I feel like a smurf. Yes those little creatures with a poor dress sense – why would one wear just a white hat, white boxers and no top? Speaking of which, ever wondered how a smurf looks like without the hat? I’m imagining a blue mutant frog.
Anyway, I feel like a smurf today.
A couple of issues have been bugging me of late. Nothing dramatic, just a few things I feel obligated to do yet my feet are dragging like a Taiwanese soap opera. There is a paper which I need to revise but the thought of it is making the hair at the back of my neck stand. I have come a long way from academia and the thought of getting back into it feels as daunting as sending aid to Myanmar. The paper revision will possibly take another four to five months with any chance of being invited for a third revision. It is like I’m facing the entrance of a very long tunnel that sheds no light at the end. The alternative, walk away and spend Sunday afternoons at the beach. Believe it or not the decision is a tough one, but I feel rather obligated to finish what I have started.
For the time being, I’ll sit on it like a whoopee cushion till inspiration finds me. It might, but not on a Sunday because I’ll be at the beach.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
I Like Lightning
I like lightning, not thunder, but lightning. I’m not sure how I’m going to pull this off; to continue writing an entry that began with ‘I like lightning’. I mean, no short story or prose ever begins with ‘I like lightning’. An opening like this which bears characteristics of closure seems to have ended a story before it has even begun. It is like saying “they lived happily ever after, and three years later…..” I don’t think it’ll work, but I have already typed out my opening and I have no plans to backtrack. I can if I want to, but I won’t because it will be embarrassing, despite the fact that nobody reading this article will give a hoot about its sequential flow. But if for some peculiar reasons that you do, I must highlight to you that there are also four spelling mistakes and five grammatical errors in this write-up.
Technically at this point – which is the point that follows immediately after ‘I like lightning’ – the post may branch off towards three possible directions;
1) a philosophical path Рwhere perhaps I may use lightning as a metaphor hyperbole to share a truth-seeking viewpoint which may shed light to some neglected grey area of life. I think I should be able to fabricate a notion like that. But it will probably be some recycled material I have read somewhere when I was not paying too much attention. The unwitting plagiarism would have rendered the philosophical conception a poor clich̩ likened to a cop and a donut.
2) an introspective path – where perhaps I could reflect upon how a bolt of lightning which flashed across the horizon has given me a new found hope as I trek along a discouraging gravelled path laden with snags and sneers.
The flow of the article will probably be dramatic, like a Korean soap opera. In which case, a background story is needed to provide an anchor. The story narrates a young boy who grew up in the city of Zita, land of the ravaged souls shadowed by the greed of the noblemen. Now Zita probably doesn’t sound very Korean but it should. That is because Zita is a good name and would have sorted out the North vs South confusion because we would have just called the whole place Zitaland.
Now the boy grew up in poverty and hunger – that was because his parents weren’t very good at making money. Their venture to sell ice tea failed because there was no such thing as electricity those days to make ice, so the parents just gave away empty glasses. – One day, the boy fell in love with a one-legged hamster abandoned by an owner named Trevor. Now Trevor has a very dark secret which he did not tell anyone, and for the same reason I have no idea what that secret might be, although I’m certain that it has something to do with a cauliflower.
At this point, you will probably think to yourself, “the name Trevor doesn’t sound very Korean either.” That is what you might say for now, but I can assure you that you won’t be saying this four years from now. That is because four years later, you would probably have forgotten what you said four years ago.
3) an utilitarian path – where perhaps I can provide a sound description on the functional value of lightning and how it has impacted our lives. Now this is quite challenging because I will need to have a sound knowledge about lightning.
Incidentally, I am well-read and know that lightning was the origins to the Norse god of thunder, Thor, as prescribed by Nordic myth-writers whose names were too long to pronounce, thus we collectively call it 'Marvel'. Now what is so interesting about Thor is that he carried with him a magic hammer strapped in a magic belt. This is intriguing because if the hammer was as big and heavy as described in pagan literature, it would have been very uncomfortable to walk around with it. One then can deduce that it would have been a very tight belt, hence the name, magic belt. The belt also prevented the weight of the hammer from yanking the shorts down all at once.
Yes, Thor wore shorts. With that insight, it brings us to another astute theory that explains why Thor only wore shorts. It is quite obvious really, almost staring us in the eyes. Thor wore shorts because when there was thunder and lightning, it would almost always be raining. Thor wore shorts so that his pants would not get wet.
Thor probably wore sandals too. But the jury is still out on that one.
Technically at this point – which is the point that follows immediately after ‘I like lightning’ – the post may branch off towards three possible directions;
1) a philosophical path Рwhere perhaps I may use lightning as a metaphor hyperbole to share a truth-seeking viewpoint which may shed light to some neglected grey area of life. I think I should be able to fabricate a notion like that. But it will probably be some recycled material I have read somewhere when I was not paying too much attention. The unwitting plagiarism would have rendered the philosophical conception a poor clich̩ likened to a cop and a donut.
2) an introspective path – where perhaps I could reflect upon how a bolt of lightning which flashed across the horizon has given me a new found hope as I trek along a discouraging gravelled path laden with snags and sneers.
The flow of the article will probably be dramatic, like a Korean soap opera. In which case, a background story is needed to provide an anchor. The story narrates a young boy who grew up in the city of Zita, land of the ravaged souls shadowed by the greed of the noblemen. Now Zita probably doesn’t sound very Korean but it should. That is because Zita is a good name and would have sorted out the North vs South confusion because we would have just called the whole place Zitaland.
Now the boy grew up in poverty and hunger – that was because his parents weren’t very good at making money. Their venture to sell ice tea failed because there was no such thing as electricity those days to make ice, so the parents just gave away empty glasses. – One day, the boy fell in love with a one-legged hamster abandoned by an owner named Trevor. Now Trevor has a very dark secret which he did not tell anyone, and for the same reason I have no idea what that secret might be, although I’m certain that it has something to do with a cauliflower.
At this point, you will probably think to yourself, “the name Trevor doesn’t sound very Korean either.” That is what you might say for now, but I can assure you that you won’t be saying this four years from now. That is because four years later, you would probably have forgotten what you said four years ago.
3) an utilitarian path – where perhaps I can provide a sound description on the functional value of lightning and how it has impacted our lives. Now this is quite challenging because I will need to have a sound knowledge about lightning.
Incidentally, I am well-read and know that lightning was the origins to the Norse god of thunder, Thor, as prescribed by Nordic myth-writers whose names were too long to pronounce, thus we collectively call it 'Marvel'. Now what is so interesting about Thor is that he carried with him a magic hammer strapped in a magic belt. This is intriguing because if the hammer was as big and heavy as described in pagan literature, it would have been very uncomfortable to walk around with it. One then can deduce that it would have been a very tight belt, hence the name, magic belt. The belt also prevented the weight of the hammer from yanking the shorts down all at once.
Yes, Thor wore shorts. With that insight, it brings us to another astute theory that explains why Thor only wore shorts. It is quite obvious really, almost staring us in the eyes. Thor wore shorts because when there was thunder and lightning, it would almost always be raining. Thor wore shorts so that his pants would not get wet.
Thor probably wore sandals too. But the jury is still out on that one.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
SMS Dialogue with Sentient
(its raining cats and dogs)
Me: Nice weather. U wanna go to the beach?
Sen: Sure. We will ‘sea’ you there.
Me: I’ve got no wheels. You need to ‘sand’ me there.
Sen: Just ‘wave’ a passing taxi.
Me: But they have high ‘surf-vice’ charges.
Sen: Ok ok. ‘tsun-ah, mi’pick you up then we go!
Me: If I’m not at the lobby, ‘ty-phoon’ me.
Sen: Ok. ‘whale’ do. ‘sea’ u ‘tsun-ah. Mi’ gotta go back to work now and con-‘sand’-trate.
Me: This is getting ‘overboard’, we should ‘seas’ this at once, I ‘shell’ get back to this ‘crab’ which you ‘sea’ is quite ‘urchin’.
Sen: I ‘sea’.
Me: Oh ‘clam’ it!
Me: Nice weather. U wanna go to the beach?
Sen: Sure. We will ‘sea’ you there.
Me: I’ve got no wheels. You need to ‘sand’ me there.
Sen: Just ‘wave’ a passing taxi.
Me: But they have high ‘surf-vice’ charges.
Sen: Ok ok. ‘tsun-ah, mi’pick you up then we go!
Me: If I’m not at the lobby, ‘ty-phoon’ me.
Sen: Ok. ‘whale’ do. ‘sea’ u ‘tsun-ah. Mi’ gotta go back to work now and con-‘sand’-trate.
Me: This is getting ‘overboard’, we should ‘seas’ this at once, I ‘shell’ get back to this ‘crab’ which you ‘sea’ is quite ‘urchin’.
Sen: I ‘sea’.
Me: Oh ‘clam’ it!
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Just a soft piano tune
It is past two in the morning. The lights are turned down, save my side lamp still illuminating the bedside corner in a gentle glow. A piece of autumn leaf which I brought with me from Melbourne hangs delicately on the lamp shade. The maple-shaped silhouette sets a comforting tone to the serene night.
The room is filled with the crisp piano tunes by Danny Wright. My whiskey glass is empty except for a small pool of melted ice. Perhaps another pour of Scotch beckons. My bottle of Glenlivet, 18 years, sits staunchly on my desk.
There is a romance about having a glass of whiskey by myself, just before I turn in for the night. There are no particular thoughts that occupy me; no worries, no complains. There is even no reason to be introspective. I am calm. It is just me, the music and a glass of single malt.
The room is filled with the crisp piano tunes by Danny Wright. My whiskey glass is empty except for a small pool of melted ice. Perhaps another pour of Scotch beckons. My bottle of Glenlivet, 18 years, sits staunchly on my desk.
There is a romance about having a glass of whiskey by myself, just before I turn in for the night. There are no particular thoughts that occupy me; no worries, no complains. There is even no reason to be introspective. I am calm. It is just me, the music and a glass of single malt.
Monday, March 31, 2008
My Muses
I am losing my creative juices. It must be the air; maybe it is too humid which impedes the oxygenation of the brain. Or maybe it is the water which is overzealously chlorinated that somehow encourages conformity of personality traits. See what I mean? The quality of my nonsensical ramblings has been reduced from dry-wit claptrap to logic-laced gobbledygook. It is a sure sign of maturity; I want my petulant puerility back.
I remember how I used to sit in my office – the real one, back in Australia where the discretion to leave my feet on the desk was left entirely to my preference – and would procrastinate from work with such grace and grandeur. I would drift from working on my thesis and begin conceptualising theories that challenge only those who care to make any sense out of them. I read with pride, my old entries in this blog that are able to dance along the fine thread of logic that separates wit from utter stupidity.
It is difficult, living on an island where fashion is dictated by Giordano and thinking out of the box means following guidelines. I find myself less sensitive to the minor details in life and often overlooking the pedestrian moments. Despite the inclination to wear bright colours I feel, perhaps, I’m becoming dull.
I think I just miss my muses – the desert chief, the debt collector and his wife, cheese and Mrs Whale, CG, the undisputed world’s best listener, the comely lawyer and the blur queen. If my world was a cloudless sky, they will be the palette from which my rainbow was painted. I get murky clouds nowadays, the kind you find on a hazy day when Indonesians start burning their own forests. Bless Alexander Graham Bell, but damn the itchybackside who came up with the day-light saving concept now that it is so difficult to reach my friends.
Ah yes, 6 April is coming. My friends will only be 2 hours ahead.
I remember how I used to sit in my office – the real one, back in Australia where the discretion to leave my feet on the desk was left entirely to my preference – and would procrastinate from work with such grace and grandeur. I would drift from working on my thesis and begin conceptualising theories that challenge only those who care to make any sense out of them. I read with pride, my old entries in this blog that are able to dance along the fine thread of logic that separates wit from utter stupidity.
It is difficult, living on an island where fashion is dictated by Giordano and thinking out of the box means following guidelines. I find myself less sensitive to the minor details in life and often overlooking the pedestrian moments. Despite the inclination to wear bright colours I feel, perhaps, I’m becoming dull.
I think I just miss my muses – the desert chief, the debt collector and his wife, cheese and Mrs Whale, CG, the undisputed world’s best listener, the comely lawyer and the blur queen. If my world was a cloudless sky, they will be the palette from which my rainbow was painted. I get murky clouds nowadays, the kind you find on a hazy day when Indonesians start burning their own forests. Bless Alexander Graham Bell, but damn the itchybackside who came up with the day-light saving concept now that it is so difficult to reach my friends.
Ah yes, 6 April is coming. My friends will only be 2 hours ahead.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Conversation with my Remisier
Me: I wanted to sell in the morning and buy back before market closed. But thought I shouldn’t take the risk.
J: Hmm if you had sold in morning and bought back at the end, you would make an intraday profit; coz when you sell first it’s effectively a short & buy back = short cover
Me: In other words the eagle would have eaten the zukini if not for the evil ducks which started playing the banjo. I get you.
J: You meant zucchini and eagles don’t eat that, they are carnivores.
Me: No no it was a metaphorical analogy, the spelling mistake was deliberate. Lets put it this way, it’s like having your tail soaked in perfume only for the grasshopper to pay its taxes. If you know what I mean.
J: …………..
J: Hmm if you had sold in morning and bought back at the end, you would make an intraday profit; coz when you sell first it’s effectively a short & buy back = short cover
Me: In other words the eagle would have eaten the zukini if not for the evil ducks which started playing the banjo. I get you.
J: You meant zucchini and eagles don’t eat that, they are carnivores.
Me: No no it was a metaphorical analogy, the spelling mistake was deliberate. Lets put it this way, it’s like having your tail soaked in perfume only for the grasshopper to pay its taxes. If you know what I mean.
J: …………..
Monday, March 17, 2008
A Pocket of Time
Men in their retirement years gathered. Their faces were expressionless, save a certain calmness that transpired from their eyes. No words were spoken, where the absence of conversation appeared to have been arranged by mutual agreement. A group of them sat themselves on stone benches and were placid; perhaps in reminisce of fond memories from yesteryears. The street performer sang another number from her repertoire of Cantonese oldies. Her echoed voice, amplified through an overly exerted mixer reminded me of wedding bands in old Chinese restaurants.
I found myself seduced in that moment, as if captured in a time capsule. I was blanketed by a deliberate pace, unperturbed by the clamouring noises of urban life. The simplicity of every element that beguiled my senses was intoxicating. I stopped to reinvigorate a forgotten pallet and soaked in a breath of life.
I did not stay to listen to the end of her song. I strolled on, without pondering why I did not stay any longer. I had to be somewhere else; and it would seem, I always had to be somewhere else.
I found myself seduced in that moment, as if captured in a time capsule. I was blanketed by a deliberate pace, unperturbed by the clamouring noises of urban life. The simplicity of every element that beguiled my senses was intoxicating. I stopped to reinvigorate a forgotten pallet and soaked in a breath of life.
I did not stay to listen to the end of her song. I strolled on, without pondering why I did not stay any longer. I had to be somewhere else; and it would seem, I always had to be somewhere else.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
