The Mystery of the Strange Messages

here we go again!

2007-05-22T18:51:00.000-07:00

Okay, I've switched to lj. Blogger is far too erratic for my liking. Same domain, different host: http://strangemessages.livejournal.com/!

2007-05-09T06:43:00.000-07:00

What's wrong with blogger?!!? Why is the "create" page a mess of symbols and random white/brown spaces? It's been like that for three days - on both Internet Explorer AND Firefox. New blogger is annoying and needs to die. I can barely see what I'm writing.

hur!

2007-04-09T08:04:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry I haven't been blogging blogging of late. Putting up other poets' works and several loose comments about them isn't blogging blogging, and this space risks becoming really really dense and esoteric. (which must explain the barren comments section huh! But I doubt anyone can grope for an appropriate response to an excerpt from Gwee Li Sui's essay on Literature, for example. =P) But I suppose I haven't really been able to express myself properly in words of late (funny, I know), so the next best thing is living vicariously through other people's thoughts. Heh. Life has been pretty full of late, let's see how it all turns out.

(How random was that last statement UGH)

on Koh Tsin Yen

2007-03-25T05:25:00.000-07:00

I first encountered Koh Tsin Yen's work in "But,", an anthology featuring poets from various junior colleges. They listed the poets' biographies at the back, and while some were frankly staid or arrogant, Tsin Yen's was unassumingly Anne Carson-esque ("Koh Tsin Yen lives in Singapore"). I met her at The Substation: Garden Relived, and when I asked if she planned to publish a book of poems, she said "no, not interested" and was very resolute about it. Which is both a pity, and strangely fitting. This might be a grand assumption, but I think she is the rare poet who shuns the role of literary celebrity and tries hard to focus her attention on her writing. Cyril says "she is something...she has it" - and she does. Her poetic observations are immensely engaging, fascinating because they are fascinated. There is a "fierce joy circling beneath (her) words"; words which brilliantly convey the value of a poetic sensibility to memory and experience; words that are, by turns, sensuous, poignant and tender.

excerpts from on orchids

#10 Lying down gravely on the beach among the overturned boats, rasp of sand against skin like a promise. That night I sat up to watch you sleep in the grey dawn.

#17 For the longest time I did not want to bring you near my home; I wanted to preserve a place which would hold no memory of you, against the time of your departure.

#18 This is the hard part: the time when thoughts of lips, hands and eyes are no longer enough to sustain attention. The time to lay down your belief that the moment of grace granted to lovers can be prolonged indefinitely. (But your body curves into his in the dark and you feel against your skin his sleeping consciousness like the weight of something precious.) The time to see your lover away from your definitions and your lights.

#20 Anne Carson on orchids: “We live by tunneling for we are people buried alive. To me, the tunnels you make will seem strangely aimless, uprooted orchids. But the fragrance is undying. A Little Boy has run away from Amherst a few Days ago, writes Emily Dickinson in a letter of 1883, and when asked where he was going, he replied, Vermont or Asia.”

/ Koh Tsin Yen

Baggage Claim

2007-03-25T04:47:00.000-07:00

The parts dropped suddenly into place:
that endless jumble slithering past—
suitcases, golf clubs, backpacks, bags—
yanked off the belt to be checked out,
none of them ours; our plane down,
but still not listed for unloading;
one last black bag alone, vanishing
ten times into the rough black curtains
unclaimed. We thought of our dear friend
Fernando, disappearing into heavy
crematory drapes last year while we
raised up our toasts: “Fare thee well,
Stinky!”—echoing his own soft gibe
if you left a party, going home
too soon. Their faces distorted in
distress, two older women rushed past;
then, grim-jawed, our cop reëntered
from the locked bag-handling area,
muttering his report: “Your stuff
will be out soon. They’ve got this short
ceremony—military.” Think back again:
just before our takeoff one marine,
in full parade dress,
had quietly been slipped on board.
(Last Sunday’s news: 22, a roadside
bomb blast; his third tour there.)

Bag after bag now crawled past to be
accepted, then hauled off as our own.

/W.D. Snodgrass in The New Yorker

re-reading Gwee Li Sui's essay on Poetry and the Renaissance Machine in Singapore

2007-03-24T05:34:00.000-07:00

"...the treatment of local poetry will prove pivotal: ironic in the sense of how we precisely need its uselessness here, the non-lucrative work of verse will serve as the most reliable touchstone. Poetry, after all, assumes before its enjoyment a basic patience with language – one that discerns a possibility of beauty in private modes of thinking – and a measure of sensitivity to its use. State subsidies for publishing and events such as Wordfeast, a festival of international poetry launched in 2004, may thus be helpful but what is more constructive would always be, for example, revised educational policies that promote the study of literature. The authenticity of a commitment to artistic culture should be defined in such terms, by whether a whole people can move beyond pragmatic and binding notions of worth and choose a broader socio-cultural, as opposed to a politico-economic, body of values. The consequences of their choices are yet again far-reaching: a different concern raised in the same prime-ministerial speech of 1999 and tied too to economic fortunes has been the worrying trend among young Singaporeans to use a cliquish pidgin called Singlish instead of profitable proper English.³³Official finger-pointing may identify poor influences in families, schools, and the media but an institutional failure to inspire a wider appreciation of English must also assume some blame. Language is not a mere skill to be learnt, a fact quick fixes like a Speak Good English Movement continue to miss; as Thumboo observed before, it needs to be owned in a way that should find the engagement with literary thoughts and explorations central and not tangential.³⁴Will the gloriously stupid pursuit of common literariness ever be deemed worthwhile in Singapore especially if it demands much schematic back-pedalling, even if it may prove advantageous at length only by accident?"

Interpretation

2007-03-17T08:45:00.000-07:00

Simple la - but how to
inflect and to what end?

/Terry Jaensch

New World

2007-03-16T07:27:00.000-07:00

Fuck you and your clothing. You wear it like solid gold hangers. It looks fantastic. When I see people on TV, I hang up pictures of my favorite rock musicians. Some people are so big they create new dimensions in the passenger's seat. They take up extra movements in a symphony. They ball up hunger in sad moments and feed empty stomachs to the third world. When you wish for something, everything else knows you are full of hate. Then everything moans at you from the sky until you put out the flames with automatic water. There is a travesty during every hour. It looks like a television show I saw you watching. Your clothes mesh with the way you move just so. When I see your clothes I only think that this must be a new world. I will issue it a patent. I exercise plainly for the greater good. Somewhere it is raining. Clouds get trapped underneath me. What you said was a crushing blow. You even meant it. Some people will conceptually harm a series of your finest moments. I have refused to make any more phone calls. During the game I always realize I'd rather not be playing. Listen, it is really getting dark outside. Any moment I'm going to get hit in the face with the game ball. This is when the game ends. When everyone in the world is speaking a different language than you that's a moment of transcendence.

/Seth Landman

we live in a strange world - Natalie Hennedige

2007-03-02T07:50:00.000-08:00

weliveinastrangeworld's interview with Natalie Hennedige is up!

In other weliveinastrangeworld news, I'm considering moving to a proper website, instead of a webpage hosted on blogspot. I've asked J for help, so we'll see.

we live in a strange world - Lee Weng Choy

2007-02-10T07:54:00.000-08:00

weliveinastrangeworld's interview with Lee Weng Choy, co-artistic director of The Substation is up. I'm interviewing Natalie Hennedige tomorrow morning - so don't fret, it will be up soon as well!

yay

2007-01-29T08:41:00.000-08:00

One of my earlier poems, the check-in counter lady speaks, appears in January's edition of QLRS.

don't know why

2007-01-27T08:47:00.000-08:00

"keep writing and colouring outside the lines and you will find living in all the surprising places"

/ myfliendpirray, in a postcard from London

*

I'm thinking about the article Zadie Smith wrote for The Guardian about literary betrayal, about how writers let truth slide in favour of a better word, a better metaphor, an ideal instead of an idea. It bothers me, because the first couple of poems I wrote were not about how I felt, but how I wanted to feel. If I try to find something real in these poems, am I groping for truth that does not exist, truth I compel into existence?

worn me down / if I'm gone and you're still there

2007-01-16T21:54:00.000-08:00

That I could write to you is healing enough; that you write to me is a gift. I shall practise not missing our conversations. It might turn out better than we expect, better than we deserve.

this is how it goes

2007-01-16T07:13:00.000-08:00

Blackness. Blackness and silence.

sleep

2007-01-14T05:26:00.000-08:00

for fo.sus

(I)

Mornings and nights are the hardest, you say, sleeping pill in hand.

Sleep might or might not be found in prescription bottles. The surest way is to scoop out your heart, leave it on the bedside table, next to the alarm clock, so it might wake up tomorrow morning.

When you lie down, your head is a pocket of uneasiness and pillows.

There are pillows everywhere. Pillow between the walls of your hips, cheek pressed against pillow like a lover, pillow under your head to catch you when you fall from a dream into memory.

The blankets slip over your back like a stillborn wave.

Your back is a comma that does not know where to go after its temporary pause.

The view from my bed: boxes of unlit lights, some burning with bodies in sleep. The street lights cast an orange wakefulness on their sleep. fo.sus, what do you see?

When sleep loves you, it loves you like love does not.

(II)

In the morning, the pillows hug each other in a stack of three.

The blankets protected you from the cold last night. In the morning, they are cold.

In the morning, the bed becomes a piece of furniture once again, waking from its dreams.

(III)

fo.sus, loneliness does not call itself loneliness. It is never lonely, it accompanies so many people to sleep.

I'll find a way / to see you again

2007-01-11T06:09:00.000-08:00

Sitting in the office, a weight of cold air strung around my neck. The phone rings, solid line of shrill. In the mornings, before the present casts itself on shadows, I weigh yesterday's meanings. I lie beside our conversations, wade in their pauses, unwrap the words. Sometimes, I forget that the possibility of nothing exists, that nothing can mean nothing at all.

2007-01-11T06:08:00.000-08:00

I can't seem to edit my blogger posts anymore. When I click the "Edit posts" button, everything except the original post appears. If this glitch persists, I have to move all three blogs - weliveinastrangeworld, strangework and strangemessages to wordpress. It will be a huge move, and I don't think I have enough time or energy for that. Sigh.

EDIT: New Blogger in BETA is officially New Blogger. It's bigger, it's meaner, it's better. I can edit my posts, and play with blogger widgets. Am happy.

eleven-thirty

2007-01-10T07:17:00.000-08:00

at this moment, present spilling into futures, soaking them in its shadow, like a night rolling out and bolting shut on itself.

*

(on you)

listening to aimee mann and she tells me, with a shrug of gentle resignation, "it's not going to stop / till you wise up"

if what moves you may not redeem you

2007-01-10T05:33:00.000-08:00

If you meet him, is that enough.
If you shake his hand, let yours linger along his, shaking a little against his grip, is that enough.
If you are stained with longing drawn into short little breaths, drawn through short little breaths, is that enough.
If you say Hi, drench it in beginnings, so it ends because it does not, is that enough.
If you stammer about dogs, a car, what he likes, what you think he likes, is that enough.

If he leaves, draws out the certainty of goodbye so it quivers like a possibility on lips pursed like unopened palms,

is that enough.

On Death, Without Exaggeration

2007-01-01T06:45:00.000-08:00

It can't take a joke,
find a star, make a bridge.
It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming,
building ships, or baking cakes.

In our planning for tomorrow,
it has the final word,
which is always beside the point.

It can't even get the things done
that are part of it's trade:
dig a grave,
make a coffin,
clean up after itself.

Preoccupied with killing,
it does the job awkwardly,
without system or skill.
As though each of us were its first kill.

Oh it has its triumphs,
but look at its countless defeats,
missed blows,
and repeat attempts!

Sometimes it isn't strong enough
to swat a fly from the air.
Many are the caterpillars
that have outcrawled it.

All those bulbs, pods,
tentacles, fins, tracheae,
nuptial plumage, and winter fur
show that it has fallen behind
with its halfhearted work.

Ill will won't help
and even our lending a hand with wars and coups d'etat
is so far not enough.

Hearts beat inside eggs.
Babies' skeletons grow.
Seeds, hard at work, sprout their first tiny pair of leaves
and sometimes even tall trees far away.

Whoever claims that it's omnipotent
is himself living proof
that it's not.

There's no life
that couldn't be immortal
if only for a moment.

Death
always arrives by that very moment too late.

In vain it tugs at the know
of the invisible door.
As far as you've come
can't be undone.

/ Wislawa Szymborska

sensory overload

2006-12-28T08:45:00.000-08:00

Am I the only one who thinks that Curse Of The Golden Flower is a terrifically pointless movie?

Plus, the entire movie - from title to ending - is just dying to be parodied. Not to mention that Zhang Yimou made the worst cinematic decision of the decade by casting Jay Chou as one of the leads.

"In Curse of the Golden Flower Mr. Zhang achieves a kind of operatic delirium, opening the floodgates of image and melodrama until the line between tragedy and black comedy is all but erased."

High praise from The New York Times, but ultimately filmcritic.com puts it best:

"...piles spectacle upon spectacle, and tragedy on top of tragedy, until the whole contraption fairly disintegrates under the fervid weight of it all."

we live in a strange world: Cyril Wong

2006-12-27T02:33:00.000-08:00

I interviewed Cyril Wong on Christmas Eve. Check it out!

On a side note, I still strongly feel that like a seed with its singular purpose should have won the Singapore Literature Prize instead of unmarked treasure. And if not for the Prize's stuffy nationalistic restrictions, Boey Kim Cheng's After The Fire would have been the runaway winner. (Not to mention that the Prize's credibility would have been better served if it had nominated Ng Yi-Sheng's Last Boy (which deserves to be nominated, not win) instead of Aaron Maniam's maudlin collection Morning at Memory's Border.)

So, to translate that mess of words into a list of should-haves:

winner: Boey Kim Cheng's After The Fire
nominations (in order of preference): Cyril Wong's like a seed with its singular purpose; Cyril Wong's Unmarked Treasure; Yong Shu Hoong's Frottage; Ng Yi-Sheng's Last Boy

But that's just little icky me casting a juvenile perspective on the literary world of Singapore.

sweet november

2006-12-02T22:16:00.000-08:00

Ten hauntingly beautiful things:

Cyril Wong's performance of Practical Aim from his latest collection of poems, Like A Seed With Its Singular Purpose, at The Substation's Garden Re-lived!

Reading Tennessee Williams' The Glass Menagerie during guard duty. To quote K, a tragedy not so much around the corner as simply there the whole time in plain sight.

Watching Haresh Sharma and Alvin Tan's emotionally shattering Fundamentally Happy.

Eva Cassidy.

Learning about Futoshi Miyahi's series Stranger through Jason Wee's blurty.

BooksActually and Telok Ayer street.

Boo Junfeng's Un Retrato De Familia (A Family Portrait).

Brian Gothong Tan's We Live In A Dangerous World and Donna Ong's Chrysalis series at the Singapore Biennale, Brian's Disneyland fascination.

Boey Kim Cheng's collection of poems, After The Fire. Makes me feel as if I was in Sudder Street, Calcutta myself.

we live in a strange world: BooksActually's Kenny Leck and Karen Wai

2006-12-01T06:24:00.000-08:00

The strange booksellers at BooksActually talk to we live in a strange world! Go see!

2006-11-17T23:48:00.000-08:00

I've just received some unusual spam in my mail:

(my full name).

you are moonlighting.

watch out.

SWO Mary has her eyes on you.

"If you dont work, you wont prosper" - MG Quek

SWO is an annoyingly bureaucratic acronym for Senior Warrant Officer, and MG Quek (sic) refers to General Kuek, who is the frikkin' chief of this goddamntohell army. So bloody weird, I tell you. It's rather freaky to think how this spammer managed to get my full name, but it's still pretty amusing because, you know what, I wished I was moonlighting for the extra moolah, honey.

we live in a strange world: Brian Gothong Tan speaks

2006-11-13T03:51:00.000-08:00

"To me, art is about finding patterns in experience, and the viewer’s aesthetic and intellectual enjoyment is derived from recognizing these patterns. I also believe that art is capable of transforming people’s perception of reality and thus raise awareness and consciousness of their life; empowerment comes from the ability to articulate one’s position and make sense of place."

I interviewed Brian yesterday. He tells me, if you can be this small, you can be this tall. It evolved into a very enlightening and moving conversation. If words are riderless, unfurling dream hooks.

Brian and I mine mixed memories about Singapore, Disneyland and art - check it out at we live in a strange world.

Feel him speak.

ST Life! no more: we live in a strange world

2006-11-05T00:38:00.000-08:00

Remember the alternative newspaper I wanted to set up a few months ago? Err, well, I've built on that idea and come up with something else: a website featuring interviews with Singapore artists, and people who provide valuable support to these artists. (for who is to say that publishers, translators and curators aren't artists themselves? Well, I continue this thought - which forms a little blurb - on the actual website.)

It's entitled we live in a strange world, and has a sister website, strange work, that uncovers work by the artists featured on we live in a strange world. The Mentor, Ng Yi-Sheng, has kindly acquiesced to be my first victim. Tired of crappy arts coverage by Life!? Well, I can't say I'll do any better, but I sure hope it's worth checking out:

we live in a strange world
strange work

Spread the love people!

take that, Life!

2006-11-03T19:04:00.000-08:00

hmm well she does seem like a lost sec sch girl doing an amateur review

a friend on Hong Xinyi. hahaha. I happen to miss this friend alot too, who is away in London having fun fun fun (where studying is but an afterthought -insert gratuitious winking sniffing smileys-)

2006-11-03T05:51:00.000-08:00

I could speak to you properly about poems, sex, lies, hellos and colour. We could be casual partners sleeping with randomness we fuck into conversations. Voices running up a cliff of words that begins with everything about beginnings and ends

ends, with something trying to avoid an ending but secretly longing for it. An everything ending, cliffhanger goodbyes.

*

Make me familiar: say lah. Make me familiar lah.

*

When I write poems I want to be selfish. I want to write it for myself, itself - then say, "I write for writing's sake", not feel "I hope I'm not writing to become famous". Guilt-free (self-defeating) chocolate.

If

2006-11-01T07:02:00.000-08:00

If I win awards, I am a true artist. If I dare not die for my craft, is it my craft? If I cannot, should not, must not - and therefore, dare not die. If I fade into wordlessness, am I voiceless? If words can hear, can see, cannot speak. If, word. If I can fade into wordlessness.

If this, if that.

2006-10-29T23:07:00.000-08:00

I feel giddy giddy giddy no psychedlic swirls just black-white giddy, head on a totem pole perilously high and swinging swinging from side to side to side.

In this head there are only an odd number of sides.

Nabakov's introduction to literature

2006-10-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

It seems to me that a good formula to test the quality of a novel is, in the long run, a merging of the precision of poetry and the intuition of science. In order to bask in that magic a wise reader reads the book of genius not with his heart, not so much with his brain, but with his spine. It is there that occurs the telltale tingle even though we must keep a little aloof, a little detached when reading. Then with a pleasure which is both sensual and intellectual we shall watch the artist build his castle of cards and watch the castle of cards become a castle of beautiful steel and glass.

/Vladimir Nabokov, Lectures On Literature

On Alan Hollinghurst

2006-10-24T03:39:00.000-07:00

Hollinghurst's novels leave you empty, drained; a disembodied sense of depression rushing up to meet you in a quiet room filled with the repurcussions of the novel you have just read.

I don't think I can bring myself to read any of his other works; they are terrible beauties that overwhelm my superficial instinct to grope for maudlin victories and happy-ending warranties.

And that is why he is one of my favourite authors; his lines of beauty are far too compelling.

time

2006-10-23T05:08:00.000-07:00

I spent the day reading Alan Hollinghurst's The Line Of Beauty, sketching a few poems and finished one, considering my prospects with an excitement cooled by an acquired, and somewhat unfortunate sense of reality - stumbling onto St. John's College, a liberal arts college spread over two campuses in Annapolis and Santa Fe whose Great Books program is its entire curriculum, deciding that I will do a MFA in Writing...also read an essay on the misconceptions of Asian Tiger Economies' success by Paul Krugman linked to this xenoboysg entry, watched the final episode of Just Cause and a random Pimp My Ride! episode on MTV, ordered my specially engraved iPod at Apple's internet store, doodled vague, almost laughable plans of a writing and research studio on my notebook and played excerpts from the Brokeback Mountain score on the piano.

This is what "ordinary" days should be like when you're nineteen; the transitory period of excited calm before college - mulling each other's futures over coffee in town, reading, writing and prepping for college with a vague sense of purposelessness, having nonsensically indulgent periods where you just watch MTV all day, go on a movie marathon or surf the net until you're bored of it (like myfliendpirray, haha), instead of wasting your days at an office, watching the deadening weight of military bureaucracy settle on your shoulders and whittling down the hours, slowly, painfully, to ORD. And I'm not exclusively levelling this criticism at Singapore.

2006-09-26T07:24:00.000-07:00

This 30GB baby is all mine next month. WOOHOO!

2006-09-19T07:24:00.000-07:00

"That's it," James said, with nodding recognition. "It's cuddling I want really as much as everything else. It'll sound stupid to you, Willy, but over the last few weeks I've just felt...so out of it. I've gone so long without love and I've simply so accustomed to it all, as if that's how life is and evermore shall be - death - horror - amen. It struck me that I've turned into that archetypal middle-class intellectual out of touch with everything just like someone in a Forster novel, and that was eighty years ago...It's all very well being ironic, but then it keeps coming over me that no one wants me, the summer's burning away, and no one makes a move for me, I don't preoccupy anyone..." He wailed a little but was unable to cry.

/ The Swimming Pool Library, Alan Hollinghurst

why gay couples should be allowed to adopt children

2006-09-15T04:38:00.000-07:00

I've been very fascinated with the issue of gay couples adopting children recently, especially after meeting a gay Singaporean couple who actually adopted a child (and an incredibly mischievous one at that, hehehe). In Singapore. Wow. Here are some of my thoughts.

Some (like the anal-retentive NY courts) posit that having gay parents handicap the child(ren) in question because it is seemingly "unnatural" and "abnormal". And even if one were to concede that couples can ultimately fulfill their parental roles regardless of their sexuality, the child might be ostracised from the conservative majority, the inherent social stigmatisation an unfair handicap that might emotionally traumatise the child, and engender feelings of extreme insecurity and hatred (perhaps even for his parents).

While they may be ostensibly separate arguments, I believe they are intertwined. The assumption on which these arguments are predicated on is this vague, yet widely-accepted concept of "normalcy", something which the opponents aforementioned have yet to understand, let alone explain themselves.

So what is "normalcy"? By all accounts, this is widely assumed to be the familial ideal - or at least close to it - a mother, a father, reasonably close extended family, children, siblings, etc. However, this is superficial idealism because it is only concerned with filling in "the slots", "the roles", appropriating security and "normalcy" in numerical and gender establishment, failing to consider the nature of these individuals.

So when we consider the nature of these individuals - their character traits, the surroundings/circumstances in which a family develops, etc. - family dysfunctionalities (or "abnormalities", in keeping with the context) abound, contrary to this flawed concept of "normalcy". For example, parents whose businesses go bust or are retrenched suffer financial ramifications that significantly affect the child and his potential. To a lesser extent, famous celebrity-slash-business-mogul-type parents have children that are abruptly thrown into excessive limelight any "normal" child would be unable to cope with. These parents are all "abnormal" in their own right. Are these "unfavourable" circumstances detrimental to a child's development? Yes. Should we then stop, or disapprove of these parents from procreating/adopting? No.

These "abnormalities" are some of the possible realities that children have to deal with if they are to be born at all. These are not mutually exclusive, or exceptional circumstances - they are very real indeed. Similarly, the stigmatisation that a child adopted by gay parents experiences is one such reality children have to deal with. This stigma, rooted in a society's banal narrow-mindedness and ardent puritanism, is unfair - not only to the children but to the parents - and inevitable.

Some still argue that, unlike gay couples, these parents might not have encountered such issues at the point of conception or adoption, procreating or adopting because the circumstances at that point in time ideally suited the occasion. However, the timeline is irrelevant here - following the logic of this "normalcy" that so many people harp on, it should not only be enforced at the point of conception (that would render "normalcy" a fickle and convenient cover for the opposition), but also throughout the entire lifespan of the child. And that is impossible. It is impossible for a child to grow up in near-perfect circumstances. When we claim that gay parenthood is abnormal, we are holding on to this idea of "normalcy" like a security blanket. To enforce upon others circumstances we are comfortable with, that we have been told to be comfortable with. To Be Normal - what does it mean? Not only deluding ourselves in the security of predictable conventions, but also a penchant for decrying anything outside this deluded realm of "normalcy" - just because it is new, unusual, "abnormal".

So, what is relevant? What would be an accurate benchmark to judge whether gay couples are fit to adopt? The benchmark that would apply to any other couple on the cusp of parenthood. That the parents fulfill their roles - love, nourish and provide for their children - to the best of their abilities. Help them face such dysfunctionalities - be it social stigmatisation or financial insecurity - instead of trying to avoid them from the get-go. Instead of attempting to be "normal" and "perfect", sheltering them from the sometimes harsh, yet unswerving truths of the world. Instead of engendering the same circumstances that created this social stigmatisation in the first place. There is no point in pre-empting and attempting to circumvent such dysfunctionalities - that would be akin to avoiding Life. It would be reasonable to conclude that familial committment and love - regardless of origin - takes arguable precedence over any sort of stigmatisation or dysfunctionality.

Assuming that "normalcy" does exist, another interesting dimension to this argument would be to consider "normalcy" as stifling rather than comforting. Take, for example, a child who finds out he is gay in and despite of the Christian fundamentalist environment he is raised in. Would this not impair the child's ability to cope with his self-recognition, identity and individualism? Would it not engender feelings of self-hatred, self-denial, ostracism and oppression? So, isn't this "normalcy" - the supposedly loving, protective, Godly and ideal Christian environment - alienating, rather than ideal? And if some still posit that homosexuals constitute a defensive minority (clarification: defensive-yes; minority-no), then take any Singaporean child in cloistered middle class/bourgeois environments. One surely cannot deny the proliferation of overprotective parents, especially in increasingly affluent countries. The tendency to overprotect is naturalistic because parents try to shelter their children from the hardships they themselves have experienced, hardships their ancestors have warned them against. Are these children ill-prepared for the world and its attendant realities? Very possibly, considering that they have been sheltered from most of them. When they eventually encounter these realities and are at an understandable loss to deal with them, surely this enforced "normalcy" will come to haunt them instead?

So, having refuted this filmsy, yet sadly entrenched idea of "normalcy", and explaining what should be relevant in any adoption or conception - whether the parents will put in their best efforts to raise their child, regardless of circumstance - I don't believe that there should be any issue, whether in principle or in practice, with gay parents adopting children. QED (heh).

Addenda

a) I would like to assert that some of the opponents to gay couples adopting children are pragmatic liberals who believe that adoption is unfavourable only because of the inherent social stigmatisation they fear a child might be unable to handle. I hope this essay sufficiently deals with their concerns.

b) I would also like to clarify that the "abnormality" or dysfunctionality that children of gay couples deal with is the social stigmatisation, NOT the fact that they are adopted by gay parents. In this essay, societal reaction to children of homosexual parents - rather than the parents' homosexuality itself - is the conundrum.

c) I understand I have not sufficiently addressed the concept of gay couples adopting children in itself i.e. the absence of either a mother or father - is that significant?, etc., but I will have to think and research more about this before I delve into it. However, I do think that the maternal and paternal is metaphorical, a concept that is counterintuitive only because of deeply ingrained paternal and materal stereotypes (i.e. dominant, firm vs. passive, docile). Hence, to cast females as "mothers" and males as "fathers" is simplistic categorisation. Parental characteristics should be considered in a holistic light, shared between both parents rather than delineated according to gender. Moreover, we increasingly see the inversion of parental roles (e.g. the house-husband and the breadwinner mother), revealing parental roles and responsibilities to be more fluid and intertwined than we think.

2006-08-25T05:15:00.000-07:00

Love the city, you say, glass in hand, but does the city love me?

Jeanette Winterson's "Lighthousekeeping" (an extract)

2006-08-20T06:20:00.000-07:00

Tell me a story, Pew.

What kind of story, child?
A story with a happy ending.
There's no such thing in all the world.
As a happy ending?
As an ending.

The Books Meme

2006-08-20T04:58:00.000-07:00

Because Tym still has some leftover schoolmamarish tendencies:

1. One book you have read more than once

Toni Morrison's "Beloved".

2. One book you would want on a desert island

If I can cheat - Alfian Sa'at's script for "Asian Boys Vol. 2".

3. One book that made you laugh

So many Evelyn Waugh books made me laugh; but "The Loved One" was (arguably) the funniest.

Notable mentions include all the medievial texts I read for A level literature - Shakespeare's "Measure For Measure", Chaucer's "The Merchant's Tale" and (especially) Wycherley's "The Country Wife". Ixer made all of them so funny - I miss him.

4. One book that made you cry

Too many books made me cry, but Annie Proulx's "Close Range: Brokeback Mountain and other stories" and Jeanette Winterson's "Written On The Body" take the cake.

Then there are other books that don't make you cry, but leave you with a deep sense of helplessness i.e. all of Sylvia Plath's work, Alice Sebold's "The Lovely Bones" and oddly enough, Audrey Niffenegger's "The Time Traveler's Wife".

5. One book you wish you had written

Alfian Sa'at's "A History Of Amnesia".

6. One book you wish had never been written

All the damn self-help books. Especially the self-righteous self help books.

7. One book you are currently reading

Cyril Wong's "Like A Seed With A Singular Purpose".

"If the life I chose is the life I chose. / If my self is a shadow, at least I made a dent in the light."

8. One book you have been meaning to read

Jeanette Winterson's "Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit". Am I the only one who hasn't read this? Gah.

9. One book that changed your life

Indisputably - Alfian Sa'at's "A History Of Amnesia".

More recently, Andrew Koh's "Glass Cathedral". Flawed in so many ways, but so crystal.

10. Now tag five people:

1. pand3monia
2. naif
3. rainbowsandsunbeams
4. myfliendpirray
5. lastboy2005

(Though none of them will do it, I assure you - I do not have the same student-teacher stranglehold over my friends as Tym sometimes does. Harumph.)

figments

2006-08-15T09:02:00.000-07:00

I tell myself that, tomorrow, the eagerness in my eyes shall mellow - they will linger, they will long.

I would like to giggle like a child and fulfill all the cringeworthy clichés of a diehard romantic before I turn 20 - puppies, chocolate kisses, roses et al - without feeling like I owe it to the world to be much deeper than I really am.

Carol once read this out during school assembly:

some people talk and talk
and never say a thing
some people look at you
and birds begin to sing

Some people laugh and laugh
and yet you want to cry
some people touch your hand
and music fills the sky.

and I want to write it across the sky

strange messages indeed

2006-08-14T07:47:00.000-07:00

Sun, 20 August 2pm:

ART and LIFE: "Singapore Theatre Now"

What is Singapore Theatre? What are the concerns of theatre artists? What are the challenges and new directions? How does the audience feature in the equation? An exciting panel, comprising practitioners and critics will discuss the state of Singapore theatre today.

Moderator: Ivan Heng

Points of View: Dick Lee (Cultural Medallion Winner), Paul Rae (Artistic Director, Spell #7), Dr. K. K. Seet (Academic, Critic), Haresh Sharma (Resident Playwright, The Necessary Stage) Jeffrey Tan (Associate Artistic Director, TheatreWorks), Audrey Wong (Co-Artistic Director, Substation).

*

On an entirely random note (how many times I have said this I really can't bear to count):

Whoa.

2006-08-11T08:26:00.000-07:00

If there is anyone who can still write so beautifully while being so unapologetically angsty.

2006-08-10T05:09:00.000-07:00

“I am a genius of a writer. I have it in me. I am writing the best poems of my life; they will make my name.”

- Sylvia Plath to her mother, Aurelia, in late 1962

In a strange way, it's a very empowering statement. Hmmm.

pardon the melodrama, but -

2006-08-07T06:54:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's because I'm insanely inadequate, but I need to take a break from writing - at least for awhile. I've been trying to churn out one review and/or poem every week; and considering how few hours I have left to myself after subtracting all the time SAF has robbed me of, it's pretty draining. Sometimes, the thrill of writing disappears under the rubble of targets, deadlines and ambitions (and oh, how grandiose they are!), displaced by this creeping sense of dread and reluctance. That scares me. To lose control over one of the things you love most, and let it turn against you. K told me that every writer goes through ebbs and flows, and I suppose I have to "ebb" now if I am ever going to "flow" again.

nice is a negative adjective

2006-07-28T18:52:00.000-07:00

At my funeral, I want people to stand up and go, "She ruined my life; she was mean, bitchy and hypocritical; she was a bisexual slut; she disrespected her father; she was inconsistent and untrustworthy; she had severe mental and emotional issues; she pushed the limits too far; she wanted too much and gave too little; she was too emotional; she was too distant; she was too honest when it didn't count, then lied when it did; she was too sexual; she spent too much; she saved too little; she loved too much and too fiercely; she despised a lot more than the objects of her hatred deserved - but she was the most interesting person I knew. And she was never, ever, *nice*."

/tseng zhi ying

This was published in the 57th issue of the2ndrule, and I think it's LOVELY.

2006-07-22T09:10:00.000-07:00

This is a guy who spouts "pluralistic multi-cultural polity" in one breath.

Q: Are you doing any more theatre with The Necessary Stage?

But I hate the stage. (laugh) I'm not doing theatre anymore. I'm not doing playwriting anymore! (laughs)

I don't like to have so many characters going round in my head. With poetry, I like to get intimate with my audience. I want to have just this sheet of paper between us and what is read. If you do theatre, the script goes to the directors, actors and the ideas get re-imagined, negotiated, and reconfigured. What gets on stage might not be exactly your original vision.

Catch Alfian Sa'at's play, "Homesick", at The NLB Drama Centre. It runs from 2 August to 5 August. Not To Be Missed.

Hehe.

2006-07-21T19:02:00.000-07:00

Fuck larh, my tuition charge is ridiculously remiss about time, dates and paying his fees and a) I can't possibly submit to his every whim and fancy because I'm running a tight schedule, and b) I NEED THE MOOLAH. On time.

And here I am, printing page after page of notes, struggling to read his essay and an Economist article I want to discuss with him today -

and he cancels on me (despite my repeated sms reminders yesterday) because

he forgot and he's running errands with his mother.

2006-07-19T05:38:00.000-07:00

She's back!

you can't handle the truth! part 2

2006-07-09T02:17:00.000-07:00

Can the police accost people just because they are hanging around, catching up, talking shop and doing absolutely nothing extraordinary?

Apparently so, in this fascist state which has not even bothered to create an illusion of openness these past few months.

First the farcical election of 2006 - the mudslinging, facetious ban on podcasting, James Gomez, MM Lee's dismissal of the "radicalised English-educated young" (a sloppy categorisation and stereotyping of Singaporeans who happen to be thinkers, which the Friendly Necrophiliacs In White are uncomfortable with).

Second the PM's blatant displeasure with Australia's political system (well, the point of democracy is clearly better illustrated in Australia's more open two-party system than in Singapore's, so his comments reek of cruel irony, but I digress).

Third the brutal axing of Mr. Brown's column.

And now, fourth. The police intimidating people who have neither committed any crime nor created any disturbance. Taking down our particulars, interrogating us away from the crowd.

My encounter with the police was brief, slightly amusing (well, in retrospect it was) and disturbing. It shook me that the Powers To Be are so ruthlessly intent on snuffing out disagreeable opposition - opposition that doesn't play the game according to the incumbent's rules.

This culture of fear and repression so craftily engendered by the Powers To Be will be the downfall of this nation. ZX says that most Singaporeans live in a parallel universe - but for how long? For how long can we continue deluding ourselves into this false sense of security, this false Paradise that does not even question the idea of Paradise?

What has really changed in ten years plus of Singapore's progress? What has changed? Nothing. Simply nothing.

As xenoboy said, it is always four minutes to midnight in Singapore. But there will come a point where no one - not even the Powers To Be - can stop the clock from striking midnight, and we will not be ready for it.

The Straitjacket Times No More (part 2)

2006-07-08T18:15:00.000-07:00

okay, I just scrolled down my blog page and saw twenty-one! TWENTY-ONE! comments on my previous alt-newspaper proposal.

Thank you so much, I would appreciate ALL contributions.

I will put up more details very soon, watch this space.

you can't handle the truth!

2006-07-07T12:08:00.000-07:00

What is wrong with this country?

Everything.

2006-07-04T08:36:00.000-07:00

I've been afflicted by a very nasty strain of flu, and am palpably annoyed that I've lost my lifesaving packet of Clarinase tablets. I hope imbibling Panadol pills will do the trick, since I refuse to take any of the other haphazardly dispensed, oddly shaped and Very Suspect polyclinic meds.

Meanwhile, I could work on Yish's assignment and recreate Plath's Fever 103 (given the circumstances, this shouldn't be too hard), but I'm too lazy and annoyed to do anything productive.

Which means I'm quite magnificently screwed. Sniffles.

2006-07-03T07:13:00.000-07:00

Today is Trash.

The alliteration is there for a reason.

2006-06-21T08:23:00.000-07:00

I was flipping through the channels, and there was this subtitle to a channel 8 drama that caught my eye:

“I wish I could cry…but I cannot, because I’m a man.” (emphasis strangemessages’)

Well, then - fuck you, and sod off.

That was oddly cathartic.

love is the great equaliser

2006-06-19T07:04:00.000-07:00

You said, "I love you." Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear? "I love you" is always a quotation. You did not say it first and neither did I, yet when you say it and when I say it we speak like savages who have found three words and worship them. I did worship them but now I am alone on a rock hewn out of my own body.

/ Jeanette Winterson, Written On The Body

The Tabloid Times no more?

2006-06-17T08:26:00.000-07:00

I've been toying with the idea of creating a weekly online alternative to The Straitjacket Times; a compilation of links to political commentators, columnists, authentic news sources (both Singaporean and international), etc. that covers anything a newspaper might cover. But I need people to collaborate with on the project, because there's quite alot of work to do. So here's a valiant shout-out to anyone who's interested. My e-mail address is on the sidebar; alternatively, you can leave a comment.

Ooh, we could dedicate a special column to spoof the ST weekly (if they piss us off every week, which is more than likely) too! Tantalising, innit.

the Emo post

2006-06-16T09:04:00.000-07:00

This is a land of broken hearts and false promises, but what is there to do, but to go on?

But then, when Time stills, when it slows, its disconcerting effects ripple in our restless minds, our uneasy hearts, our silhouetted dreams. Especially when we perceive movement elsewhere, and the opportunity for us, for me, to participate in this movement.

/ xenoboysg, the political savant

Once Upon A Time

2006-06-15T07:09:00.000-07:00

"Repression, Sir is a habit that grows. I am told it is like making love - it is always easier the second time! The first time there may be pangs of conscience, a sense of guilt. But once embarked on this course with constant repetition you get more and more brazen in the attack. All you have to do is to dissolve organizations and societies and banish and detain the key political workers in these societies. Then miraculously everything is tranquil on the surface. Then an intimidated press and the government-controlled radio together can regularly sing your praises, and slowly and steadily the people are made to forget the evil things that have already been done, or if these things are referred to again they're conveniently distorted and distorted with impunity, because there will be no opposition to contradict."

/ Lee Kuan Yew as an opposition PAP member speaking to David Marshall, Singapore Legislative Assembly, Debates, 4 October, 1956

This is irony, Sir, at its savage best.

of friends (or the lack thereof) and such

2006-06-04T05:46:00.000-07:00

I'm scrolling through my cell phone contacts, and tis' depressing because there is only ONE person in there that I can send the random "hey, wanna play abit of squash/catch a movie/go to so-and-so play/etc. and lunch tomorrow?" message without sending Very Odd Vibes and/or getting rejected because contact is either a teacher, passing acquaintance, a friend who you haven't seen in ages, or people who have schedules booked from weekend to weekend because of the odd girlfriend/boyfriend, time-sapping internships/army duties/other committments; because they're so damn popular - or because he's simply Alfian Sa'at. (trudy: what a crap load of slashes)

Je suis bien triste.

This brings up two possible conclusions; a) the fact that if I met myself from the outside I probably wouldn't like me very much, or b) the fact that I'm an okay person but my timing just sucks.

stercus, stercus, etc.

2006-06-02T08:46:00.000-07:00

I've been subsumed into the tuition culture, let's see how this goes.

My first subject is a boy who wrote about Superman in his first GP essay, which was very impressive and unique, except for the small, insignificant fact that said essay was to be about poverty.

Poor thing.

In retrospect, I am hardly giving tuition, because tuition = instruction with a fee, and the "fee" we're talking about begins with a very small f because it's pittance. And why, you might ask, is it pittance? Apparently said poor sod blows over five hundred dollars per month on other assorted tuition lessons; and since I'm the sympathetic sort of person (let me here y'all snort rudely here)...stercus, stercus, etc. ~~Poor me.~~

Well, for the benefit of those Not In The Know, my parents have decided to purchase a cable subscription (and I get oodles of grand slam coverage, tennis + amos 1 world cup 0); and in exchange for cable TV, I will have to attend church every Sunday, something I stopped doing a few months ago because I see no point in making snarky comments about badly-dressed people, off-key worship leaders and sermons punctuated with ill-timed bad jokes that invites minimum laughter and maximum cringeing slash WTFness for two hours to a very indignant mother. But said pittance triumphantly allays cable TV cost (and then some, although, again, "some" begins with a very small s here), so I am relieved of this sleep-sapping duty, Praise Be.

2006-05-28T06:28:00.000-07:00

There is a particular Mr. Brian Gothong Tan y'all ought to check out.

Pretty. amazing. stuff.

Once More, With Feeling

2006-05-27T00:41:00.000-07:00

amos says:

let's play a game of splong!

amos says:

Sylvia Plath wants to know what you would say to her if you meet her.

Vignesh says:

Hi Sylvia

Vignesh says:

Howz the Oven?

amos says:

to Hsien Loong?

Vignesh says:

Je ne pense pas, donc je suis. I misquote Descartes.

amos says:

to your future sergeants?

Vignesh says:

Be wary of my rifle

Vignesh says:

But don't dodge the bullet.

amos says:

TEN things you would say to your sister.

Vignesh says:

I will shoot you at the count of ten. One, two, ten.

Vignesh says:

I see violence is a running theme tonight

amos says:

The homophobes want to know what you would say to them if you meet them.

Vignesh says:

Hydrophobes failed to evolve. For your fate, refer to last sentence.

amos says:

The new chief justice wants to know what you would say to him if you meet him.

Vignesh says:

What can I say to this new CJ? "May you outbias your successor, and exact much glee from it."

amos says:

to the producers of Survivor?

Vignesh says:
Count your cash, deposit it, and close the account.
amos says:

if a PAP MP walked up to you, what would you say?

Vignesh says:

Excuse me sir, you're blocking my view of the rubbish dump.

*

Haha, he's coming back on 21 June. In the spirit of all things melodramatic - there is hope yet for this world!

Vignesh says:

i dont want to drive in Singapore

Vignesh says:

first, i am used to left hand driving in states

Vignesh says:

second, if i kill a pedestrian in singapore while driving, i may not regret my error.

2006-05-24T06:17:00.000-07:00

Vignesh says:

forgot to say

Vignesh says:

i got to register ONLINE for my medical check up for NS yday!

amos says:

did you have FUN!

Vignesh says:

they even promised to punish me if i didnt by the end of the month

Vignesh says:

i kid u not

Vignesh says:

everything has a punishment

Vignesh says:

it was A LOT OF FUN

Vignesh says:

it took 1 freaking hour

Vignesh says:

they had 8 steps before i could get a medical test date

amos says:

brings back sweet memories.

Vignesh says:

i have to go down to CMPB and meet with the commander directly

Vignesh says:

and they wanted to know all sorts of stupid things

Vignesh says:

like my head circumference

Vignesh says:

and whether my parents r in gov't or private sector

amos says:

tell them they work in outerspace.

Vignesh says:

i got so sick of them by the time i got to Sibling Info, i said "no siblings"

Vignesh says:

later on, they said "if you feed us misinformation, we will indict you"

Vignesh says:

so i had to go back

Vignesh says:

and claim the existence of my sister

If you plan to watch The Da Vinci Code,

2006-05-20T00:36:00.000-07:00

why bother?

And I say this not in a how-DARE-you-call-Christianity-a-conspiracy! way, but in a how-DARE-you-watch-a-bad-movie! way.

In other (more-deserving-of-hype) news, The New York Times has found the greatest work of American fiction (and a few darn good honourary mentions) in the last twenty-five years.

Can't say I disagree.

(The Long Overdue) Travelogue: Batam

2006-05-19T05:49:00.000-07:00

Frankly, going into the Batam slum area and the red-light district didn't profoundly affect me, because a) most of the chi ko peh customers had already disappeared with their human loot (the local guides tell us that all, uhh, transactions are complete by 8 p.m., a chronic case of Singaporean kiasuism overkill), so there's not much "action" left and b) with all that talk about Batam's utter sordidness, I was expecting to see the most deplorable of images.

No doubt, the problem of women trafficking/prostitution is inherent, but Batam was more charming little town than seedy underbelly. The community's great eagerness to modernize engenders a really charming sort of small-town schizophrenia; dusty back alleys turning into well-paved, well-lit roads, the architectural landscape of attap huts and vendors selling musty bottles of Coke from makeshift carts suddenly interrupted by spanking new office/hotel buildings and hypermarts. When we visited its industrial park, it almost seemed as if we turned into industrial Singapore - the factories were neat little buildings with "ASAHI", "PHILIPS" and "PANASONIC" emblazened across them, and evenly spread out along well-kept streets.

And the people were as charming as the town. The receptionist at the hotel was a shy giggly lady who accidentally gave me a Deluxe suite; the guides from the Indonesian NGO YMKK giggled (yes, they all giggle in the most charming way), rapidly hand-signed and strung bits of broken English and Bahasa Indonesia that miraculously made sense; the doctor who met us at a (sadly) defunct women clinic was jumping up and down on his seat à la Tom Cruise, expressing a really intense passion to learn how to curb AIDS from his Singaporean counterparts; and two indistinct figures quite far out from shore fishing with a huge net waved at us as we departed for Singapore on ferry.

And yes, we didn't see much "action", but the trails of it that we did see showed why Batam's seediness often overshadows its charm. We went to this discotheque named, uhh, "NONAME", where girls - some evidently younger than 18 - desperately tried to play it cool in their uncomfortable mini-skirts as they entertained their customers (many of them who, very foolishly, still had their wedding bands on). I was informed by more happening volunteers that it was like Zouk - or more accurately, Zouk with a sordid twist. The shabbier red-light district of the slum areas were not necessarily seedier, but there was something more striking and oppressive and desperate about it all. Girls loitering at the entrances of dim, derelict "cafés" and brothels, their faces cast in a red undulating light, all seemed so much more lost, limp and frail, vis à vis their "upmarket" counterparts. And there were more of them here than in NONAME that were visibly younger than 18, with no heavy cosmetics to hide behind.

So it was great to see, when meeting the other NGOs (Singaporean and Indonesian) the next day, that the battle against women trafficking and prostitution has become a a much a part of Batam's identity as the trafficking and prostitution have been. havegun & co. (we're working with YMKK, the Indonesian NGO I mentioned earlier) are organising an Anti-Child Trafficking Day for the community in December, and while it has really been exciting to toss ideas about for the campaign (so far, we have poster-drawing, poetry-writing and kite-flying events, as well as a a bazaar lined up), my single biggest fear is that we are going to run the entire event in Bahasa Indonesia, which can be thoroughly traumatising if you don't speak the language. Gulps.

Anyway, there isn't really much to see in Batam if you plan to skim over the town in a brief one day trip; it's really an acquired taste - you would really have to explore the nooks and crannies to really soak up its charm, and even take in its sordid nightlife reality to get a full measure of the town.

Poetry Feature: Tsjeng Zhi Ying

2006-05-18T06:19:00.000-07:00

I actually wanted to feature two poems here, but I decided that each should have a little "moment" on this space (since they're both so damn good), so I will post the other one later. In the meantime, you can check out the Quarterly Literary Review Singapore and guess which was the other one I picked, haha.

Let Me Love You

(For D.)

Let me love you, the bad
with the good, indiscriminately. Panting,
I slide my fingers under your lovely skin,
I want to eat your terrible sadness
like a magpie swallowing a spoon,
my belly rubbed raw by your edges.
God give me love for the parts that flare
and send my terrified heart wheeling to
some hidden hole; courage to find you
amidst the wreckage of myself;
let me love you, my long shadow loitering
around your rational heart, damn logic!
Damn your fool, fool heart, let me eat
your doubt whole, let me rip your hair
strangle your teeth, let me, let me,
let me in, let me love you.

/tsjeng zhi ying

*

Zhi Ying actually performed this at last year's Glossolalia - so for all those people who didn't come, well, your bad. In a strange way, it reminds me of Judith Huang's One Day I will Find You.

Vamos, Rafa

2006-05-14T10:28:00.000-07:00

Rafael Nadal has now equaled Guillermo Vilas' record for the number of consecutive claycourt wins with a deserved and battling win over Roger Federer in the Rome Masters final. It wasn't so much as a historic moment (he would have racked up 53 cosecutive wins and tie Vilas' all-time record) as it was a moment of greatness for Nadal. He's just a year older than me, probably having to balance studies and a tight tournament schedule, and, like any other kid, was tickled and thrilled when he finally got his driver's license.

B ut he displays the fighting qualities not of a potentially great player, but a legend. He defeated Roger Federer for the fifth time in six attempts 6-7 (0), 7-6 (5), 6-4, 2-6, 7-6 (5 ), overcoming fatigue (the match was over five hours), a first set tiebreaker whitewash, a fourth set collapse, an early break of serve in the deciding set, wasted opportunities that could have been heartbreaking (the last time I counted, he had Federer's serve on the ropes about 5 or 6 times in the fifth set, but failed to convert), two matchpoints AND came from 3-5 down in the championships-deciding tiebreak to win. (Pardon the jargon, but I hope you sense the excitement brimming from the lines, and will consequentially be encouraged to follow the sport.)

And the best part about Nadal is that he's a great, really unassuming guy, who is probably giving Federer due praise without a moment's askance. It doesn't hurt that he's very charming, stringing together broken English and fluent Spanish in interviews, dismissing claims to greatness and displaying a will to concentrate on what matters - the win, not the record. So much has been said about how he would and should surpass Vilas' record that you did think any other person in the same situation would crack under the pressure; let alone Nadal, a coming-of-age, relatively inexperienced (relative to the old fogeys Federer, Roddick, Henman, Hewitt and Nalbandian) tennis player suddenly thrust into the limelight about a year or two ago. Kudos to Nadal, he really deserved this.

I'm tired, but happy. I'll do a write-up on the Batam trip tomorrow.

We Real Cool

2006-05-13T20:02:00.000-07:00

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

/ Gwendolyn Brooks

Much Wotness

2006-05-11T21:10:00.000-07:00

Hmmm.

HMMM.

post-election thoughts

2006-05-07T04:44:00.000-07:00

a.k.a. The Amazing Race To Upgrading, Dude, Where's My Form? or Sue Me If You Can.

...after his party made enough hilariously outraged and, dare I say, rude comments about James Gomez (and subsequently Low Thia Kiang, and subsequently the WP, and subsequently the entire opposition) to fill 6 pages of ST's Home section every day for a week.

Of course, if you flipped through the Home section the same day that the above headlined The Straits Times, LKY & co. were bringing a virtuous PAP is best after all xoxoxo close to the James Gomez saga.

I get the Good Progress tactic, the (dirty) constituency-who-gives-us-the-strongest-mandate-
will-be-upgraded-first tactic, and even the rehearsed-insults-at-PAP-rallies tactic -

but clearly, this was baffling.

Nevertherless, being obedient Singaporeans, we thank Khaw Boon Wan for the ~~extraneous~~ information, and shall tirelessly aspire to meet the standards set by this paragon of cleanliness, hygiene and, dare I say, sterility.

The Very Same Obedient Singaporeans rushing to attend (dare I say, opposition) rallies promptly forget even the most basic of traffic rules when they navigate overcrowded HDB carparks (ooh, did I just pick up on another potentially juicy electoral issue? Nevertherless, I digress).

Very New York, I like.

Although, evidently (and unfortunately), these people did not read Tym's guide to surviving rallies. Uninformed, as always.

kudos to alf (although he must realise, that in any other circumstance, this would have been unacceptable, because he would have been (very inappropriately) deemed a (very insane) fanboy of Plath); though I would have made "We Hate You, Irene" and "WTF are you doing, Eunice?!??!!?" signs to colour our political banners scene.

Again, like all obedient Singaporeans, we must tell ourselves that the Good Progress Package had nothing to do with the elections, and should look forward to receiving More Good Progress Package next year.

However, certain Singaporeans have obviously stretched this logic to the limit - one even named his company (very appropriately located beside the Tampines Town Council building) in a way which ~~guilt trips~~ reminds the ~~PAP~~ government to disburse the Forever Good Progress Package, well, forever.

Tennis 101

2006-05-05T07:12:00.000-07:00

Q.: Why should we believe that you'll be back to where you were?

VENUS WILLIAMS: Well, I think that at the end of the day, I don't care if you believe or anyone else believes in here, because it's me. So believe what you want to. There's always going to be naysayers. You may be one of them, I don't know. Guess what, I don't care.

contextualising Harry Potter

2006-05-01T05:07:00.000-07:00

Privet Drive.

Hogwarts Express.

Hogwarts*.

Butterbeer.

Quidditch**.

~~The Tabloid Times~~ The Daily Prophet.

Rita Skeeter.

Minister Of Magic, Cornelius Fudge.

*

Now, how about a game of splong!

Aurors or, dare I say, Death Eaters?

Draco Malfoy or, dare I say, Harry Potter?

Professor Dumbledore or, dare I say, ~~Lord Voldermort~~ He Who Must Not Be Named?

Here's a toughie:

Crabbe or Doyle?

Good night, and good luck.

*okay lah, I know vely the biased lah.
**yes, we are pathetic that way. You forget, tis' a sorry country we live in.

2006-04-30T03:47:00.000-07:00

The last time I counted, we had -

4 Cadbury bars, 3 1/4 Swiss Delice bars, 2 Almond Gold bars, 1 box of Guylian chocolates and a bag of Toggi chocolate biscuits.

Tis' amazing, the chocolate whores we are.

Jon Stewart, funniest smart man, a.k.a smartest funny man

2006-04-29T09:26:00.000-07:00

This is Major Pwnage Indeed.

I don't know which is sadder; that those poor Hollywood sods didn't really get his jokes (and consequently gave him an unnecessarily hard time) during Oscar night, or that he chose to host it, because he's surely better than that.

In other political news...

2006-04-28T10:00:00.000-07:00

The opposition leaders have claimed that they want to "wire up the entire Tampines with (internet) access" and "create the next suntec".

How very...touching.

Liddat vote simi vote?

PAP encounter...zzzt, splat.

2006-04-27T07:05:00.001-07:00

earlier, 4:32p.m.

me to alfian: Today our unit had fire drill! It was a most exciting time for all trainees. We all streamed happily down the stairs, deliriously screaming "Fire! Fire!" until we fell over each other, giggling. The CO (i.e. commanding officer, i.e. the person-in-charge of the whole damn camp) strode round importantly, asking irreverent questions, "What are the elements of fire?" "What does a fire extinguisher do?" that would have otherwise been met with the usual "cheebye"s and "fuck you"s in the inconceivable event of a real fire. At the end of the day, it turned out to be a smashing event after all!

later, while poor family trying desperately to mind our own business, gobble dinner down as quickly as possible and escape the White Brigade:

me to alfian: ooh! Irene Ng(?) and her all-white entourage are at my block...on an Isuzu pickup. And they're approaching the kopitiam we're in. What should I tell them? That we love a no-contest? ZOMG they're coming to our table. Help help!

alfian: Quick quick, shout "fire! fire!"; use your fire drill knowledge!

And so...my first encounter with 'dem white bunnies. The Signs Were All There. I Should Have Known. Doing a Spy Games Thriller flashback so oft-used nowadays, the entire PAP entourage had apparently visited our flat two days ago, and left a "oh, we're sorry you weren't there! I'm sure you would have loved to meet us. If you have any questions, call....love, Yatiman Yusof(?) And Co." note at our gate. Today, when I walked out of the MRT station, the first thing I saw was a PAP Banner. When I turned a corner, the first thing I saw was a PAP Banner. When I walked up the overhead bridge, the first lamp post I saw was covered by a PAP Banner. When I squashed the impulse to jaywalk and patiently and obediently waited for the red-man to turn into the green-man, the first thing I saw was a -- you get the idea. Woe Is Me.

So, The Parentals were scalding their tongues/throats trying to drain their kopi-os and wtf! charge! escape! run for your lives and avoid A Scene!...but well, we were Too Late. Having kopi-O today was a deadly move. Such Is Life.

So, some ~~sycophantic MP accomplice~~ lady snuck up on us all, and said very grandly,

"These are the PAP candidates."

Oh no, they're just our motherland's variants of the Nazis, waiting to exterminate the kopitiam with special lightning bolt devices (I mean, there has to be some reason for the PAP logo) hidden somewhere deep in that elongated white sacks they wear.

My mum gave a, dare I say, wtf-smile, and said, "yeah, we follow the elections on TV."

Well, I couldn't resist my "No shit, we all love following a no-contest, don't we?" riposte, thinking that these white bunnies would thus label us as Ungrateful Excreta and leave us, forever and ever, alone in blissful peace with our cursed kopi-Os. But noooooo, they wouldn't take "no" for an answer unless it was flatly signed, sealed and delivered to their faces, lightning bolt and all.

Then when we thought we had averted disaster, female MP bunny (and her surrounding nameless faceless Sea Of White) sidled up to us with awww-look-at-us-dressed-in-our-ickledoo-white-get-up-

don't-we-look-pweeetty! smile plastered all over her face.

female MP bunny (giving deep satisfactory sigh, assuming that we were PAP fanboys and girls):

"Thank you for your support."

It was a tremendous challenge for me, but I kept As Mute As A Mouse, As Dumb As A Doorpost, As Silent As A Lam-- you get the picture.

The Parentals laughed nervously, bearing the hefty burden that is The Painful Truth, i.e. that they had spoilt every single ballot that they ever touched either out of a) A Carelessness That Miraculously Afflicts All Apathetic Souls On Election Day, or, dare I say, b) wilful negligence.

Female MP bunny decided that we had to earn our peace, and went on,

"Oh, are you from junior college? (I was wearing my VJ PE-shirt) How old are you?"

"18." Forced Smile. Shook Hand.

But still, she felt that it wasn't an appropriate coda to The Conversation and stood there. And smiled. And smiled. And filled our entire sphere with smiles. Which we radiantly returned, like we were all sipping Happy Fuel just an hour ago and it was finally kicking in.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, you decide), I felt that if we smiled any longer we would erupt into little jigs, thus,

"Uhrm, I'm sorry but we can't talk anymore. I've got to go home, remember? The 11p.m. curfew? The one you so lovingly bestowed upon us? Yes, buh-bye!"

Smiles disappeared. Cold War began. They left us. We drank the now-cold Kopi-O. Left to buy groceries. Went home.

Looks like someone isn't going to be incepted into the PAP circle anytime soon. Again, Such Is Life.

Child

2006-04-21T22:55:00.000-07:00

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new

Whose names you meditate ---
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.

/Sylvia Plath

The Semantics Of Singlish (with apologies to Alfian Sa'at)

2006-04-18T05:47:00.000-07:00

"Singlish, we agreed, was more successfully employed in drama, rather than either poetry or prose, because the performance acts as a mediating agent--firstly the actor functions to verbalise the various micro-inflections in Singlish that would escape transcription, secondly a performance helps to supplement meanings through non-verbal communication, and thirdly the presence (and responses) of an audience assist in establishing a communal base for interpreting Singlish, thus alleviating some of the more hermetic effects of individual reader-reception."

/Alfian Sa'at in Naif's Journal

Alamak! Like that so cheem normal Singapoleans how to understand siah. Just say Singlish don't say out then not as much meaning lor. Plus when you say out hor, you got body language at the same time wad! For example, "This guy damn suay" - when you write it like that, nobody know that when you say "suay", you stretch out "suaaaay" like you damn frustrated for him liddat, and then sometimes some more got slap forehead one. So you write it not as good as speaking it out wad. Then also must depend on who you say to rite. If all the audience like limpeh all the English rojak rojak one hor, then power! Everyone is understanding what each other is saying, nobody need to ask in awkward ang moh manner, "Wot is 'lah'?"

Just my, ahem, two cents' worth.

Procrastinators Unite...Tomorrow.

2006-04-17T06:38:00.000-07:00

So, I have:

1. to write a passionate cover letter to the Chicago admissions board proving my wonderfulness,
2. write-ups to do for the essays I'm sending in to Chicago,
3. a NAC scholarship app to mull over,
4. finish some very long-overdue readings,
5. prep for my interview,
6. poems to sketch and finish, and even
7. a Drastic Plan to draw up, which would ideally convince The Superiors to let me take an hour off so I can rush down to catch the IP kids in action on Friday,

but what am I doing?

Re-reading First Term At Malory Towers, eating some very tasty snacks, waiting for Desperate Housewives to come on and blogging.

You did think I should be a wee bit more urgent about these sort of things, rather than sitting on them (~~and fretting about them the very next day during training and annoying people~~). My plan to factor in some good (quality debatable) ole' reality TV and Enid Blyton into the schedule has overthrown The Schedule itself. I am doomed. Doomed.

pretty please!

2006-04-16T06:30:00.000-07:00

The television forum with Lee Kuan Yew is being aired for the umpteenth time on CNA, and is getting very annoying. I get that throwing a group of oh-we-are-so-not-apathetic youths clamouring for opposition ~~against~~ together with the exulted, admired, revered and worshipped MM Lee on national TV is one huge political orgasm for ~~the PAP~~ Singapore viewers, but it gets very trying after the 5th re-broadcast of the same damn thing, so give me back my re-runs of Japan Hour and 20/20, please.

A Good Friday

2006-04-16T03:17:00.000-07:00

Well, The Cousins suddenly decided to hightail it to East Coast Park, and I groggily murmured assent at about 9 in the morning. I was led to believe that we would take one of 'dem good ole' bikes ~~rented out at exorbitant rates~~ and cycle to the ends of the park, but was successfully goaded into donning rollerblades for the very first time, with, uhh, mixed results.

Two of The Cousins are married, and these are their two ickly-little-doo babettes. So adorable, although babette on the right looks indignant that I took a photo of her in her nightie.

Will we have a third? These two are getting married in October, and I have been co-erced by The Aunts into playing the piano at the wedding. Me, who has barely touched the piano in months; me, who considered piano lessons strenuous; me, who was so glad to have ~~passed~~ scraped through the Grade 8 examinations because I would not be obligated to bang out exam piece after exam piece on the piano any longer - called to play in front of a crowd of a hundred (at least) during what is to be one of their Most Memorable Moments In Life.

Uh-oh.

But I digress. So, roller-blading wasn't exactly a disaster, eventhough I spent the first half-hour walking (very painfully) in the rollerblades on grass, too scared to venture onto the road. But when I finally did, I only fell total of three times, and pre-empted probably a dozen other falls, but that doesn't matter, harumph.

I managed to reach the photographed lamp post from the little stretch of road leading to the carpark without any assistance. I also managed to take photos on rollerblades, cuddle the babettes, hold proper conversations without flailing my hands, and even glided for a few seconds (that's the whole point of rollerblading, actually), but mostly half-walked-half-slid throughout the entire experience.

And contrary to the common Singaporean sensibility, maids in our household actually do have fun with the family at the Park. They don't just look after screaming babies, feed screaming babies, rock screaming babies to sleep, push prams with screaming babies, change screaming babies' diapers, clear up dog poo, and provide logistical support for the picnic. They actually. have. fun.

This one tried the blades, but got traumatised after awhile. ~~Maybe we shouldn't have led her out of her comfort zone.~~

Well, the erratic weather very inconveniently ~~pang-sehed~~ turned against us. So we cut short the Debacle On Blades and got some lunch at Parkway Parade's Sakae Sushi joint. I resented the fact that we had to order through computer monitors! You might think I vely the old-fashioned lor, but I like my properly-dressed, polite, unobtrusively-recommending-something-from-the-menu waiters/waitresses, thankyouverymuch. The food was nothing to wow about, except its lip-smacking brick of melt-in-your-mouth tofu, which deserves special commendation here.

I've also decided that One Of The Things I Would Do Once I Retire would be to own a wine bar, even if it was just because I love the glossy colour of neatly-arranged wine/champagne/liquor bottles and rich mahogany shelves, ~~and eventhough I don't drink.~~

And I found a durable (debatable, considering that I have only had it for two days) pair of earphones to accompany my otherwise useless mp3 player. Yay!

Back To School - The Sequel

2006-04-15T03:25:00.000-07:00

Yay.

The stone tables looking rather empty, since its Sports Day. ~~A51 must have already sneaked home.~~

Harris' work-table. Being the King Of The Technophobes that he is, he is not easily contactable. However, as the years go by, VJC students have devised the quintessential Guide To Identifying Whether He Is Present or Absent:

1. observation: Marks And Spencer plastic bag brimming with sheafs of crumpled papers, worksheets, notes and scripts, with a empty/half-drunk glass of Teh-O/Kopi-O beside it.

deduction: tottering somewhere about, either teaching or avoiding people.

reliable?: very.

2. observation: Suspicious black duffel bag lying, open, on the stone table.

deduction: present, see deduction no. 1.

reliable?: Much more reliable if books are strewn around the bag.

3. observation: many bicycles parked at stone tables.

deduction: might be present, see deduction no. 1.

reliable?: only if he a) cycled to work today, and b) that one of the many bicycles is his.

4. observation: Cleared/clean stone table.

deduction: You're out of luck matey, he's absent.

reliable?: highly; although he might have, on a rare occasion or two, lugged his entire Marks & Spencers bag/black duffel bag to a lecture.

5. observation: Checking with long-suffering, overworked Mr. Dominic Chua, who shares a workstation with Harris and Ixer, and receiving this in reply:

"His table looks as if it is cleared. He might have gone home, but you never really know with those two." proceeds to laugh rather exasperatedly.

deduction: absent.

reliable: highly, but then again, you can never really tell with those two.

Where I want to work. People (more specifically, The Parentals, assorted family members, several platoon mates, teachers and friends) must think I'm whacked. Especially the girl who got bored 20 minutes into The Job and subsequently requested to attend Ixer's lessons.

conversations:

Ixer: There was a very strange scene in the general office today. Apparently, this girl’s aunt was dying, and her mum called to tell the school to let her off so she could rush down to the hospital. And Jancy, who was answering the call, was in such a rush that she told the girl, “Your aunt dying! Okay can go now. Go.” in such a hurried manner, proceeded to call the security guards and tell them, “This girl’s aunt dying. Let her go.” and told the girl again, “you can go now.”

Harris: I bet you it’s FAKE. A fake excuse to get out of Sports Day!

Ho: What!

Harris: Yes, if her aunt were dying on some other normal school day, I would have believed it. But it’s too much of a coincidence for her aunt to be dying on Sports Day itself.

Ho: But people don’t choose when to die!

Harris: No. I don’t, for a moment, believe a word of it. Here’s the master-stroke: If it were her parents, the school would have to have followed up. But the Aunt is a near-enough – yet not too close – relation for her to get away with it.

Ixer (chortling): Well, you can go ask her for her aunt’s death certificate if you want.

Harris to Ixer: I’ll appear at the stands for five minutes, say, “What a lovely Sports Day!” and “oh, so-and-so – I’ll be sure to use some nice Christian name – did so well in running!”, and then we shall leave, shall we?

Me: You could use "Tangent".

Harris: YEAH! (mimicking Lady Circumference) “It’s maddenin’ Tangent dyin’!”

Back To School

2006-04-14T21:33:00.001-07:00

Went back to school to deliver to Harris ~~a long, torrid love letter~~ a request for a referral, in the vain hope that I might be bumped to the top of the University Of Chicago waitlist.

Just the simple idea of the apple, now eaten, is utter brilliance.

Hear, hear.

Yay for arts, but the 'artery' pun recalls not-so-fond memories of the blood-squirting sheep's heart I probed in bio lesson last year.

The infamous indiscreet just-next-to-VJC whorehouse, veiled by a thick, dark shroud of green. How very Measure For Measure. The study group used to finish at 7, and when we were walking towards the bus stop, we would always see, uhh, bouncy girls - stilettos clicking, handbags swinging, ~~skirts dropping~~ - strutting up the overhead bridge.

I bet Harris and Ixer didn't know that Joo Chiat was literally in their backyard.

The Mystery Series

2006-04-12T01:40:00.000-07:00

My satisfyingly almost-complete Enid Blyton Mystery Series collection, which has all but "The Mystery Of The Burnt Cottage" and "The Mystery Of The Secret Room".

This space was named after:

(which is also the Best Book Of The Series, imo, despite certain indulgent qualities (Fatty moralising about lying not once, but twice!) and the slight lack of food, a hallmark of all Enid Blyton books, especially in The Mystery Series)

Best Food:

There were macaroons, ginger beer, chocolate biscuits, and a smashing tea at Pip's, which also included potted meat biscuits for Buster! And the requisite number of trips to the dairy for ice-creams.

It's also the cosiest mystery - the mystery literally happened in the Pip's neighbour's backyard.

Best whodunnit:

I couldn't really decide between The Mystery Of Banshee Towers and The Mystery Of The Pantomime Cat. Both were planned really carefully and slickly, and I couldn't really tell what would happen, except the routine "We met Superintendent Jenks and Fatty explained the entire mystery!/It was a smashing summer after all!" ending.

And it is here I conclude my solipsistic ramblings about, ahem, Enid Blyton.