maturing lifestyle create distance between a weary mind and the simplest pleasures of life. From where I stand at this moment, I really can’t complain. I am still indulging the transient luxuries of student life yet tasting the responsibilities, and not to mention, financial supplements of having a job. It probably won’t be long before I venture into a nine-to-five program of drudgery so I constantly remind myself to live life to the fullest while I still can.

The problem however, is that my friends around me have moved on into the next progressive chapter, where commitment and responsibilities spell a daily schedule, leaving little time for rest, moreover the beach. Investment bankers, engineers, stock brokers, academics, architects; arranging a day at the beach with them would probably require a two-week notice pending an almost hopeless vacancy on their weekend schedule.

I was at Brighton beach yesterday. It was rather drafty so I was baking under the sun and bathing in the salty sea breeze in my tank top. There were almost fifty people there, over an annual occasion which a University club organised. I felt alive, just being on the sand and amongst students oozing with energy yet I couldn’t divorce myself from the fact that I was the oldest amongst them. That was made apparent when a chap walked up to me and identified me as his tutor this semester. I had fun nonetheless; you couldn’t have it any other way if you were playing volleyball for hours.

I did, however, wished that the boys were with me, just so that I wouldn’t be embarrassed to let the inner child out to play. I miss the old days and I miss the boys from home. I wish the investment bankers, the engineers, airforce pilots and captains would take their time off every now and then, if just to humour me when I return home and live life the way we did when we just turned twenty.

It was a rejuvenating day at Brighton yesterday. My body feels tired from all the excessive jumping and my mind is fresh enough to last for another week. I did learn two things at the beach though; first, that every moment I get to live as a student needs to be cherished; and second, never wear a tank top on a day at the beach, unless red arms and a fair chest is the trend of the season.

Spider on Hair

I am stressed
what a mess
a spider got caught in my hair
I lack sleep
my mind will flip
if I do not stop to stare
at my laptop for hours straight
to take a break
get away
from this desk
and remember to get some rest

A spider came
looks just the same
as the one I earlier squished
It spoke to me
told me to make a wish
and I’m pretty sure that I have gone mad
but what the heck
who gives a rat
the spider may help release me from this plight
So I said to the spider thank you sir
‘Squished!’
and then the spider died.

(for Arnette)

At the end of May

A comely smile, from the other end
a memory which seems so long ago
a certain warmth which heals a broken man
and unwittingly the fondness grow
to usher in an unfamiliar dream
one of hope,
and many promises;
- perhaps a new chapter may unfold
and through many winters the flicker may fade
like the murky glow, over a silver lake.

Hope is strength, and failure all weld into one
like in stories told where tears are made
when the final pages suggest that it seems
that the wayfarer had been trekking through a futile dream
like withered petals after mizzled rain
a closing chapter,
without an author’s name.

Just a little complaint

I had to work from home for the entire week. There is a major reshuffling going on and my new office is still not ready. I was supposed to move into the new floor last week, but I was also naïve to think that things would go according to plan and bureaucracy was really a figment of my imagination.

Working from home is like fishing in a pond with a salad fork. The concept of home and work is an oxymoron – home work, which when put together means ‘having nothing done’ in Latin. They just don’t go together, which was why wise men from centuries ago created offices, the very arena which I do not have at he moment. Home is a place where you drink whiskey and listen to jazz; it is not a place for the laptop and a place to have anything productive done. There are enough distractions at home to take your attention away from Karen Knightly in a wet T-shirt…………. erm… … maybe not. But there are distractions around, like the fridge, the couch, the TV, the bed, and the worst of them all, my new PSP which sits there like a puppy dog with huge sparkly eyes begging for attention.

This can’t go on; I need my new office quick. I need my power points to charge my PDA, mobile phone, digital camera and Bluetooth headset. I need my air-conditioning when the going gets tough. I need a desk and a proper chair so my bum doesn’t get sore from its extended liaison with the carpet. Oh and I need my free Internet too. If administrators can be a little more considerate for their staff’s welfare, we’ll all live in a happier world.

Just Another Tuesday

I turned 28 two days ago. If I should rank occasions and anniversaries in terms of being personally bothersome, my birthday will be right at the top with maybe the retirement anniversary of my orange Suzuki hatchback ranked at the bottom. Personally bothersome, because birthdays that occur after the 21st become as momentous as emptying the cloth dust-bag of my 1400W vacuum cleaner. As the years add on, birthdays become increasingly paradoxical and the reason to celebrate dilutes in its meaning. Yet it is a day that you can’t take for granted even if you try to, and anything less than doing ‘something’ about it; be it a celebration or doing something extraordinary like shampooing your hair with shaving cream, would render the mere 24hrs like life in depressionville.

I recited to myself on the days leading to my birthday, that it is just another day, and if you put your mind to it, it will be just another day. Yet the churning feeling in my gut told me otherwise. What is it about birthdays anyway? What is it exactly that we are celebrating? That I was born? It makes little sense. While you hear common linguistic expressions such as ‘will make you wished that you were never born’, you will notice that nobody ever says ‘boy I’m glad that I was born.’ As such, the essence to the celebration is somewhat murky, and the conflicting fight between making the day an ordinary one, and one to remember becomes confusing as much as it is bothersome.

Fine, I figured that I needed to do something about it. We’ll make it simple, like dinner with two friends over some sake at a decent Japanese restaurant. For some peculiar reason, I was in the mood for sake. There is something about sake and birthdays that make them come together, like yogurt and tandoori chicken. The first person on my guest list was Vietboy, just because he got me drunk in Hanoi so I have to return the favour; that is, despite knowing that his liver was preserved for a century in alcohol prior to his transplant. I guess I just wanted someone to drink with, although I knew that drinking with Vietboy would be like playing poker with the devil himself.

So I have this really cool picture in my head, Vietboy my Japanese colleague and maybe one other friend in a cool, clean-looking Japanese place where we’ll sip sake till the cows come home. Alas, I should have known better that things never work out the way they did in my head. There was the element of guilt, because within my clique of friends, my birthday is as much a secret as knowing which party will win the next Singapore election. The logic is skewed, but that’s how it worked; if I invite so-and-so, I have to invite so-and-so, but if so-and-so was there, so-and-so must come along as well. Don’t get me wrong, if I could help it, I would want nothing more than every person I know on this planet to come together over a few drinks but I don’t want it to be obligatory on my account. Not to mention, there is also the element of presents. It just doesn’t feel right that my friends have to spend money on me. I like presents, but I don’t like the fact that they cost money. Yet they still did it and made me feel like a very blessed man.

It was 7pm on a Tuesday night. There were twelve people in a private room of a pretty decent Japanese restaurant. There were three bottles of sake, there were presents, and there amongst friends was a testimonial that perhaps I have done something right to deserve their company. Birthdays are a special day. Perhaps the supposed meaning to celebrate the birth of a person seems somewhat awkward. However, there is no doubt that it is a day where one can get to appreciate that there are people around who care enough to drop a line, a word of well-wish, or share a sake or two and make him feel that it really is a beautiful world out there.

So thank you all for putting my name in your thoughts on the day that really wasn’t special, but was so just because you decided it was to be.

VD

It is Valentine’s Day. I know that there is a story behind it, some Priest by the name of Valentine who got beheaded and was later canonised a saint by Hallmark. Or something like that. Valentine’s Day is a strange day, more so than mother’s day or father’s day despite sharing the same origins leading back to the days when marketers discovered that consumers lacking in creativity were happy to pay five dollars for a cardboard. It is strange because it is a day when my friends finish their phone calls with, “happy Valentine’s day.” What exactly does that mean? How is ‘happy Valentine’s Day’ different from the regular ‘have a good day?’ At least when someone says happy Chinese New Year, it comes with overtones of well-wishes of good fortune, good luck, and reminders of other elements that I lack in life, such as wealth. Perhaps ‘happy Valentine’s Day’ has the same subtext; single or otherwise, may you find what you may lack in life, romance that is.

This is a day that certainly stirs emotions. I remember when I was eighteen, I was at a beach party when I met this lady. She was older and flaunted a persona of wisdom in life experiences which I found attractive. It was one of those outings where under the stars and after a few glasses of wine, you would feel inclined to share your most personal details even with strangers. I told her that I never had a relationship before. Her immediate response was as cutting as it was perplexing; she retorted “what’s wrong with you?” Yes, what was wrong with me? That inflicting question had me introspective for the next three years, and I have a poem written on each Valentine’s day to show for it.

It has been more than two years since my last relationship. I have spent the same length of time venturing into a new lease of life, setting up my own apartment, living by myself and pursuing new challenges that I thought would help me rejuvenate from some bitter memories. This very evening, I have a glass beside me, a classic rock glass which two pieces of ice swimming in a twelve-year old, single malt Glenlivet. Louis is singing ‘blueberry hill’ on my stereo…….. ….. and I am thinking to myself, I think I’ve done well….. .. life has been really good to me.

I know of people who wouldn’t hesitate to slap a label on Valentine’s Day being ‘too commercialised.’ While it is tempting being the cynic I am to jump onto the bandwagon, I realise that the statement is, ironically a cliché itself. I have my own beliefs, such as buying flowers on Valentine’s Day is really an apology, not a gift. It is an apology for not having sent flowers for the last 364 days. After all, inflated prices are more fitting to be the cost of a penalty rather than the value of a gift. But that is what I think. It is a little like religion, there is no point imposing my faith (or lack of it) upon others. Although it gives me great joy to witness how religion can save a person’s life. Along the same vain, it gives me great joy seeing couples walk along the street holding hands, and the girl parading her stalk of rose with a radiant look on her face that beams ‘he really loves me.’

I really don’t think much about Valentine’s Day, but there is no reason to belittle it. It can still be a day of celebration and I was quite keen to do it somewhat differently. I have already spent too many hours by myself at the office today and I thought it would be sweet to give someone a call. I did. I gave the Vietnamese guy who got me pissed drunk on my first day in Hanoi a ring, and wished him a Happy Valentine’s Day.

Uphill Skiing

I was watching winter Olympics the other day. It was not with any particular interest but just happened to be stuck on the channel after some scrupulous channel surfing. The winter Olympics is the showcase where elite athletes compete in style, grace and seamless elegance. I was therefore taken aback when there were two men on-screen prodding along boorishly like two cavemen spear-fishing in the snow. Apparently it was an Olympic event called ‘up-hill’ skiing. How and why would anyone want to ski uphill? Skiing uphill to me is like a sick joke by the organisers whom in their retired years take sadistic pleasure watching young athletes compete in a game with little idea that the element of fun has already been removed.

Somehow, this seems to be the theme of my week, if not for the rest of my year. I really enjoy what I am doing at the moment; that is research work. I love coming up with concepts and theories to explain things, like drawing boxes and lines to explain to my mom why she has such a high propensity to nag. But like Olympic skiing, someone has to come along to remove the element of fun and turned it into a sport. With my work, the days of gliding downhill has passed. I am now facing the last hurdle which promises to be as pleasurable as skiing up a very tall hill carrying two coconuts with my hands tied to my back. Nevertheless, I do look forward to the challenge, if just to purge this feeling of anxiety out of my system.

It has finally sunk in. The holiday has ended.

However, I did bring with me some very potent memories that will help give me a push along the way; getting drunk like a warrant officer in Vietnam; playing poker till the sun rises; and spending so much quality time with my best mates.

A little further, just a little further……. it won’t be long before it’ll all go downhill once again, in the nicest way of course.

Post-Holiday Trauma

I know that I will suffer from post-vacation disorder; it is a bit like watching Never Ending Story when you were five and your mom comes along to turn off the TV just when the fluffy white dragon was soaring through Fantasia. I wouldn’t say that I’m in the midst of depression and in need of a shrink to make me draw quadrants, but I do feel like a five year old kid stomping one foot on the ground yelling ‘I want my holiday back’ in a way so annoying that has ‘slap me’ written all over it.

It is amazing that after being away for a month and a half, I could still find my way to the office. Well not literally, but it is no easy ordeal to muster the mental strength to drag my ass to sit before this very computer. I have almost forgotten how the entire charade at the office works. That is; the charade of pretending to work as part of the pre-productivity ritual, before spending three hours on the Internet and then spend half-an-hour later to do enough to return home without guilt. I wouldn’t say that I’m terribly thrilled to be back, especially when today marks the start of my final year meaning that I will spend a lot of time stressing over what I was supposed to do.

First day in the office and there are already signs that this year will be anything but a smooth sailing Disney ride through midget world with little plastic munchkins singing ‘it’s a small world after all.’ I was told, or rather, the last one to be told that we will be moving offices. I got really stress and I had to quickly recite the ten commandants from Who Moved My Cheese to curb with the hyperventilation. I will so dearly miss the serenity in this office which induces sleep like a swaying cradle on an autumn’s day. I am stressed because I have no clue how the new office will be like; will I be able to prance around in my singlet and slippers? Will I be able to sleep without students disturbing me? Will I have enough power-points to charge my mobile phone, digital camera and Bluetooth headset? There are important issues at stake and surely the administrators would have considered some sort of congress for this purpose.

Then, I was told that my supervisor has recruited two more doctoral students this semester. I never knew how my sister felt when I was born, but it was probably a little like this…….. She (my supervisor) doesn’t love me anymore! I was the apple of her eye, her favourite student, her only student (literally), and now I have to share her attention. I’m not sure what it is, but maybe the reunion with my primary school mates last week has unlocked the child-like persona in me and that spoilt brat has been coming out to play rather often lately.

Welcome to 2006, day one in the office. The journey appears to be arduous one, the last hurdle may be the most challenging of them all, but one final leap, one final push will probably bring me to the finish line. As some wise old man whom I never knew and probably never existed would have said, “grit your teeth and take the leap; all you really need, is a good place to sleep.”

I wish my new office has pillows.

The Second Quadrant

The Johari Window, a popular fill-in-the-blanks psychological tool that over-paid shrinks use to kill time with their patients. I’m going to talk about the Johari Window today. I’m not sure why (actually I do, but for the effect of an introductory suspense knowing now that people actually read this hogwash, I’m saying ‘I’m not sure why’ for effect), but I figured that it will give this entry a different feel, instead of the typical, almost predictable sentimental outpour.

Although the Johari Window was originally designed to describe interpersonal interactions, I found it to be a very useful model for teaching my students the multi-dimensional concept of the self-image. In my interpretation, the Johari Window is made up of four quadrants. The first, describes the subjects’ open self-image that is known to both themselves and known to others. The second, describes the self-image that the subject is clueless about, although these are the same attributes that invite extensive bitching from so-called friends. The third describes the residual revelations after long sleepless nights spent starring into the void introspecting. The last which makes little sense, would have served more purpose if it was called the chocolate pudding. Therefore, for the purpose of this blog, I’m calling the last quadrant, the chocolate pudding.

If you have not figured out by now, I’m really not serious about dedicating this entry to the Johari Window. But there is some relevance here. I was on MSN earlier today catching up with a long lost friend, one that go way back to the days where you need to raise your hand to ask for permission to use the toilet. 15 years it has been and it is amazing how people remember you for the most embarrassing things you did such as confessing to be infatuated with the girl in class with shoulder-length hair. The conversation we had opened the Pandora box of repressed memories and skeletons came out to play as if it was Halloween. They were revelations about me that I have been oblivious to, and stories which I starred as the main villain in a script more commonly found in a poor soap opera. It all came in place like the second quadrant of the Johari Window gone wrong; it is like watching yourself being personified over oil on canvas by the hand of Picasso with Parkinsons.

I knew that I was a bit of an arrogant twit when I was about 8 yrs old, but little did I know that I was branded a prancing peacock with a feathery brain. I was horror-struck, dumbfounded, flabbergasted when it was revealed that I had a hand to play in getting a female classmate slapped in class. I have no recollection of this event, except a strange churning feeling in my gut which suggests that it may indeed have occurred more than a decade ago. Me appropriating violence on a member of the opposite gender? Never! Well, there was this time where I kicked Elaine in the face during a martial arts tournament, upon which she complained to my ex who later broke up with me. Okey, it didn’t happen that way in that sequence, but it would have made a good story. Anyway, me appropriating violence on a girl? Never! I only remember that I developed a certain phobia for girls by the age of ten, partially due to a childhood scar of being made to cry by a girl when I was eight and later to learn that girls are like some unfathomable entity designed by mother nature to give ten-year old boys a hard time. I left for a boy’s school straight after that.

Interestingly, tomorrow will be the first gathering with my primary school mates after more than 15 years. Initially, I was excited over the prospect of making ‘new’ friends without having to go through the charade of an ice breaker. But alas, now knowing that I will be walking into dinner with preconceptions placed over my shoulders, some which I am quite unaware of, I’m actually anxious over the ordeal. Fascinating sensation, anxiety is. I’ve not felt this way since high school prom, when I was late to pick up my Indonesian date who struggled to chain two sentences of English together. She was cute though. Anyway….. yes, tomorrow. There is an angelic persona somewhere inside me, which perhaps may be more fitting at a reunion with four lovely ladies, but that will probably take too much effort to conjure and sustain. It is probably easier to be my regular happy-go-lucky self, but that will probably further endorse the label of a prancing peacock. This is getting increasingly frustrating, it is like venturing on a blind date with nothing to wear save poker-dotted boxers.

Take a pinch of salt. It ain’t that bad. I love reunions. Despite the less than virtuous reputation I’ve maintained during my childhood, tomorrow may be an opportunity to show that I’ve changed;…. … I used to be an arrogant vertically challenged loudmouth, now I’m just an obnoxious vertically challenged loudmouth.

Business and Passion

What is marketing? It is the art/ science of making consumers buy what they do not need. It is profound claptrap; the educated bullshit; the intensive labeling of simplistic theories with verbose technical jargon. This romance of mixing art and science with the intention of influencing consumption behaviour seduced me many years ago, and teaching this discipline has remained my passion.

An ex-colleague of mine completed his doctoral in marketing and as a side business, and almost for interest sake, he and his wife started a business selling tea at the retail front. I visited their shop today at Millennium Walk and I felt like I took a step into marketing wonderland; where sound marketing theories manifest themselves into a sound business design. They have a business that does not sell tea. Instead, they sell an experience which begins from the moment you step into the shop front. Their outlet appears to be more of an artistic impression of a contemporary tea museum rather than a tea retailer. Colour schemes play around with classic matt black to daring yellows. The background plays a constant soothing blend of jazz and service stretches beyond a single transaction.

It is not everyday that someone can say that they are able to mix business with pleasure, or in this case, mix business with passion. Is it even possible to sink oneself into business before developing passion? Sometimes when the grass appears too green on the other side, it overwhelms the prospects at hand.

Finding contentment really is a challenge on its own.

Nothingness

I just want to put in an entry and yet I have absolutely nothing to say. Louis is singing ‘what a wonderful world’, and in this rather optimistic mood, I don’t think I can argue very much against good’o Louis.

I have set the stage; dim lighting that typically inspires a surge of sentiments; playing in the background a freshly procured jazz compilation; and a single malt on the rocks resting beside me like a faithful friend…. …. yet, I have nothing to say.

Perhaps it is a moment I would like to capture, like the frantic snapping of a digital camera at the crushing waves, wishing that maybe after twenty shots, you may have a chance of seizing the sensation of boundlessness for future reference. I am trying to capture a moment of nothingness, a moment of tranquility and placidness. The beauty itself is like stainless linen; undisturbed and quiet.

Louis has taken a bow. Cassandra Wilson is singing Tupelo Honey. I’ve never heard this track before, but I’m glad that I’m listening to it now.

How often can you appreciate the loveliness of a whisper?

Nostalgia

How much is your childhood worth? What would you give to take a stroll down memory lane and relive the days of yesteryears where happiness is found in its purest form, tainted only by each grain of sand that seeps through the hour glass?

I had the most surreal and nostalgic experience playing reminiscence with two long lost friends over the Internet. It was quite amazing, how friends that I had lost touch with for 15yrs could just get together to unravel lost memories tucked behind some dusty corners of our minds. It is like finding a bag of marbles which you hid under a broken floor board a decade ago. Each glass bead will remind you of an instance and an emotion which you experienced during your otherwise forgotten childhood. This feeling is like a soothing taste of toffee, heartfelt and warm. It is a moment where you look back and whisper to yourself, ‘I remember’….. …

I remember the laughter; wholesome and innocent. I remember the friendships; untainted and honest. I remember the tears; naïve and earnest.

I really wish for an opportunity to sit down and play catch up with these long lost friends, because they are the only bridge to some very potent memories, memories that deserve to be relived just so that I may treasure them even more dearly.

Over Indian Pizza

Last entry was on the 17th December 2005. Woohoo!! I must have done well, that is living a life; one that is worthwhile enough to render blog entries to be the least of my priorities along with worrying when in the world I’m going to complete my education.

It is 1:30am and while I should be in bed catching some undeserved sleep, I figured I will sit my ass down and write just one more entry. That is, despite making promises that I will not blog till I’m back in Melbourne and when I’m stuck in the office.

It is such a revelation, to discover that despite having no evidence of human traffic, I do have friends who actually read my blog! It was an eventful evening spent with a special bunch of friends over some Indian pizza. Special because they are the gang I got to know through the internet during the good’O days where a stranger with a receding hair-line did not necessarily make him a pedophile. This gang is a bunch of characters better known by their nick-names where more important details such as birthdates and surnames are often taken for granted. We would probably meet up once every other time when I visit home and strangely gatherings would include dinner arrangements of roti-prata, this time, without exception but with an Italian twist.

Anyway, the point of it all is that in the spirit of discovering you had a long lost brother, it is a revelation that there are people I know out there that actually bother to read my entries. With that, this entry is for you. You know who you are.

Cheers