Shoes

They say there are two terms in the female vocabulary that men simply don’t get; “cuddle” and “shoes”. Cuddle is a bit tough because it gets too randy before, and too sleepy after. Now ‘shoes’ is another kettle of fish altogether. It is an enigma which has escaped the comprehension of most members of the male species. I think footwear is like paying the road-tax; once you have bought it you don’t want to think about it for another year until the sticker starts peeling off. I look at my footwear collection and I struggle to think of why I would need more than four pairs at any one time; one for work, one for play, one to walk around and a pair of Tevas for everything else under the sun. Mind you, often the functional purpose of ‘play’ and to ‘walk around’ intertwines with blurred boundaries in definition, thus a single pair may suffice.

I don’t label myself a new-age metrosexual even though I seem to be well-aligned with most things that fall within that stereotype. I do, nevertheless take particular care about matching a nice shirt with a decent pair of pants. But shoes attract little of my concern, because really, who looks at feet. I have been quite happy with my ‘one-shoe-fits-all’ concept that has allowed me to challenge the life-expectancy of my shoe regiment. I have this concept that the apparel is as fashionable as it is able to bring out the comfort and confidence of the wearer. A week ago, however, my age-long worldview of fashion was called into question.

I was out with this friend who has a keen eye to the do’s and don’ts of what to wear. Her notion of fashion apparently contradicted mine. After a delightful evening watching Suzanne Vega with this young lady, the topic of my fashion sense was raised. With a breath of relief, the garment from my ankles up received her tick of approval. On the other hand, what wrapped around my feet seemed to have discredited all the points earned.

My ‘walk around’ shoe is this pair of brown Merrell which I’m convinced will match anything from jeans to kaki shorts for occasions from concerts to funerals. I’m not big on brands, but I like the logo of Merrell which reads like my initials – it is always useful to have your initials on your shoes during house-warming parties in Asia.

The report card I received from my fashion-keen friend recommended a dress shoe to match my shirt. It took me a while to appreciate the concept of a dress shoe. The term itself sounds rather feminine and one would suspect it is men’s shoes with tall slender heels. I was then explained that it is like my work shoes except pointy in the front and glossy like a showroom car. The whole concept sounds rather painful but I have always been quite receptive to new ideas.

The engagement with my fine-fashioned-friend certainly left an impact in my worldview of apparel. I began to notice the shoes people wore when I roamed Orchard road, and I stopped to take notes at the window of Florsheim. The repertoire of men’s frivolous wants and essential boy’s-toys is already quite extensive. Adding shoes in this list can be rather daunting. I was defensive at first against this heightened concern with foot fashion, but the denial of the new awareness exacerbated the unnecessary tension.

Maybe it was pay day, or maybe it was an impulsive decision made at a subconscious level. I went home last night with my fifth pair of shoes. It was made of leather. It was pointy in the front.

Coffee

I was at a cafe sipping my coffee at lunch the other day. It is amazing how one can actually forget the joys of sipping coffee. Coffee was always meant to be sipped; not drank, not slurped, not gulped, but sipped. Any other fashion of consuming this beverage will render it a soft drink. It is therefore a shame that the purpose of coffee in this new lifestyle of mine has been reduced to one that keeps the eyelids opened.

It is funny how little moments like that take you back to memories otherwise neglected. There was this cafe near my Uni where I used to work called Restore Cafe. The owner Wayne explained that me that ‘Restore’ was his concept of restoring the lost essence of what made good coffee. No doubt, I could be found at Restore almost every afternoon just after lunch to enjoy a nice cuppa. What made Restore coffee special was that the roast carried an invigorating aroma and a consistent body. At least, this was what Wayne told me. In truth, the coffee was special because it was enjoyed in a pocket of time which I called my own. It was a time where thoughts wafted slowly across my mind and I had little care of what surrounded me. The moment was almost spiritual and soulful.

Perhaps what makes the perfect cup is not the coffee itself, but the moment of the day for which is to be cherished.

Wayne has since sold his business and I have moved on to drinking canned coffee so that I may save five minutes from the morning traffic.

Maybe the perfect cup isn’t that out of reach, I just need to organise my life in such a way to be able to enjoy it.

A New Chapter Beckons

It really has been a while since I last wrote anything in my blog. There was a period of a few months where I was working on completing my thesis that writing became the last thing on my mind when it comes to relax and recreation.

It is surreal how I have left another chapter of my life behind me and how a new one is presented. The transition has been smoother than I thought it would be though the change is rather drastic. I now wear a shirt and pants rather than jeans and a T-shirt. I’m concerned with the stock market rather than where next to ski. My vocabulary speaks of grown-up things rather than silly idioms to celebrate moments of nothingness.

Perhaps I’m making up for lost time. Though laughter is harder to find, there is perhaps a new sense of purpose. The academic life is left behind but not forgotten. I miss the youthful exuberance of the students and my prerogative to place my feet on the desk and enjoy my siesta.

A new chapter beckons. I can only pray that I’m ready for it.

Whisper of a White Nightingale

The principles of old,
like the ancient fig tree,
unyielding,
despite the wind of change.
I live by such rules and laws which I abide
to determine black from white,
clarity from the grey.

I am flawed.

And I find salvation only by the bonds
that I am blessed with.
People who despite my imperfections,
call me friend.

And for that I will love them.

Oh what hurt finds me,
when betrayal looms
like a white nightingale that whispers the song of forlorn.
Faith be blinded.
I know not where to journey from here.

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…….