Work is back. It didn’t really leave me, just that I forgotten how work looks like, just like how I completed forgotten who that Russian bird who waved at me at the café was; I made a complete donkey out of myself that afternoon.
So work is back just sitting on my desk. I somehow managed to overlook it for the last couple of days. I have been a bit more than clouded lately that my worldview has been somewhat skewed. Work became the least of my worries, but now that much of the other aspects of my life have been sorted, work is now waving at me like a blinking lunatic.
My application for ethics approval did not go so well. As part of the ethics committee’s mission to create hoops for research students to jump through, I have to resubmit my draft questionnaire. Well it is not like there is anything fundamentally flawed with my initial draft. It was highlighted that the draft questionnaire was littered with typographical and grammatical errors. I have got no problem asking my mom to read through my questionnaire again, but I’m still perplexed as to how grammatical errors have become an issue for consideration by the ethics committee. I mean, since when has subject-verb agreement become an ethical concern? And I thought the bureaucracy of the armed forces was bad.
The better work-related news is perhaps that I have a paper accepted in a conference in Perth. Fine this conference is probably as prestigious as TCS Star awards, but the point really is that I have never been to Perth. A five-page paper for a ticket and accommodation to Perth ain’t that bad. The reviewers’ comments were quite interesting. The first reviewer actually rejected the paper claiming that it was too conceptual and boring. If I know who this reviewer was, I’ll just like to let him/her know, it is only a local conference, not a nomination for the Nobel prize. The second reviewer recognized that it was an obvious cheap attempt to get a free flight to Perth gave me two thumbs up. Whoever you are, bless you.
Back to the office for the weekend. I ain’t complaining.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Friday, August 19, 2005
Change
What is it about change that we hate so much? It is so easy to say that we need a change, to move out of the status quo and yet when we find comfort with the latter, we cling onto it like a baby chimpanzee on mommy’s back.
It has been a traumatic week, with displeasure and resentment surfacing and manifesting in ways so quickly that I struggled to grasp and cope with them. A lot of time was spent introspecting and appreciating where I fit in this tapestry of uncertainty which I like to call my life. It has not been easy and sometimes when the thoughts overwhelm you, you feel like mash potato in a blender when you are consumed by those thoughts.
Things change, people move on and sometimes fighting against change becomes futile. These are lessons I have learnt before, but they can so easily be forgotten, especially when you have been exposed to moments of delight where rainbows and lollipops make sense once again, and you will become so disheartened to watch them vanish in the harshness of reality.
Things change, people move on. What really can you do, except to continue to learn how to cope with it, and find strength and comfort in yourself to journey on.
It has been a traumatic week, with displeasure and resentment surfacing and manifesting in ways so quickly that I struggled to grasp and cope with them. A lot of time was spent introspecting and appreciating where I fit in this tapestry of uncertainty which I like to call my life. It has not been easy and sometimes when the thoughts overwhelm you, you feel like mash potato in a blender when you are consumed by those thoughts.
Things change, people move on and sometimes fighting against change becomes futile. These are lessons I have learnt before, but they can so easily be forgotten, especially when you have been exposed to moments of delight where rainbows and lollipops make sense once again, and you will become so disheartened to watch them vanish in the harshness of reality.
Things change, people move on. What really can you do, except to continue to learn how to cope with it, and find strength and comfort in yourself to journey on.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Thursday, August 11, 2005
smokey pallet and sweet melancholy
I sit here,
and the words flow with such ease,
like an undisturbed stream
with waters cold like the winter air.
Melancholy finds me again,
the scars of old aches again.
I embrace melancholy like an old friend,
whom I have forgotten its name,
only for a brief moment,
a moment of naiveté
I have failed yet again,
to find comfort through my own strength.
Perhaps it was wrong
to have started such a challenge to begin with.
Could someone live life like an island?
To find contentment because there are no desires?
The intoxication of a smoky pallet wearies me… …
I must rest.
I think none of logic or rational,
my judgment is clouded only by resentment of so many events past.
Why wait to be excluded
when I could exclude myself first?
The desire for affiliation,
the desire to be revered is like poison
that entices the empty soul.
I yield so very often,
only for regrets to caress me like parental arms
in a forgotten dream.
Perhaps, an island is where I could find sanctuary
from the heartache that is imposed by so many others
……. perhaps,
perhaps………
sweet intoxications finds me….. I must rest……..
and the words flow with such ease,
like an undisturbed stream
with waters cold like the winter air.
Melancholy finds me again,
the scars of old aches again.
I embrace melancholy like an old friend,
whom I have forgotten its name,
only for a brief moment,
a moment of naiveté
I have failed yet again,
to find comfort through my own strength.
Perhaps it was wrong
to have started such a challenge to begin with.
Could someone live life like an island?
To find contentment because there are no desires?
The intoxication of a smoky pallet wearies me… …
I must rest.
I think none of logic or rational,
my judgment is clouded only by resentment of so many events past.
Why wait to be excluded
when I could exclude myself first?
The desire for affiliation,
the desire to be revered is like poison
that entices the empty soul.
I yield so very often,
only for regrets to caress me like parental arms
in a forgotten dream.
Perhaps, an island is where I could find sanctuary
from the heartache that is imposed by so many others
……. perhaps,
perhaps………
sweet intoxications finds me….. I must rest……..
Monday, August 08, 2005
i was in church yesterday
I went to church yesterday. Now that is almost as close to me saying that I signed up a GIRO donation scheme to NKF. The last time I was in church was probably two years ago, when I was young, naïve and attached. I was probably only there to keep my then significant other company. Or perhaps, it was just to bring back memories of the days in St. Andrews, where Wednesday chapel lessons meant more about not having to stay in classrooms rather than to get in touch with divinity.
I am not Christian, I do not have a religion, actually, I don’t really know what I am. If I have to be labelled and categorised for the benefit of national statistics, all I can say is that I am not atheist, because I do pray in my most desperate hour, but my prayers are addressed to ‘whom it may concern.’
I asked dad when I was little, what is our religion and he said “free-thinker”. I think he meant free to think whatever made sense, rather than ‘no religion’ as what most others brand us. Typically together with a look of pity that my family and I have bought the wrong ticket for a train that departs to some nasty destination where they don’t serve bacon and eggs for breakfast.
Sometimes it is difficult to be a ‘free-thinker’ when they don’t come with printed instructions as to what we were supposed to do. The Bible, Quran, and Sutras are like street directories in a rented car where members, and only members of Thrifty get to refer to when negotiating their way through the tapestry of life. The only guidelines I have are certain principles and values that I cling onto just to make sense of the world around me. I really don’t know how they got there, because my parents did not sit me down on Sunday mornings and drill Confucius teachings in me. At some level, I probably picked up some cheesy notions of societal dogma from Hong Kong movies. But the larger part of it is probably through watching my parents adhere so staunchly to these values that it only makes sense that I follow them. I am really happy about this system, because I don’t need to have ‘thou shall be filial to thy parents’ engraved on stone for me. I know that my children will not send me to a home, because I am not going to do so to my parents.
I like being a free-thinker; one who is free to think and believe in whatever that makes sense. It makes sense to me that I am not perfect and I do wrong, and my concept of sin is if you don’t learn and do it again. It makes sense to me that happiness is a paradoxical pursuit, because the drive to achieve your wants may bring pleasure but so does not having the wants in the first place. It makes sense to me that values, love and kindness are passed forward as how my parents are passing them on to me, and I will repay them on to my children. At the same time, if I ever get to meet God, I will like to thank him, because even though I don’t sing a lot of songs about him, I know that he saved many of my friends who are using his street directory.
I am not Christian per say, not exactly Buddhist, and I think that Confucius is a really cool teacher. I am a free-thinker, and probably a naïve one, because I like to believe that different religion and creed have no reason not to co-exist; we all journey through the same tapestry of life, just using a different street directory to find the way that makes the most sense, and maybe, just maybe with a bit of luck, find happiness along the way.
I am not Christian, I do not have a religion, actually, I don’t really know what I am. If I have to be labelled and categorised for the benefit of national statistics, all I can say is that I am not atheist, because I do pray in my most desperate hour, but my prayers are addressed to ‘whom it may concern.’
I asked dad when I was little, what is our religion and he said “free-thinker”. I think he meant free to think whatever made sense, rather than ‘no religion’ as what most others brand us. Typically together with a look of pity that my family and I have bought the wrong ticket for a train that departs to some nasty destination where they don’t serve bacon and eggs for breakfast.
Sometimes it is difficult to be a ‘free-thinker’ when they don’t come with printed instructions as to what we were supposed to do. The Bible, Quran, and Sutras are like street directories in a rented car where members, and only members of Thrifty get to refer to when negotiating their way through the tapestry of life. The only guidelines I have are certain principles and values that I cling onto just to make sense of the world around me. I really don’t know how they got there, because my parents did not sit me down on Sunday mornings and drill Confucius teachings in me. At some level, I probably picked up some cheesy notions of societal dogma from Hong Kong movies. But the larger part of it is probably through watching my parents adhere so staunchly to these values that it only makes sense that I follow them. I am really happy about this system, because I don’t need to have ‘thou shall be filial to thy parents’ engraved on stone for me. I know that my children will not send me to a home, because I am not going to do so to my parents.
I like being a free-thinker; one who is free to think and believe in whatever that makes sense. It makes sense to me that I am not perfect and I do wrong, and my concept of sin is if you don’t learn and do it again. It makes sense to me that happiness is a paradoxical pursuit, because the drive to achieve your wants may bring pleasure but so does not having the wants in the first place. It makes sense to me that values, love and kindness are passed forward as how my parents are passing them on to me, and I will repay them on to my children. At the same time, if I ever get to meet God, I will like to thank him, because even though I don’t sing a lot of songs about him, I know that he saved many of my friends who are using his street directory.
I am not Christian per say, not exactly Buddhist, and I think that Confucius is a really cool teacher. I am a free-thinker, and probably a naïve one, because I like to believe that different religion and creed have no reason not to co-exist; we all journey through the same tapestry of life, just using a different street directory to find the way that makes the most sense, and maybe, just maybe with a bit of luck, find happiness along the way.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
let me not.... ...
Let me not taste wine,
for I will yearn for intoxication.
Let me not taste poison
and I will be ignorant
and will never learn.
Let me not taste happiness,
so that I will not weep as I am doing so… …
for I will yearn for intoxication.
Let me not taste poison
and I will be ignorant
and will never learn.
Let me not taste happiness,
so that I will not weep as I am doing so… …
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
6:25pm on a Wednesday
Wednesday evenings are strange. While routine determines what I do for the other evenings of the week; Mon: badminton, Tue: Movie or Kung Fu, Thur: Kung Fu, Fri: dinner with friends, Sat: swim, Sun: bible says relak…… Wednesdays I’m stuck somewhere between reluctance to do something and having an eventfully forgettable evening.
After spending four hours in tutorials and marking, I’m drained from the energy that is necessary to kick-start the motivational voice which will talk to me in a less than subtle fashion, “hey you need to get out tonight”.
The options I have require careful thought, in order to optimise the most viable plan to prevent an otherwise wasted evening. Will it be swim, or tango, or poker at the pub? Three options are two too many. More juice of energy is required to push myself toward selecting one. I sit here lamenting that I have too many choices to make, yet I have spare energy to type out this entry in a verbose manner, requiring no less energy than the amount required to make the choice in the first place. I pity whoever that is reading this. But thank you if you have come thus far. I can’t even begin to fathom what it is like to read pleonastic claptrap from a tired blogger suffering from verbal diarrhoea.
It is 6:30pm, Tango classes are at 7pm, poker at 8, the swim centre closes at 8:45. Which will it be? Indecisiveness requires persuasion from external sources. This phenomenon is best represented by the Singaporean self-convincing notion of “If you go then I go loh.”
I need to make phone calls to get a better picture of who will be at the Tango class, and who will be at the Poker tables tonight. It is amazing how a bit of organisation can provide clarity in decision making. But alas, his phone is turned off, and there has yet to be reply from her. My friends have abandoned me. How could anyone leave me marooned within my labyrinth of alternatives? Think I’m going paranoid here, but it is okey. I study psychology, I can fix myself……..
There, I’ve fixed myself over a nice dosage of logic and two glasses of Scotch whiskey I promise myself before the evening ends.
Now what? Wait, my phone rings……….
….. tango class it is.
After spending four hours in tutorials and marking, I’m drained from the energy that is necessary to kick-start the motivational voice which will talk to me in a less than subtle fashion, “hey you need to get out tonight”.
The options I have require careful thought, in order to optimise the most viable plan to prevent an otherwise wasted evening. Will it be swim, or tango, or poker at the pub? Three options are two too many. More juice of energy is required to push myself toward selecting one. I sit here lamenting that I have too many choices to make, yet I have spare energy to type out this entry in a verbose manner, requiring no less energy than the amount required to make the choice in the first place. I pity whoever that is reading this. But thank you if you have come thus far. I can’t even begin to fathom what it is like to read pleonastic claptrap from a tired blogger suffering from verbal diarrhoea.
It is 6:30pm, Tango classes are at 7pm, poker at 8, the swim centre closes at 8:45. Which will it be? Indecisiveness requires persuasion from external sources. This phenomenon is best represented by the Singaporean self-convincing notion of “If you go then I go loh.”
I need to make phone calls to get a better picture of who will be at the Tango class, and who will be at the Poker tables tonight. It is amazing how a bit of organisation can provide clarity in decision making. But alas, his phone is turned off, and there has yet to be reply from her. My friends have abandoned me. How could anyone leave me marooned within my labyrinth of alternatives? Think I’m going paranoid here, but it is okey. I study psychology, I can fix myself……..
There, I’ve fixed myself over a nice dosage of logic and two glasses of Scotch whiskey I promise myself before the evening ends.
Now what? Wait, my phone rings……….
….. tango class it is.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Boom!..... there goes another one
I sit here in the living room, just about to watch City of God on DVD. Suddenly there was this news flash….. yet another bombing incident in London. The authorities scramble like cockroaches when the light comes on, partially to show BBC-watchers that they are earning their money, although one can’t help but be skeptical that they are clueless as to what was going on.
We have moved from the era of World War, Cold War, Civil War and now War against Terrorism. Unlike the previous three, war against terrorism is a declaration of confrontation against an ambiguous entity. The ‘enemy’ wears the face of common citizens, their beliefs skewed and their motivation incomprehensible. It feels like a futile cause, despite world leaders reciting rally speeches before decorated podiums. Terrorism feels hardly like a war, but instead the expression of oppressed voices based on fundamentalist notions.
I'm feeling numb towards all of these. As images of blown up bodies, falling skyscrapers and demolished train stations monopolise the evening news, it becomes increasingly easy to distant myself in denial of the world around me. Concern becomes too daunting.
Perhaps, just perhaps for this week, I’ll shut my senses from this reality. And dwell in a happier realm, where characters get murdered by dark wizards in children’s book.
We have moved from the era of World War, Cold War, Civil War and now War against Terrorism. Unlike the previous three, war against terrorism is a declaration of confrontation against an ambiguous entity. The ‘enemy’ wears the face of common citizens, their beliefs skewed and their motivation incomprehensible. It feels like a futile cause, despite world leaders reciting rally speeches before decorated podiums. Terrorism feels hardly like a war, but instead the expression of oppressed voices based on fundamentalist notions.
I'm feeling numb towards all of these. As images of blown up bodies, falling skyscrapers and demolished train stations monopolise the evening news, it becomes increasingly easy to distant myself in denial of the world around me. Concern becomes too daunting.
Perhaps, just perhaps for this week, I’ll shut my senses from this reality. And dwell in a happier realm, where characters get murdered by dark wizards in children’s book.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Faith
It is the start of the semester and typically this is the time where I will be energetic, lively and can’t wait to walk into my first tutorial. Strangely, I’m feeling lethargic somewhat drained and nonchalant. I think it is due to recent events that I’m not as excited about this semester as I would like.
A few students from last semester informed me that they have failed the subject, some for the second time. I can’t help but take news like this personally, and I wonder if my teaching methods could have been better to raise the statistics. I’m proud of the ones who attained a top grade, although I don’t know who they are, as they have probably moved onto the new semester without the need to say hi when we meet in campus. Thoughts like this slowly extinguish the once idealistic flame I had about making a difference, and believing that I could make any student get a high distinction. Sometimes reality bites and coping with it needs a strong clinging to the faith I have in myself.
Faith is a paradoxical notion. It basically means believing in a conception that can not be proven true through any means that may convince. In other words, it is a constant struggle to believe. Faith in a religion, faith in myself, faith in my friends; these notions mark the journey of a lifetime struggle to grip onto the fabrics that make life meaningful. The constant chaos intrinsic to faith renders one to wake in the morning to feel wonderful when he looks himself in the mirror or feel that he is a man not worth loving the following day. The fibres of faith are so delicate that the smallest deviation of a well-planned endeavour can discourse and undermine the motivation for future pursuits.
I have friends with me that reinforce my self-belief. I have awards and trophies to remind me of my ability. I have a future that suggests to me that roses lie ahead. Yet without faith, I am but a hollow vessel aimless in the turbulent winds.
A few students from last semester informed me that they have failed the subject, some for the second time. I can’t help but take news like this personally, and I wonder if my teaching methods could have been better to raise the statistics. I’m proud of the ones who attained a top grade, although I don’t know who they are, as they have probably moved onto the new semester without the need to say hi when we meet in campus. Thoughts like this slowly extinguish the once idealistic flame I had about making a difference, and believing that I could make any student get a high distinction. Sometimes reality bites and coping with it needs a strong clinging to the faith I have in myself.
Faith is a paradoxical notion. It basically means believing in a conception that can not be proven true through any means that may convince. In other words, it is a constant struggle to believe. Faith in a religion, faith in myself, faith in my friends; these notions mark the journey of a lifetime struggle to grip onto the fabrics that make life meaningful. The constant chaos intrinsic to faith renders one to wake in the morning to feel wonderful when he looks himself in the mirror or feel that he is a man not worth loving the following day. The fibres of faith are so delicate that the smallest deviation of a well-planned endeavour can discourse and undermine the motivation for future pursuits.
I have friends with me that reinforce my self-belief. I have awards and trophies to remind me of my ability. I have a future that suggests to me that roses lie ahead. Yet without faith, I am but a hollow vessel aimless in the turbulent winds.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Retail Therapy
Retail therapy. Less than one week in Melbourne, three weeks before I start work and already I’m spending money. It is one of those Sundays where I would appreciate some company on this beautiful day, but I had to end up having a date with myself. Well, it really isn’t as sad as it sounds, because it can never be a bad thing to spend money on myself, instead on someone else who thinks of you as a forgotten memory right after the dinner bill.
I walked around St. Kilda and came across this hair saloon that is called ‘Split Ends’. I thought it was the dumbest name one can come up with. The way I figure it, it is like saying ‘don’t say we didn’t warn you.’ I’m keen to know how long this saloon has been around. Names like this may work after all.
I bought myself a dark brown suede jacket. I don’t really know why I did that, probably because I never had anything suede. But this jacket from CM is a strange one, it has a cotton hood attached to it. The hood can be removed, but the point is, why have a hood on a jacket? I raised this issue to the sale assistant and she assured me that it is the latest fashion. Who decides this fashion anyway? She showed me their catalogue with a male model with a suave look wearing the same jacket I bought and proudly displaying the cotton hood sticking out at the back like a printing error. I gave this look of distrust and needed much assurance that I wouldn’t look like a twit if I should choose to leave the hood on. The jacket is now hanging in my cupboard. I’ll wait for the occasion to wear it, and I’ll leave the hood on to see my friend’s reaction. Perhaps I should keep the brochure in my pocket just in case I need to defend myself that ‘it is the latest fashion’.
I walked around St. Kilda and came across this hair saloon that is called ‘Split Ends’. I thought it was the dumbest name one can come up with. The way I figure it, it is like saying ‘don’t say we didn’t warn you.’ I’m keen to know how long this saloon has been around. Names like this may work after all.
I bought myself a dark brown suede jacket. I don’t really know why I did that, probably because I never had anything suede. But this jacket from CM is a strange one, it has a cotton hood attached to it. The hood can be removed, but the point is, why have a hood on a jacket? I raised this issue to the sale assistant and she assured me that it is the latest fashion. Who decides this fashion anyway? She showed me their catalogue with a male model with a suave look wearing the same jacket I bought and proudly displaying the cotton hood sticking out at the back like a printing error. I gave this look of distrust and needed much assurance that I wouldn’t look like a twit if I should choose to leave the hood on. The jacket is now hanging in my cupboard. I’ll wait for the occasion to wear it, and I’ll leave the hood on to see my friend’s reaction. Perhaps I should keep the brochure in my pocket just in case I need to defend myself that ‘it is the latest fashion’.
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