The boys will be coming

The boys are coming. There is a sudden surge of fear mixed with anxiety in possibly not the most welcoming nature. The boys are coming. My routine will be affected, and my status quo ripped to shreds. The boys are coming. I will lose my bed, and nights will be furnished with howls of snoring. The boys will be coming…… bring it on!

Slumber

The sun rises too early. It is summer and despite the adjustments of daylight saving, the sun still rises too early. My bedroom is furnished with double-layered curtains of deep royal blue, yet sunlight still seeps in from the edges to provide some unwelcome illumination each morning.

Sleep is a necessity too precious to be cut short. I can’t think of many things in life that has the right over disrupting sleep; save breathing and possibly sex, which really is a preparatory rite to sleep if you think about it. That is probably why I seldom have breakfast, and mornings to me are a theoretical construct that begins at 2pm. Maybe being awake is a periphery state, almost like a side-effect to sleep with the latter being the main purpose to live. Controversial, but I’m happy with any notion that will buy me a few more hours of slumber without the exchange of guilt.

Quote worthy from our minister mentor, old-man Lee, “one of the best inventions by man is the air-conditioner.” Old Lee attributes the contraception to productivity; I accredit it to good forty winks. Next closest to air-conditioner for a noble-worthy invention is probably the sleep mask. It cheats the sunlight from day and shelters you with the same sense of sanctuary not felt since the security blanket from the nursing years. With my sleep mask and valerian in hand, slumberland party would have been a nightly affair if not for disturbance each dawn of the most bothersome nature; a bird. There is this particular bird that sings like a nightingale each morning with vocals crisp, melodious and delightful. At least, it would have been delightful if that demonic creature didn’t twitter at 5am in the bloody morning!

As such, I realise that the next to follow the air-conditioner and the sleep mask as the best inventions by mankind, is in fact, the sling shot.

Penguin Parade

It was a happy day yesterday. Strange actually, it was a strange blend of joy mixed with envy and a dash of inspiration to top it off. It was graduation day for my Faculty, with two ceremonies one at 4pm and the other at 8pm to cope with the number of students dressed like penguins to collect their testamur.

I never thought much about graduation when I did it. The emotional aspect of completing my course was exhausted by the time I finished my last exam, and the donning of the graduation robe felt more like a masquerade for parents rather than a self-closure of a journey past.

Yet it was so different yesterday. Just seeing the pride on the parents’ faces gave me a certain feeling of warmth and a trickle of anxiety (although I couldn’t help but imagine some of them were thinking to themselves “it is about bloody time after all the money I’ve spent.”) At one end, it was reminiscence of how my parents felt when they took pictures with me wearing the cardboard hat. On the other hand, there was anxiety of wanting them to feel the same again when, hopefully, I’ll one day be able to replace the cardboard with a cushion.

I met a handful of my students who graduated yesterday. I felt like a celebrity over their eagerness to take pictures with me. They thanked me and made me feel like I made a difference - it was a priceless sensation. It is moments like these that make me appreciate why my mom never gave up teaching after thirty over years.

But of course, the main reason I was there was to offer my congratulations to my friends. Swallow was collecting her testamur for a Masters in accounting (although it still sends a shiver down my spine just on the thought that someone would actually pursue that course). Two of my colleagues finished their seemingly perpetual pursuit to obtain a doctorate. Watching them dressed up like an elaborate table-lamp with a mushroom-head made me green with envy.

Vietboy and I looked at them two and without any exchange of words raised the same question simultaneously, “when the hell is it our turn?”

Kempetai!!!

Friday Night at Forum

I had the entire weekend full! It was rather uncharacteristic considering the fact that my weekend routine typically consists of staying in the office to procrastinate from procrastinating to do work. Murphy’s Law proved true once again; when I have no plans for the weekend, I will have absolutely nothing to do in the office except to swat flies. On the other hand, when I had this wonderful Jazz gig to go to on Friday night, my desk magically stacked up with paperwork. Almost at a frantic pace, I managed to clear the work and headed down to Forum to catch the Royal Crown Rue.

I actually had no idea who the Royal Crown Rue was, except being told that they were the band that appeared in The Mask. Gangster jazz was what they called it, and that certainly sounded like my kind of music. It was costly, $50 per person and it was quite a challenge to find anyone to go watch with me. Chris who first came up with the idea couldn’t make it as she thought it was beyond her budget. So there was I, left with the option of asking some underage princess who had no clue about jazz to keep me company, but instead I was privileged to ask out a self-confessed over-aged princess who made the price of the ticket worthwhile.

The Forum was a grand venue, redone with a Roman theme with five-pillared pavilions and white marble statues ornamenting the sides of the theatre. What really impressed me was the layout – it was not a typical concert layout, but instead a seating area at the top end of the area closer to the entrance with a standing/ dancing floor space just before the stage. The setup was non-formal and pub-like instead of theoretical. The first band that played was really interesting but I couldn’t put my finger on what genre their music belonged to. It was a hybrid of rap and brass and with me being above 25 yrs of age, I had no clue as to what they were singing. When the second band played, I knew for a fact that millions of my brand-cells died. It was a racket which I couldn’t really appreciate, save the memories it brought when I was rocking my head to GreenDay back in high school. Punk really isn’t my cup of tea.

So we were there from 8:30pm and it was not till 10:30pm that RCR appeared. We were brought back to the fifties where mobsters were raving the streets of LA with tommy guns. Gangster jazz lived again and the crowd rose to the occasion dressed in their hats, black suspenders and checked ties jiving till the clock hit twelve. RCR was brilliant, ‘Hey Pachuco’ was a twenty minute item featuring trumpet, bass and drum solos that had you cheering your lungs out.

Not a bad end for a Friday evening, if that really was the end of the evening. There was an emotional episode to follow but that is probably best left for another entry. In any case, the Friday evening marked a pretty eventful weekend. I’ll leave the rest of the story for another time…. …

"everything is fine thank you"

My daily work routine is one that doesn’t help make a lot of friends when I share it over conversations. The best way to sum it up is that if I were my own boss, I’ll sack myself. Sometimes I wonder if this habitual behaviour to procrastinate and slack will render me a vegetable by the time I finish my doctoral studies. Actually, that is a rhetorical question; I just need to look at the academics in my department to realise that the truth is as naked as salad without dressing.

I am never convinced that I work hard, because I can remember vividly the number of hours I fall asleep at my desk rather than the minutes I diligently invest to get work done. Yet, the comments and perceptions of my colleagues and peers suggest different. There is this strange impression that I am an industrious worker-bee that will finish my course before you could say PhD. In situations like these, I will always beg to differ. Being the Chinese that I am, I will attempt to brush aside compliments to confess that I really spend as much time doing nothing as much as I spend time being tucked in bed. That is cue for weird looks of resentment which look upon me as being a hypocritical pig rather than a humble pie. Therefore, I would suppose swinging conversations to the other end of the spectrum would help make more friends; “ah yes, the study is going well, in fact I think I will finish in two and a half years” – in which case, I will be looked upon to be arrogant and conceited like a prancing peacock with its feathery bottom suck to its head. It has been an interesting learning experience in terms of developing social skills with fellow academics. At the end of the day, I have learned to basically keep my mouth shut when someone asks about my research and work…………..

…………..“everything is going fine thank you.”

I left with a backpack

I left with a backpack, an electronic air-ticket and a booking at a backpackers. I wasn’t sure at first why I would want to do something like that, but deep inside I think I had a pretty good idea; I was looking for something… …

So I managed to catch my flight to Sydney last Thursday morning with VirginBlue. Essentially, anything that has to do mornings will get me as enthusiastic as watching paint dry. I guess that is pretty much the theme of the trip, no planning, no expectations and see what happens. Perhaps I was setting myself up to do something which I had always struggled to; be spontaneous. I guess I did alright, because after checking into the backpackers, I decided to roam Sydney. By the time I got to the Sydney Harbour Bridge, I decided to climb it. I must admit there was a certain voice in me that suggested, “perhaps it is a little too windy today; perhaps tomorrow would be a better choice….etc etc.” That is the planning voice speaking, it is that voice that got me thus far in my studies, but listening too much to that voice will render me a dull boring academic. I succumbed to the alternate inner-self instead, that is the voice that typically gets me in trouble, or really drunk. $165 for the bridge climb; not really what I would call value for money especially when the stated 3hr climb comprised more of theoretical embellishment rather than the climb itself. I guess the experience was a bit like visiting the Eiffel tower; been there, done that and never do it again.

Probably one of the biggest rewards of the trip was to meet new people. I shared room with two Scotsmen and an English. Waking in the morning was like opening your eyes, or ears to comedy fest galore. I was as fascinated with the Scots’ accent as they were fascinated that I could actually understand them. They were a laugh; it was not what they said, but the way they said it. Nevertheless, it was the English whom I found a mate in. Maj is an English-born Indian that speaks with a London accent, a combination that feels almost mismatched. My initial impression with these boys was that, well, they were boys; backpacking globetrotters that were only concerned with booze and getting laid. It was not till later that I had breakfast (yes I actually had breakfast) with Maj that I realised that he was a pretty nice bloke to talk with. Maj seemed enthralled with all my radical opinion about culture, politics and religion. I never thought of myself as being a man with broad horizons, but the compliments Maj paid me about my open-mindedness gave me a sensation of self-approval; a sensation that I have not felt for a very long time.

The second evening in Sydney was reserved for doc. He is definitely my closest Aussie friend. This is not going to come out right, but the nights we shared in Paris were just unbelievable. Well he was my roommate during the study trip and we are probably the only roommates that still keep in touch with each other. Doc is married now, and he is doing ever so well. His dry wit sense of humour was still intact and it was certainly an evening promised with laughter, especially when we shared two bottles of wine. His apartment was amazing. Only 5 mins away from Darling Harbour I thought I was at Wayne’s mansion when I walked in. He had his own concierge for crying out loud, a two story high library with a fireplace and a hidden doorway where he kept his Batmobile. I was introduced to the missus and all I can say is that I am very happy for doc. He is a lucky man; and deservingly so.

The third evening in Sydney was…… well, breathtaking. There is a certain someone whom I have not met for a year and a half. And it was through this person that I found myself again at times when my assurance was lost. This part of the trip is probably best left for another entry, because emotional escapees are best left to the flow of words in a moment of sentimental introspection.

In a nutshell, a backpack, an air ticket and a booking at a backpackers marked more than short trip for a holiday. I was really there because I thought I lost something… …. me. It will continue to bewilder the mind should I attempt to reason if I have found what I was looking for, because the journey of finding that astute self is a perpetual quest. Least I could say is that I was left with an experience, despite being a pretty short one, that reminded me that a certain self-assurance still resides somewhere within, needing only good faith for me to draw strength from.

Sydney Harbour Bridge

heartbreaks

I’m in the mood for clichés tonight; how would you mend a broken heart. Damn it sounds cheesy just typing it out. But being heart broken can be more than having a member of the opposite gender walking out of you for some droopy-eyed junkie who wears camouflage pants to buy his daily milk. It really is anything that brings about a wave of disappointment, sometimes even brining a person to the point of disillusion. Maybe the last couple of days could have been filled with sunshine and lollipops, but being the typical me, I was only aware of the air of pessimism which basically rendered me vulnerable to be heart broken.

I constantly need to have something before me to look forward to. This carrot of hope keeps me going, and makes sense to my world. However, this carrot also opens the flood gates to disappointment which has a habit of hitting me with in backlash. For the last weekend, it was the heartbreak of watching Rovers being creamed by Newcastle. 14 shots on goal versus their 3, and they scored three goals and we continued our goal drought this season. The pain of disappointment feels like having your heart slowly squeezed by a bench clamp while being showered with pins all at the same time. We are playing Manure this weekend, and we don’t seem to have a hope in the world, yet I have ten bucks on rovers to kick some ass. Bring on the heartache, I can see the calling.

Maybe I need something else in my life to look forward to. Sometime that promises more than heartbreaks. I don’t exactly know what that will be and I seriously doubt relationships will fit the bill. I’ll be packing my backpack and head for Sydney next Thursday. I have no idea what I’ll find there, and maybe the only way to defend against heartbreaks is not have the carrot dangling in the first place. I hope it’ll work.

Sandcastles in the air

Sometimes without any conscious effort, I would just slip into a daydream. Building sandcastles in the air is a really cool pastime; it kills time; allows you to escape, if just for a moment from reality; and it gives you the pleasure of a short-lived thrill otherwise found in bursting the air pockets of bubble wrap.

It takes creativity to fabricate a daydream that is involving enough for you to dwell upon; well, at least that is what I like to think as a weak excuse for my subliminal endeavors. On certain Thursdays for instance, a certain jingle will ring in my head. It is the jingle for PowerBall, with the lyrics, ‘life can be a dream, shaboo’. It is not surprising that I will typically be holding a PowerBall QuickPick ticket as the jingle plays between my ears. One would call spending twelve dollars a futile attempt to purchase hope, while I call it money well spent to buy myself a daydream. The difference being, I don't spend the money in hope to win ten million big ones, but I spend the money to buy myself a moment where I could indulge myself within the imaginary walls of an alternate reality.

Questions of ‘what ifs’ and ‘what would you do ifs’ race across my mind, and I have to confess that I take a lot of pleasure solving these seemingly fruitless riddles. If I had ten million dollars, I would invest one third of it in property, perhaps in New Zealand, or maybe one of those new apartments in Docklands. I’ll place two million with my parents perhaps for their retirement fund and the rest will be nicely distributed in stocks, shares and unit trusts yielding a decent return equivalent of a clerk’s monthly pay. I would perhaps strut into merrill lynch with a cigar and ask for the best personal financial consultant and expect service standards meant for royalty. See, daydreaming is a pleasurable pastime. The pressure to solve self-created problems presents its own challenge and can create a rather unique hedonic experience; much like how dogs chase their own tail.

It is amazing how spending too much time sitting in the office can do to one’s head. Maybe I should get out of here, walk across the street, to the newsagent, and buy a powerball ticket.

thoughts

Mental disengagement. This is one of the constructs I’m studying in my research. It seems almost like some noble talent for one to take a closer step towards Nevada, yet there is a connotation of giving up as defined by the literature. When I am in the mood to dissect every philosophical notion known to men, my head swells with too much thought and it makes me go crazy.

What constitutes the self-image? Which self of Johari’s window best depicts me? What self is the self perceived by my peers? Which self would they prefer? Which is the ideal? Which is the self that I should select to mask my agony?

Sometimes I just want to sit alone and find peace; stripped from the paradoxical attributes of ecstasy knowing that it is only a holy grill that one must suffer to find. In the sporadic moments of joy is when I find myself stripped from the concerns of these notions. It is a moment where one doesn’t second guess another and over analyse and accept gratitude in its purest form. Yet, I will find myself slipping into a paranoia state where conspiracy theories surface like slow shadowy vapour on hot bitumen. Why has trust from my peers escaped me? How do I earn it back? What does this trust really constitute? Why must I suffer in a portrait which was painted by my own palette?

The thoughts that envelope my mental state can sometimes be dangerous things.