the view from here

2011-01-27T18:43:00.007+08:00

The MicroEarth Initiative

The problem with us these days is not that we miss the forest for the trees, but that we miss the trees for the forest.

You would no doubt have come across the shrinking earth theory during your travels through the cyberspace, and would've likely balked at its geological inaccuracy. Everyone knows that mountains don't occur spontaneously due to the contraction of the earth's surface; they were devilishly constructed to incite frustration and cuss words from unfortunate soldiers on overseas exercises, of course. No matter, most would agree that the shrinking earth theory still holds metaphorical significance in the increasingly modern world that we live in now.

The improvement of transportation infrastructure around the globe--high-speed railway lines in China, easy flights to pretty much anywhere around the globe (except maybe North Korea), more cars than people in Brunei, an MRT system so complex that they're about to run out of rainbow-spectrum colours in Singapore--all contribute to making a trip around the world in 80 days an unnecessary anachronism. With easy access to almost any where which strikes your fancy, travel has become exceedingly commonplace in the everyman's life itinerary.

You'd only need to pay a visit to the swarms of people at travel fairs or flip to the last half of the classifieds section in the straits times to realize that you won't be the only ones at that Exclusive Island Getaway For $3,999 that you'd wanted to retreat to.

And thus begins the bemoaning of the well-traveled individual who believes that he has indeed seen all that there is tosee. But he is not alone, for there exist those who wish that they too could travel beyond the shores of their little island, but simply lack the means to do so.

The MicroEarth Initiative exists for these very people.

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All things begin with stories, and this is no different. It was a quiet, lazy day, and I sat around the house (no yo mama jokes, please) with my laptop, intent on completing the insurmountable task of The ORD Quiz. Which also happens to be an euphemism for A Prolonged Period Of Torture. Having failed the segment on IPPT for the third time, I knew that it was a sign. Picking up my running shoes, I left the house, pace quick, strides full, and destination unknown. There are days where you run to travel a certain distance, or to clock a particular timing, but this wasn't one of those days.

Outside the house, an upslope was the appetizer for the day, uninteresting in its familiarity. Curving around residences, schools, crossing traffic lights, dodging pedestrians, maintaining running posture, regulating breaths, the world sped by as the focus on running showed no sway. Across the road, a quick left turn changed things. I was now in unfamiliar territory. The location itself was hardly new, but being present, being able to stand amidst the architecture, being able to pace down walkways which one would more likely drive by, made all the difference. The pace of the run slowed to a slow cadence, as one quick left segued into a series of turns and manoeuvres around the estate. As I neared the fringe of the cluster of buildings, I spotted a trail which I decided to follow.

For a gazetted park connector, its popularity was surprisingly poor, and few others were seen along its winding path. But what surprises this trail hid, tucked away under the awning created by the highway which ran alongside it. Under its concrete canopy a mountain biking course presented itself, a piece of boutique effort by the community committee. The bike tracks scarring its floor belied its apparent underuse, while the array of wooden boards and carefully contrived obstacles stood, in valiant defiance of the effects of time. A muddied track leads up to the expressway, where one can stand but inches away from the rushing of oncoming traffic, it in itself a profound juxtaposition of abandon and bustle.

Further down the running trail I discovered yet another gem, tucked away under the protection of concrete that supported the vehicles above. While gleaming metal flashed along the highway overhead, a solitary man tinkers with his model cars. Amidst an array of wooden chairs and workbenches, he carefully pieces together his vehicle of choice. Taking out a remote control the size of the car itself, he flicks a switch and turns a knob, and the car jumps to life, darting about the constructed dirt track like a metal mouse on amphetamines. The little replica speeds around the circuit, hitting bumps, overturning, drifting, crashing, revving and reviving, the man all the while in complete control.

Not two hundred meters away, a man stands inside a storm drain, completely oblivious or in willful ignorance of agovernmental warning of the dangers of his activity. He stoops to pick up his assortment of plastic containers, which he uses to collect water flowing out from one of the drain's tributaries, for what alchemistic purposes I dared not hazard a guess.

As I traveled further down the trail, I arrived at a little grassy incline, which I decided to scale. The view at its crest would take the breath out of any wind. An expanse of green stretched out to the boundaries of the buildings in the distance, with but three individuals dotting its surface. The three individuals knew nothing of each other, for they were engaged intently with flying their own pieces of coloured cloth. Tugging on glittering white strings, the decorated strips of fabric danced across the sky, buffeted by the afternoon wind. It was some time before I left the peace of that field and headed back the way I came.

If only I'd brought a camera along with me to capture these scenes. And then again, the word 'capture' itself brings with it such negative connotations that might have marred the sanctity of it all. If anything, such adventures make you realize that amidst all that rush and bustle, we might be missing out on the little details that make up the richness of our world. It's probably something like how you get that depressing, bleak vibes from all the city scenes in any of the Matrix movies, no matter how populated they are. Or how you can marvel at the intricate details of the landscapes in any of the Assassin Creed series, but you still don't feel like the cities are truly alive.

Maybe it's about finding the essence of our world, our countries, our cities. Maybe it's about the within, not the without. Maybe to broaden our worldview, what we really need is to narrow our field of vision.

It's a small world, after all.

2010-06-12T01:41:00.018+08:00

The Call Of Existence

To look into the screen of a phone which stares blankly back at you with an almost mockingly deadpan "Insert SIM card" is to look into the eyes of Death itself. I know so because I have gazed into the eyes of Death myself, in a five ton vehicle traveling down a rocky road on an island which has less reception than a badly organized company function.

It plays out almost like a real-to-life adaptation of Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief.

First comes the Denial.

Your rub your eyes in attempt to awaken your consciousness, and perhaps realign your retinas in such a way as to read the dreaded text as something more favorable. This can't be happening to me, 7-11 is obviously the most reputable proprietor of phones! You then proceed to remove and reinsert your SIM card and battery repeatedly, while making a considerable racket tapping and smacking your phone; because we all know that if an electronic appliance fails to work, the best thing to do is to give it a few hard knocks to "shake the machinery into place".

Next comes the Anger.

How could this happen to me! It's not fair, I've been such a responsible text messenger, never using abbreviations and alternating caps locks! You then escalate the phone-tapping and phone-smacking into something which approaches the eventual evisceration of your phone, all the while hurling abuse at the maternal parent of nobody in particular.

Then comes Bargaining.

Oh please let me phone work, I promise I'll stop wasting money on pithy one-liners to the mainland. If you start working, I promise I won't swap you for a htc snap the moment I get back!

Depression then sets in.

You leave your phone in particularly precarious positions, just to watch it clatter to the ground, a twisted, macabre sort of punishment for refusing to work for you. Your head hangs heavy and you reply to questions of "How's your phone?" with guttural grumbles. You make obvious signs of resignation, and retreat into the gloomy swing of a pendulum neck.

In time, you arrive at Acceptance.

You keep your phone in a permanent powered-off state and cease even attempting to detect signs of life from the fallen appliance. Your thoughts get redirected at more pressing concerns, such as the state of the weather and the flight trajectories of wounded butterflies. You eventually accept that your phone is indeed indisputably, irrevocably, very much dead.

But whatever rosy connotations might germinate from acceptance at this stage are but half-truths, for true acceptance only comes about much later. One must first contend with something much more existential in nature: what happens to someone who loses his primary means of communication with the world.

To know that we exist, we merely need to wonder about whether we do, for that, as Descartes maintains, is proof enough. To feel our existence though, is a totally different matter altogether. For to feel that we exist, we need in the least two things.

To feel that we are a member of the club that is our world, we would first be required to absorb its essence, to know its innermost parts. We would need to consume data, collect information and map out its realities. We would need to understand the lay of the land and its residents, so as to be understood in turn. We pore through newspapers and magazines, our senses ever-receptive to the signs of our time, our airwaves always open for the sentiment of the masses. We know that to belong, you have criteria to which you have to conform. To gain membership, to be a part of the whole, you must be acceptable. To be acceptable, you must adapt. To adapt, you must do your research.

Secondly, we need observable signs, roadside indicators which tell us that our presence on this earth has indeed had some sort of effect on the world which would not have happened had we not first occurred. The outward rippling of influence, with ourselves being the epicenter, is one of the most fundamental for feeling as if we exist. That is why we as humans are all obsessed with cause and effect. That is why self-confessed artists decorate trains with coats of color. That is why children build toy towers, only to knock them down moments after. That is why deluded souls send the apexes of aviation nose-first into the crowning glories of construction. We crave the extension of ourselves. We desire the sense of power that gives us. But more importantly, we require that others know we exist.

Interestingly, a close metaphor of our desire to feel existence as humans is the processes of the human body itself. The body first consumes food and drink as sustenance to survive. The nutrients provide it with the means to survive. The waste of the body is then passed out as excrement, a biological catharsis if you will, leaving a distinct, lingering, presence. The creatures of the animal kingdom know this well, and in what is curiously crudely symbolic of the innate desire to make one's presence felt, urinate to mark their territory. And to think we insist our superiority over 'lesser' mammals, when we ourselves carry as base a habit, only now translated into some modern form of social convention.

It really distills down to this dictum:

To feel existence, is to seek to know and be known.

With the loss of the enabler that is your phone, you lose that capability--what more, when you're stuck on an island off the mainland. You lose that connection to the life you had back there. You lose the updates of the state of the going-ons, and the going-ons of the state. You forfeit your influence on that world, and you fear that in your absence, hearts might not grow fonder, but rather, cold as they forget the slowly fading shadow of your presence.

At this juncture, you might perhaps dismiss this as exaggerated romanticism of a purely material issue, where the loss of a phone simply implies the loss of convenience and a tool of efficiency. There is some truth in that. And yet, one cannot deny that chill down your spine you get when you realize that your phone is not on your person.

Steve Jobs is a smart man, for he knows how extremely difficult it is for us to divorce the 'i' from the 'phone'. Consider it an abstract extension of ourselves, where connection with any society is made easy (as Facebook would have it), and where posting our opinions and the minutiae of our day is twit-easy (or, Tweet, as some would spell it).

Somehow or rather, we all possess the ineffable desire to feel our existence.

In the final analysis,

it really distills down to this dictum:

To feel existence, is to seek to know and be known.

2010-04-22T01:41:00.006+08:00

Clearing The Air

The act of declaring 'reading' as one of your hobbies is not very unlike that of a crazed Spaniard running through a particularly long stretch of bovine pastures with a sheet of red c loth. For what better way is there to attract criticism and condescension than by acting the unwitting charlatan? To make the declaration is to invite questions as to the texts you have read that led to your current literary sentiment. And more often than not, the people behind these questions belong to something of a group of self-professed literary critics, high and haughty in their towers of esotericism. A community which huddles in hushed tones around titles with terms more unpronounceable than the names of certain volcanoes. Whispers of 'post-colonialism', 'deconstructivist' ideas and 'canonical texts' float around like thick London fog, and each utterance is followed by such sense of satisfaction and pomp that you could all but feel the words vibrating in their italics. It is at the perimeters of this fog that your literary likes are trialed and tested, their acceptance and legitimacy hanging in the air as they are buffeted back and forth by gusts of smoke from within the fog. Your penchant for novels involving teenage nocturnals is met with toothy grins and mocking smirks, while your tales of wands and wizards are swept away by the very brooms that they floated in on. One by one they drift to the ground in a state of broken defeat.

You harbor silent resentment as you sift silently through the pieces and the density of your disillusionment. And yet, as you stoop to pick up the fragments, you notice a certain clarity in the air. A clear, unobstructed view presents itself, both beneath and around the thickness of the fog, and the irony of exclusivity never seemed as apparent. Those within the fog reveal themselves to be ultimately myopic, their cloud of condescension not simply excluding those deemed unfit for entry, but also excluding themselves from the vastness of knowledge the world outside provides. Vision into the far horizon is rendered impossible as they prove themselves unable to see beyond the very gates that they have built to restrict access. When it comes down to the appreciation of the written word, it really is for us to decide if we will let the fog obscure our vision.

The time has come to open our eyes.

The time has come to clear the air.

2010-03-20T12:08:00.001+08:00

Stirred, But Not Shaken

Rejection is a painful affair.

2010-03-06T02:41:00.006+08:00

Larger Fires

When we find in ourselves attributes which we feel incompatible with the vision which we have for ourselves, we develop a little bitter taste. What tends to follow is a nagging sense of insecurity, and the sense that the attribute in question inevitably pulls us down and holds us back from reaching the potential which we see ourselves otherwise being able to attain. But we humans are adaptable creatures, and, over time, we develop some form of a self-defence mechanism in the denial of our failings.

At best, even if we are not in denial, we construct an alternative remedy through focusing on our merits, all the while purposefully and conveniently ignoring our failings. A curious irony follows; in avoiding our insecurities and playing on our strengths, we inadvertently develop little kingdoms of pride. Saplings of complacency begin to emerge, not in place of our insecurities, but as an alternative which overshadows. Like deviant foresters we ignite our own roaring inferno, extinguishing the burning house by drawing on the oxygen it feeds on. The result is but a pyrrhic victory; we succeed in concealing our weakness, but we unwittingly fetter ourselves with the heavy manacles of pride.

As much as we’d like to believe in the far-reaching nature of our self-awareness, such conceit usually remains hidden under the radar of our self-critique. Its advantage is innocuous, and stems largely from how conveniently justifiable it is. We tend to believe that it stands to reason that, ultimately, our primary motive was the extinguishing of the burning house, and that the larger fire we started was merely means to an end. Our line of thought might travel as such:

“How can I be considered arrogant, if I admit so readily to my deficiencies and failings? Surely my humility is displayed in the concern I have for these negative aspects of myself!”

In using insecurity as a form of justification for a proud spirit, we believe, rather erroneously, that we have somehow come up with a clever little way of escaping weakness, while yet making a good show of strength. Consider it akin to a balloon gorilla. The balloon gorilla thumps its chest with much bravado, in a very visible display of his might, all the while completely unaware that what lies within is but a giant cavern of air, a hollow emptiness housing a sorry lack of substance. Interestingly, not only does the balloon gorilla fail to address his failings, but he also loses credibility in the areas he professes his capability in.

Confidence as a means of distraction and misdirection is easily shaken, for ultimately, we are not at peace with our whole person; we have not come to terms with our weaknesses. We all know of the well-worn phrase ‘fighting fire with fire’, and perhaps the time has finally come for us to radically rethink the real value of just that.

2010-02-16T20:12:00.012+08:00

Close For Comfort

Continuity. A vast river which, while unceasing in its flow, exists indefinitely as geography does; constantly in motion, and yet never moving, an entity which embodies all of what was, is, and is to come. But before blue hippie aliens start to rejoice in what appears to be some form of new-age neo-pagan eco-worship, let us shelve such titanic thoughts for later reference--this is but the tip of today's iceberg.

Every day, a PC user somewhere contemplates the meaning of life. Whilst doing so, he also contemplates whether he should really be using a Mac instead. His likely subsequent decision to remain of the Windows persuasion could probably be attributed less to his aversion to fruit (and perhaps, original sin), and more to his idiosyncratic resistance to change. Yet, let us hesitate to condemn this PC user to the luddite pile. Instead, let us celebrate his sterling defence of consistency, for much comfort can be found in consistency.

After all, some form of pleasure could be derived from the knowledge that you can head home every day to a house that actually doesn't look like it had been thrown into a geological blender while you were out. In a similar manner, the toddler carts around his favourite soft toy wherever he goes--a piece of portable stability if you will--for the child knows that while the people around him have moods which can swing to any colour of the spectrum, he has his teddy. A physical, holdable, huggable reminder that amidst a world of newness, randomness and chaos, some things don't change.

As we grow older however, we'd also like to imagine that we have, in some way or another, grown more sophisticated. (As quirky as you might think it be to bring teddy along for your board room meetings, your bosses might not quite appreciate that comedic character allusion which you'd thought yourself rather original for) And what could possibly get more sophisticated than abstract ideas! Ideas and concepts such as the bulwark of Tradition float up, like wisps of smoke curling away from sticks of incense lit for the elders.

It is in the stage of Tradition's conception that we find beliefs, superstitions, habits, and practices--tiny individual actions which, when operating in tandem, create an immutable, timeless form.

Tradition provides an easy fall-back, a common ground for the masses to agree on. If something has been so, it must have had its reasons for being so, and thus should continue to stay as such.

No doubt, one could say that the Shepherdsons and Grangerfords were foolish in their feudalistic struggles, but we are equally led to realize the bond that each of these families shared within their clans, and the sense of internal stability that it brought. A state of being at peace with going to war perhaps. (Oh, the irony!) And yet, in this irony lies a testament to the grounding effect of Tradition--the overwhelming calm that comes with being anchored to an idea as the world gets tossed about the storms of reality.

Is it any wonder then that we so earnestly seek consistency and the continuity that it creates? One who is able to hold his ground and maintain his state of mind as the squall rages is deemed to possess a certain amount of control. You might not be able to harness the storm, but as long as you have your constants, you are safe. You might grow taller, you might grow older, your house might shift, your friends might change; but your teddy is your teddy, and that fact never will change. That shiny red packet will always pocket dollar notes, and that pine tree will always bear the fruit of gifts.

Like kids on a carousel we carefully pick our mounts, as we await the ride of our lives. The machinery kicks in, and we lurch forward. Our world begins to spin, slowly, at first, then gradually picks up in pace. Soon all will be a blur, as lights flash and faces whiz by. Confident of our steeds we whoop and yell.

On and on we go, galloping powerfully in inevitable circles

Constantly in motion, and yet never moving

2009-11-22T19:35:00.008+08:00

Thinking Soldiers Think

It is only in recent times that the phrase ‘thinking soldier’ has ceased to be an oxymoron. The entire idea of soldiering evokes images of medieval men in tin helmets rushing mindlessly into storms of arrows. Taken even from a somewhat more modern context, one cannot help but picture battalions of cannon fodder charging forth in wave after wave of green/grey, only to end in a shocking shade of maroon. The First World War itself is a prime example of the prevalent military philosophy of the time—a time when using a bigger hammer was the solution for all strategic conundrums. The characteristic wars of attrition are but testament to a mindset of massing, where quantity was king, and where critical assessment and thought of the average foot soldier was abandoned in favor of unswerving loyalty, dogged determination, and sheer brute force.

The structure of a military organization is built in such a way that the twin towers of discipline and obedience form its very foundation. The concept of having ranks, commanders and superiors was formed on the basis of creating order, and as a result, improve the efficiency and effectiveness of the organization as a whole. All this thus enables the issuing of orders and the subsequent execution of these orders in double-quick time, theoretically resulting in optimum efficacy. Behind every order and command comes the underlying assumption that the commander has himself given a great deal of thought to his course of action and all possible contingencies. In other words, the commander has himself negated the need for the foot soldier to consider the situation himself—“many intelligent and experienced people up the ranks have already given it sufficient thought, so this must be the best course of action”, was probably a common sentiment at the time. And even if it were not, deviant thought was suppressed as being disobedient and hence, going against the values of the organization as a whole. In such an organization which flourishes on its efficiency at getting things done, where then, is the need for the soldier to examine and assess his orders? Orders are, after all, orders.

However, in the conflicts of late, such a mindset has begun to reveal leaks in its plumbing, and the cracks are becoming more and more evident. 9/11, the Bali bombings and the like aren’t evidence of an enemy who fights with drunken fists. In the face of a thinking enemy, how can we not position ourselves as a thinking army? And if that is true, what better way to mould the military is there than to reach out to its soldiers? The face of battle is changing, and so must we. In order to go about doing this however, we must first establish the characteristics and makings of a thinking soldier. A thinking soldier is one who receives his orders, then puts it upon himself to carry out his orders in the utmost professional manner, and in a manner most suited to the circumstances he is in. He is the multiplier, he is the catalyst. With him, a relationship is formed between him and the commander. A relationship in the sense that the commander is able to trust that the orders he has given will be carried out by the soldier in a manner most suited to the mission. The thinking leader, together with the thinking soldier represent a new age of cooperation, of communication. In these times, efficacy requires more than just speed and blind execution; it requires both critical thinking and shared understanding. The thinking soldier takes what he has been given, and makes it better.

There is a fear, nevertheless, that the rise of the thinking soldier brings with him an age of deviancy. The once utterly revered concept of rank is now seemingly under assault. What if the new-age thinking soldier contests his orders? What if disobedience and ill discipline run rampant, as soldiers ‘critically assess’ their commanders and find them wanting? These are the concerns which surround the issue of producing thinking soldiers, and they are very much valid ones. If such anarchy were to erupt, the entire purpose of creating greater efficiency in the military organization would have been defeated.

It is thus imperative that we approach the development of thinking soldiers and leaders with special care. We are not out to create a culture of contention. Rather, increased cooperation is what we should seek. The thinking soldier thinks and assesses not to challenge out of audacity, but to augment the process and outcome of his mission. It has once been said that we think, and therefore we are. In light of that, and in the hopes of creating an ever more effective army, let us do just that.

________________________________________

NB: Written for some reflection thing we were asked to write. (Gasp, the army actually requires essays!)

More NB: You might have been somewhat distressed by the sorely out-of-contexted Descartes quote there. Or if you are a normal, sane human being with even a semblance of what they call 'a life', maybe not. Nevertheless, for the sake of clarification and the appeasing of my obsessive-compulsive virus, here goes. Cogito ergo sum ("I think, therefore I am") refers to the existentialist idea where one 'proves' that he exists through questioning his own existence. And there we have it, the not-so-very-fun fact of the day.

2009-10-25T17:50:00.019+08:00

The Glass Box

There comes a time in life when you get out of bed and find that nothing at all seems different in the world. You go about the usual activity of brushing your teeth, eating your breakfast, watching the telly like you usually do; things which you have grown both accustomed to doing and accustomed to liking (some say that the brushing of teeth has a host of hobbyists, and that they are proud owners of their very own clubhouse by Hougang). And yet, somehow something seems different.

Realisation, at this moment, doesn't quite come upon you as a falling piano would. Rather, it creeps up on you like the fall of darkness as the sun makes its ponderous journey westwards. While everything seems to be happening in a manner which things happen, you find their presence somewhat less tangible, their character less discernible, their existence less felt. Your senses grow dulled, and you pace the room in search of an answer.

Then it hits you. Quite literally in fact, for the answer is a large thin sheet of fiberglass. You scramble along it, searching for an escape, but all you find is the circumference.

This, is the Glass Box.

You throw frantic blows at the sheer face of the Box, but it yields no more than a dictator bent on conquest. Days are spent devising ways to break free--thinking out of the box, however, fails to produce a solution, for it merely proves to be but a flight of fancy, a fruitless escape for the mind. Yet, the person, the body, the soul cannot leave, for fiberglass is both man-made, and too good for man's own good.

Weeks pass, and you discover that the Box has shrunk, almost to fit your very person. Now more resembling a film of cling wrap than Plexiglas, it clings to your skin, every much as debilitating as before, save that you are now left able to interact in some manner with the rest of the world. Such is why so many believe in adaptation and evolution.

This by no means signals improvement of experience; for colours still lack their vibrancy, food forsakes its flavour, and you hold objects as one who dons heavy rubber gloves--unable to detect texture, unable to move deftly, unable to feel warmth.

You, being human, then come to the most logical of conclusions: that escalation and intensification are what is needed--that if all else fails, use a bigger bat. You consciously ramp up your efforts at achieving sensory experience in order to be moved, to feel. So you eat more, you ran farther, you dance faster, you play harder. All this in the spirit of neither hedonism nor self-destruction, but of desperation. A desperation to escape, a desperation to exist.

Some say that the Glass Box disappears with time, for man is the master of adapting and overcoming. Others maintain that the Glass Box is but a season of winter; one which arrives, chills the bones, then leaves, all part of the myriad seasons of life. Yet others believe that the Glass Box simply does not exist, and is but a construct of our own--an affliction cast upon us when we fail to see beyond our shortcomings and circumstance.

Many have devised ways to melt the castles of ice, to shatter these walls of glass. Some find inner strength, some find escapism, some find the counsel of friends, some find a life philosophy, some find religion. Nevertheless, the Glass Box will always be, for we are human. Even so, this is not to say that there is no way out, for one need not necessarily think out of the box to escape it. It, in essence, is really up to you to find your way. And in time, we all do.

2009-09-18T15:22:00.009+08:00

Another Kind Of Green

Green is the colour of envy. And the colour of pea & brocolli soup--though that's not quite the topic of today's post. I know this because my cookhouse serves food which has a look and texture quite like the latter, and also because I have been both a participant and witness of the former.

Considering how it's always been said that the clothes maketh the man, it should probably come as no surprise then that if you were to don green for a good five days of the week, you would not only give off vibes of a certain sort of vegetable soup, but you'd also inevitably start to get more chummy with our good friend, jealousy. It's something that's unmistakably prevalent in your daily activities; probably the most prominent of the lot would be the envy those in green have of those of the outside world, in their ted bakers and ben shermans. A host of other instances come to mind: a weary and disillusioned trainee covets the carefree and unterrorized life of an out-of-coursee; a disappointed infantryman bemoans his lowly caste, all the while eying his dream exotic vocation (that's you, rarely-seen-after-fives); a dejected young chap mulls over how he didn't make it to the cadet school he'd been hoping for; a member of the aforementioned cadet school who abjectly resents his thirtyish hours of freedom. We all know at least one of these people, for it is most likely that we ourselves are one of them.

As those who are unfortunately afflicted with this curse of emerald, are we then subject to two years of lamentation and loss? Such a question begs an answer, but we all know that sometimes, we just don't have the change.

Yet, some possibilities present themselves:

To those who are religious, you can hold your ground, knowing that where you are now is the best place for you to be. Someone knows full well what you are going through, and this Someone has placed you there for a purpose--a purpose you might not be aware of, but a purpose which you can look back and be unashamedly proud of.

Even if you aren't quite the pope's best mate, it by no means compromises your ability to gain from your pain. As patheticly romantic as this may sound, there are times when you can't help but notice that you've developed in physique, in character, and as an individual. It's amazingly paradoxical, in fact, that while during your time in green you gain a greater sense of self, you are also led to learn the virtues of selflessness.

Such are sentiments you need not necessarily share, no doubt, but you can be assured that there is still hope in the trenches--a hope that there is still significance of where are you now, a hope that there lies some value in what appears to be a foolish waste of time. It is a hope which, while arguably idealistic in its slant, provides us with the possibility of discovering meaning in where we are now.

As humans, perhaps one of the most pressing needs we have is the desire to find meaning in life, and in what we do. It is truly my hope that you come to find for yourself this profound signficance in where you are now--be it as part of a divine Plan, or simply the potential value of your experiences.

Maybe in time we can all safely say that

I don't need another kind of green to know,

I'm on the right side

***

Editor: Speaking of which, as I was thinking about what to write on my bus home, it started to drizzle. In keeping with the macho spirit of a guy in green, I decided to brave the rain despite my converses (which in their messed up state probably have more hole-in-ones than tiger woods). Anyway, knowing my golden luck, it started to rain cats, dogs and various other forms of livestock, and I tried making a quick dash home. Yet even with that act of gusto, I was well and truly soaked. I couldn't help noticing though, that I somehow found the whole thing rather humorous (as did this jogger who I ran by, though she was probably laughing at my sorry state), something which I probably wouldn't have found quite so were I not a member of the Being Uncleansed For Multiple Days Whilst In The Jungle Association.

NB: Ahh I know the are lyrics completely taken out of context, but it's just too brilliant a line to not use.

2009-09-10T22:31:00.006+08:00

Crisis

I have lost the ability to write.

Let us never lose the ability to think.

2009-06-25T19:18:00.005+08:00

Of Quarantines And The Failure Of Logic

So here's the beef (or, well, the pork): we have this little bugger called the Influenza A virus subtype H1N1--which we affectionately call H1N1 for short--running around our little island infecting everyone it can, in a passionate attempt by demonic forces in the hopes of bringing about an early armageddon. Usually, these hellish fiends would be banished with ease by the holy triumvirate Panadol, Paracetamol and Vitamin C. However, it appears that this time the diabolical schemes of the netherworld are showing signs of innovation to the effect of marginal success. The essence of its accomplishment can be said to lie in the sheer stealthiness that this mini-Mephisto adopts in its spread ; the crowning glory of our good friend H1N1 presents itself as none other than the 7 day incubation period which it leaves in its infectious wake.

The genius in a plan this devious lies precisely in this 7 day period of uncertainty. In these 7 days the common populace becomes utterly overwhelmed by the dually destructive nature of the virus:

1) The silent assassin creeps from victim to victim, and each knows nothing of how he abets the murderer in claiming another, for one can act as a carrier even before symptoms present themselves. This is a particularly clever trick, as the virus avoids detection until the time comes where it is too late to adopt corrective or preventive measures. A smart move and one point for H1N1, for it brilliantly exploits the reactive nature of humans; people only take action if they detect outward manifestations of illness. The thing is, unlike conventional illnesses which insist on first making their presence known before proceeding to harrass passersby (not unlike a boisterous drunk in a bar), this bug simultaneously searches out other victims as it subtly drains the life out of its target at hand (or a gold digger, as kanye would put it). Dangerous, huh.

2) A cloud of suspicion thicker than haze from Indonesia begins to form as the general populace begins to point fingers (also on occasion, 'finger' in the singular). Since no one knows who could be a possible carrier, every person who clears his throat or blows his nose suddenly gets stares as if his name begins with a Mas and ends with a Selamat. It is in this atmosphere of fear that something far worse arises from the fires of Hades (and this is the magic of it all, that the devils who crafted this disease could foresee what was to come): Quarantines.

"And what makes you say that?", you might be asking.

***

Let us try to analyze the effects of a quarantine of a hypothetical scenario involving specimen "I":

Background: Specimen 'I' is given home quarantine for having been in contact with one who has tested positive for H1N1. Since this is still within the 7 day incubation period, the underlying rationale for this quarantine would be to hinder the further spread of this virus.

So now we have two possibilities:

Possibility One: 'I' does not have H1N1

Possibility Two: 'I' has H1N1

If Possibility One were true, then these 7 days would be a complete and utter waste of time, for specimen 'I' has just been left at home to watch reruns of Days of Our Lives for the fifteenth time in a row in a sorry bid to pass the time.

Now let's assume Possibility Two; that specimen 'I' does have H1N1, but is not showing any symptoms yet. Specimen 'I' then stays at home, where he does not head out to public places, and hence does not come into the relative proximity of specimens 'Members of the Public'. However, due to the limited area in containment unit 'Home', specimen 'I' instead comes into markedly more close contact with specimens 'Family Members'. Due to the very nature of containment unit 'Home', specimens 'I' and 'Family Members' are left little choice but to reside within the same walls and breathe the same air.

Due to the airbone nature of virus H1N1 and the close proximity of the two specimens, it can be seen that the chance of infection for specimen 'Family Members' increases dramatically. However, it has already been established that even if one were to catch the virus, the 7 day incubation period would be such that in the event that specimen 'Family Members' were to contract the virus, they would nevertheless still essentially be none the wiser.

As specimen 'Family Members' are not issued with home quarantines, they are thus able to venture forth from the confines of containment unit 'Home', to other facilities such as 'Work' or 'School'. The limited confines of these two containment units then places specimen 'Family Members' in close contact of specimen such as 'Others'. It can thus be hypothesized from statistics already gathered that virus H1N1 will eventually be transmitted to these specimen.

This hypothetical scenario thus presents, analytically and scientifically, the proposition that the act of quarantining members of the public who have come into contact with patients with confirmed cases of H1N1 is one which, while appearing to be highly civic-minded, ultimately proves to be utterly and completely pointless in light of preventing the spread of H1N1--an ultimately ineffectual strategy residing under a facade of organization and professionalism.

***

Such is the calamity that we face today:

An epidemic engendered by micro-organisms, but propagated through panic.

The crisis lies not so much in the threat that this virus poses to us, but rather the danger we pose to ourselves

2009-06-11T18:45:00.018+08:00

Weekend Warriors

The concept was simple, the strategy straightforward. It was the plan which would bring in some dough on the side, without me having to actually step inside a breadshop. Or so I thought.

Oh how wrong I was.

***

Flashback two weeks to a sleepy bunk on the island of what we shall call, for the purpose of retaining both its anonymity and my clean criminal record (military police are all inherently sneaky buggers), Stekong. A soldier sorely laments over how the grass not only seemed greener on the other isle, but also contained markedly less people in pixelated prints. The soldier finds himself unable to be completely at rest, and yet a state of alertness evades him as his muscles scream silent rebellion. His eyes gaze towards the ceiling, and as metaphorical thought bubbles make their way casually towards the sky, this is what we see: a spirit subdued by the banalities of the week; senses dulled by sheer lack of stimuli; philosophical questions such as "I wonder what's for lunch?", and the like. And yet, amidst these we catch a tiny glimmer, a quiet flicker of hope for the Friday which is to come.

For Fridays signify his weekly genesis; his ritual fresh beginning, his breath of fresh air, his lease of life, his shackles unbound, his tabula rasa (you knew it was coming). Well, it isn't quite a new birth of biblical proportions, but rest assured our soldier's feeling mighty fine.

He has served his time the better of five-sevenths of the week, and he'll be damned if he wasn't going to spend the rest of it actually living life.

But let this not be just about the military--the daily grind's a battle in its own right, and one also heretofore unrivalled. Our hearts go out to the nine-to-fivers as well, for we empathize with long bus journeys and even longer ez-link top-up receipts. It is for these valiant individuals--individuals dedicated to taking the lemons that they get for freedom, and making not just juice, but sherberts and whole assortments of citrusy goodness--that theviewfromhere would like to honourarily recognize, for their testament to life, living, and everything in between: the Weekend Warriors.

For your very own Aide Memoire to the Weekend?

Read all about it, after the jump.

Weekend Warriors:

http://weekendwarriorsonline.blogspot.com

__________________________________________________________

NB: I realised I never really mentioned what the money-making plan was. Well, to put it simply and in a nice footnote-friendly bite-sized piece, let's just say that I don't quite deem my online ravings as yielding evidence of any potential editorial prowess just yet. So it's probably safe to say things'll be sticking to the blogosphere for now

Edit (14/6): Apologies, I haven't uploaded the latest content to WW just yet, but I promise it'll be up soon. Check back in a bit!

2009-04-27T17:41:00.007+08:00

Regeneration And Cure

I had such plans for what I'd do on my first bookout; entering civilization for the first time in two weeks should technically have involved immersing myself completely once again in what I was deprived of while wasting away on some remote (a debatable point, really) offshore island.

There was even a procedure to divorce myself from that world and to marry right back into the world which people who don't don green as their perennial garb usually live in; a process which involved a multi-level, targetted approach of associative substitution. Meaning, I swap everything even remotely army-related for a much more appropriate alternative with connotations of a free life.

Namely, my monstertruck glasses get traded in for my mangled and self-repaired pair (yes, the one with the splint, scotch tape, masking tape and a topping of black permanent marker); my belligerent pants get swapped for bermudas of non-triangular geometry; my broccoli-inspired shirt leaves the building, and one of less obvious vegetable-derived origins takes the stage; my stage wagon for a backpack gets pawned in favour of my coupe of a sling.

Alas, the only exterior piece which I fail to replace in this little transfusion is that obstinate black forest sprouting on my head (no, cakes and confectionery do not actually take to my scalp). In a desperate bid to complete the civil civilian image however, a green jockey abdicates for the likes of black suede cap.

And this completes the transformation. Not quite worthy of enlisting the likes of Shia LaBeouf and Megan Fox, but it's good enough for me. Though I admit Megan Fox would've been nice. Oh well.

But I digress. It so happens that booking out on a Sunday night, while an amazing feeling in its own right, also meant that in the larger scheme of things, people were either at work or in camp. And with that understanding, all possibilities of hanging out eventually dissipated. As I spent the better part of the day mulling over whether to head out, I came to realize that it would've been merely busying myself in the hopes of keeping myself occupied. Nothing much would've been achieved, other than filling up the space-time void. Sure, I could run a few errands--my bank account needs to be checked, I have yet to get a couple of army stuff, and the hunt for a new pair of glasses is on, but I reckon that checking them off my list of things to get done wouldn't quite have scored many points on the satisfaction charts.

And it was in this passive and ultimately unreactive state that I sat around the house and exercised lethargy. Perhaps this was the sort of rest I actually needed--not quite the sort of escape you'd conventionally think of (it's not the Maldives, you're not actually going anywhere). Rather, maybe it was the sort of retreat that doesn't take you away, but instead takes you in. Maybe your soul's telling you that you shouldn't be taking off, you should be taking stock.

Or maybe all that's a whole lot of bull, and I just managed to somehow come up with a way to rationalize away my time-wasting. Oh how this post vascillates.

The notion that army takes hold of your life and subsequently puts on hold everything you'd originally sought to do never seemed ever truer, and I must say it's rather debillitating. Countless discussions with friends about where this is all going, and what to make of the next two years continue to make their rounds, and I'm beginning to wonder--and maybe even worry--that my 'making the best of the shit we're in now' outlook isn't quite one which I can continue to believe in.

I don't quite know what to make of it all yet, but I'm grateful for the moments of respite and for the bunch of people who don't mind killing some of their time with me. As this post rounds itself up, it also tries rather hard in its own metaphorical way to stand in sedia in a desperate bid to do away with all that rounding, and to curb all traces of malignant sop (root word of soppiness) before it festers.

They say that prevention is better than cure

But what we can't prevent, we run from

What we can't run from, we ignore

What we can't ignore, we fear.

What we fear, we mock or destroy

What we are left with, isn't right.

__________________________________________________________

NB: Thanks for the fries, made my day haha

Edit: Holy hell, army really does make one rather incoherent. Apologies for the disconnects throughout

2009-04-12T14:16:00.008+08:00

The End's Not Near, It's Here

Oh hell, it really is here. All the months of living vicariously through fellow bald-folk while whiling my time away with top-level slackers (you know who you are) are finally near an end, and God knows how much I'm going to be missing everyone back here. As much as I probably don't show it, it's the darndy truth.

There isn't actually much to complain about, considering that from what it sounds the confinement for our batch's only going to last a grand total of twelve days, which isn't actually enough time to cultivate new species of fungi in your boots yet. That's a great plus, I reckon. Especially since I was expecting a close to three week stay-in, which would probably have been enough to start a multinational corporation of bacterium in my then hitherto bagged and unwashed uniforms. So thanks for the hopeful news people, it's the one glimmer of hope I'll be clinging on to all this time.

And so here I am now, at a loss for what thoughts I'd like to put down before I get, well, put down in Tekong (images of SPCA posters and euthanasia debates spring to mind). Apart from the unsightly, unsoundly and ultimately unhealthy act of mourning, there isn't really much else I can say. You would probably know by now what goes through a typical mind when confronted with the prospects of what appears to be the synonym for prison, and it would do little good for me to rant the same to you in an unrelenting verbal torrent reminiscent of an overzealous phone salesperson.

'But then wouldn't we have a lack of a point for this post?', you might be asking. I'd be hard pressed to find a satisfactory reason for why I had to bore you with all this, or why I'd even bother to write paragraphs upon paragraphs explaining why I don't actually have a purpose for including said paragraphs.

Perhaps I just needed to get things out of my head.

Perhaps I wanted to get myself into the frame of mind that yes, army is indeed tomorrow.

Perhaps I didn't feel right including more than the vague.

Perhaps I needed to leave something before I left.

Perhaps I hoped that exposition would feel reassuring.

Perhaps I should stop here before attempts at being poetic vacate the building and melodrama takes up residence.

In all honesty it hardly feels as if by tomorrow I'll be sitting on a ferry, nameless save for a couple of initials, bundled with the rest of the statistical thousands, travelling across a vast body of water which, while being immeasurably vast in its own Asian right, still cruelly allows you to despondently view your home island from a distance. On the right contrary, I'm still sitting around with my bag glaring empty, my phone readily sporting a camera, and my blog draft staring me back in the face. It is time though, and I better start wrapping my head around that fact.

Here goes nothing

2009-03-14T23:33:00.009+08:00

It's Not Where We Go, It's How We Go

Who'd have thought that selecting a course to take, applying for a uni and gunning for a scholarship would be this much of a complication. The prospects of everything are undoubtedly daunting to say the least, by the very nature of how vast the possibilities are. I recall once aspiring to become creative director of a prestigious advertising firm--something which I kept assuring myself would be something I'd love to do, and would be willing to sacrifice the lives of thousands of coffeebeans for. That engendered somewhat of a targetted approach to choosing a course; I figured I'd head headfirst into a course about something I love, since everyone knows that if you like doing something, you can't quite call it work. And it was with this sunny-faced optimism of the joys of work and the passion of the abovementioned that I planned my route.

But we all know that plans, being plans, have somewhat of a tendency to lose their state of certainty--not quite unlike a particularly determined souffle which attempts to rise, only to deflate into a sorry looking pile just as it was about to attain its full culinary glory. With the haters and the realists (the pessimists in denial) on my back though, I began to question these ideals which I had only just recently become so sure of. I won't go into the grisly details, to save you the pain of having to read through them only to fling canned tomatoes at my simple ignorance, but in short it seems like a business course would be the safest option. It covers the most ground, it opens the most doors, and it doesn't sound half as boring as nineteen-hundreds Greecio-Roman historial-cultural studies. Not to mention there seems to be a distinct possibility that I end up losing my interesting in advertising (something which I don't quite see happening in the near future though) and end up instead taking up interest in the flight trajectories of exotic butterflies. If that ever does happen, at least the business degree would come in handy, should I wish to open a shop selling memoriabilia and collectables of the said insects. Or I could also open an enterprising joint selling traditional snacks at not so traditional prices, something which seems to have picked up here, as the hordes of kaya toast touting franchises can testify.

As far as plans are concerned, I think I can safely say that to most, there aren't many boundaries to how far you can go, or what you could achieve. Having the end goal in mind was never the problem; after all everyone's heard of how if you aim for the stars you'll at least land on a cloud. Alas, naysayers also say nay, characteristically enough, and they pointedly highlight the fact that contrary to popular belief, clouds aren't very suitable objects for landing on, thanks to the fact that you'd be hard pressed to find a clump of condensation tenacious enough to want to hold your weight. But nevertheless, I maintain the metaphor still stands.

So we have established that people dream of going places. But it seems like many don't give up on them just because they're particularly lofty in nature. Rather, questions about how to get about getting there bubble to the surface, and honestly most of them are pretty rank. They say that engineering students have become successful creative directors, and I know of people who haven't taken degrees at all, but who've ended up with rather respectable positions. Hell, even the fish & co startup story in the papers the other day wasn't all smooth sailing, but look where it's got now. And there we have the success stories. Cue awe, applause and apple sauce. So yes, everything appears to be possible, as evidence has shown. Now the question is this: how do we take this square peg that we have, and get it through the round hole of where we want to be. Oh the ways of doing so are endless; you could try to smash it through with the force of an overbearing intern, or you could try to slowly shave away and smoothen the corners like you would with an all-rounded university course, you could also proceed to hack determinedly at the round hole until its misshapen form allows you to push the square peg in a form of compromise not quite unlike those cloud-landers. The possibilities are endless. And honestly, that scares me.

Because with so many different ways to go about achieving your goal, how would you know that the route you've chosen is optimum? Does the round-hole-hacker somehow have it better than the square-peg-smasher, or did the shave-and-smoothener somehow get the best deal? And if it's really like they say, and it's all about the journey, not the end point, then I want to be pretty damn sure that I'm taking the right path. And yet, there sets in the famous Analysis Paralysis, the metaphorical equivilant of this being staring at the round hole and decidedly scratching your head with your square peg.

But I must conclude somewhere here, for this post has stretched for too long. As things are looking right now, I'm still somewhat decided on being undecided (something I usually end up doing, unfortunately). Maybe the round hole will change by itself, as I embrace that beach resort on an island nearby (April 13th never seemed this near), and maybe by then I'll be in a better position to consider.

Other issues wrestle for centrestage as well, and my mind's beginning to look like a very schitzophrenic pizza, but this post is probably not the time to bring those up. But it does remind me; I need a break. Heaven knows what sort of break I need, but I do need one.

So many things have to be considered and thought through. But as for now though, I'll just rest uneasy knowing that I just don't know.

2009-03-01T22:49:00.009+08:00

Writing The Wrongs

During my time of absence from the blogging world at large, I've come to realise that trying to quit blogging's somewhat like trying to get an exhaust pipe to surrender it's carcinogenic activities amicably and dispense nicorette gum instead. There's something largely therapeutic about putting pen to paper, putting paper to shredder, and then starting all over from scratch with nothing but a sliver of a thought and a sense of purpose. Unfortunately however, both of which usually end up either largely incoherent, wholly misguided, or a gourmet concoction of one measure of each.

It seems like shifting the writing process into first gear often involves clutching, often rather clumsily, at whatever straws happen to pass by on their way to wherever straws head to in their leisure time. At other more enlightened moments though, there tends to be a faint flicker of inspiration from somewhere which stirs up the desire to wax lyrical. Though it is one thing to think of something to write about and what to say, and yet a completely different thing to finally get to click the gloriously orange 'publish post' button down below. Knowing my ocd self, it takes roughly about five re-readings and edits before any form of exposition gets to see the light of day, and we're not even talking about the number of times the baby had to be thrown out because the bathwater just wouldn't go by itself.

Sometimes the words just don't fit right. Sometimes the tone of the piece flows so poorly it makes you think of something which would've been written had Roald Dahl a bit too much green eggs and ham to eat. Sometimes you finish with the body, and realise that the tail doesn't quite stick the way they do on donkeys. Sometimes you lose your train of thought (happens that in the world of writing, locomotives aren't particularly as conspicuous as they should be). Sometimes you don't know how to express the ideas swimming around your head. Sometimes you'd just rather go watch an episode of House.

But it's a love-hate relationship like that. Eventually you know you'd want to put your thoughts into words. And when you do, you'd want them to come alive for everyone in the same way that they're alive for you. It's a form of catharsis, almost.

Continue a blog? It just seemed the write thing to do.

_________________________________________________________

Note: I realise that the photos selected have seemingly less and less significance with regard to the content of the post, but I shall blame it on the lack of exposure my camera's been getting. If my camera was a person it would probably look albino from the lack of going outdoors.

Oh, and speaking of abandoned drafts, there's currently about four half-baked posts waiting to see the light of day, but I doubt I'll ever get down to clearing those

2009-02-23T20:04:00.012+08:00

Permanent; nothing is permanent

It's been practically a year since i've last even layed eyes on this little space where pixels lie. That means that it's been a year since i've last written my thoughts out loud, and not exactly coincidentally, also a year since people have left their own comments and thoughts on this site (It would have been both slightly strange and bordering a bit into freaky-stalkerish if someone still continued to).

One year can be loosely translated into Twelve Months, or if you prefer the Olde English translation, Ye Three Hundred And Sixty Five Days. And given the sheer amount of hours and minutes that would have passed within the context of said number of days (My ineptitude in the handling of calculators prohibits me from attempting to enthrall with a very large string of numbers), one cannot help but wonder if anything, anything at all, has changed since the last impression we had of ourselves.

Over the course of one year we could have experienced joy, hardship, curiosity, apathy, enthusiasm, banality, love, heartache, optimism, dread, hope, despair, and a whole shopping-list of other feelings and thesaurus-approved adjectives with accompanying antonyms. Given the emotional weight which each of these carry, it would not be too far-fetched to assume that each must have in one way or another profoundly and irrevocably affected our person. "Do I still participate with the same vigor? Do I still laugh with the same lighness of heart? Do I still see things and people the same way? Do I still talk in the same self-characteristic manner? Do I still act in the manner I used to?" All questions we might have once asked ourselves, and all questions worth pondering over.

But it's ironic then that while each of these questions indubitably probe into the profundities of whether we have indeed progressed from where we once were, they also hint at a conflicted and worried soul--one which is as equally harrowed by the prospects of losing the individuality of oneself. Though I doubt the same could be said with regards to the periods of adolescence and early teen angst which most aspire to condemn to the depths of artery-constricting-jeans and tear-stained-piss-poetry hell. Nevertheless, despite all our desires to change, to become more than the little we are now, as well as our hopes to metamorphize into that AudiR8-pimping superstar and owner of a very shiny red and gold metal suit, we realize that there are parts of us which we desperately fear changing. For all that talk of growing, developing and becoming, we somehow cannot conceive losing those parts of us which make us, well, us.

And thus begins the precarious balance of trying to change what we hate about ourselves, while yet retaining the bits which we feel make up the person we think we are. As if this metaphysical existentialist tightrope wasn't enough, the inevitability of subconscious change rears its ugly (not that we'd notice how beautiful it might have looked, what with it being subconscious and all) head. While attempting to become artisan crafters of our self, we periodically notice several deviations from our planned blueprints and battlelines. We become altered--to much dismay and annoyance--in a way which was not part of the plan, but being creatures desiring control, we attempt to push back.

Perhaps one of these ninjitsu-and-art-of-being-stealthy-as-cat-trained abominations which we should probably be most on our guard against would be that of simple world-weariness. It's an intimidating sight when individuals not even half way to mid-life crisis start considering everything worthless and balk. King Solomons aside, it seems almost as if national service itself is synonymous with becoming jaded, and that is something no promises of glory and love for country can compensate for.

But alas! Maybe there is hope yet. For now that we've begun the process of taking the sub out of the subconscious, we ultimately attempt to take to task the little changelings in us which evade our notice. One would like to believe that if we could raise our guard against these insidious influencers, only then we would we grow that much closer to becoming what we seek for ourselves to become. And by methods such as these, we attempt, perhaps even futilely, to gain control over our lives--minute existences which are but flung about the expanse of situations and happenings by the jarring multiple impacts of the everyday.

Will you change? Will I change? Only time can tell, but fortunately, he isn't going to tell how we will.

______________________________

Some time ago
I keep losing track over again
All these promises won't turn golden
Until you touch them

It's permanent
Nothing is permanent
It's permanent
We'll be watching your back, following
Indecision has lasted for years

Some time ago
Memories in my head
They're starting again
Speaking fast, still moving slow
Running through the country
Maybe they will find me

It's permanent
Nothing is permanent
It's permanent
We'll be watching your back (We'll be watching)
Be watching your back, following
Indecision has lasted for years

Like a river in Arizona
Dried up before you were born

It's starting up again
(We'll be watching your back)

It's permanent
Nothing is permanent
It's permanent
We'll be watching your back
It's permanent
Nothing is permanent
It's permanent
Time is pushing us back
Permanent

2008-08-07T21:17:00.005+08:00

The Beautiful Letdown

Dreams. Aspirations. Expectations. Hope.

The very things that lives are built upon, are yet the very same things that collapse spirits.

The national athlete strives to break record after record in an attempt to make his name in the world, nevermind the fact that records hold their ground for shorter than your average hit single--after all, the challenge of breaking a new record only serves to make us try harder, doesn't it? The endearing enchantment of having your name in lights, established in history as a some semblance of significance drives so many to carve their name into little plastic school desks. Enter the ubiquitous rockstar-wannabe teenager and dreams of capturing young hearts and minds (and in rare occasions, even ears) worldwide.

In a bid for a lasting significance that we can call our own, we create for ourselves arbitrary milestones to mark our progress towards a lasting ideal. In one way or another, we all embark on our individual quests for perfection, and a so-called dream life that encompasses all that we deem important in our lives. Despite what some would deem arbitrary measures of progress in life, we hold these little achievements close to our hearts, and attempt to convince ourselves that they show that our lives are now that much more fulfilled.

This notion of what life should be like; a world filled with a perfect love, and with it the utter lack of disagreements, hate, misconceptions, and even the lack of disappointment, proves to be our downfall as we realize that the disappointment ultimately results as such a life simply does not exist. As this disllusionment about life and the possibility of perfection fades, we come to realize that there is a Perfect which transcends what we are capable of ever attaining.

Edit: I wrote this a pretty long time ago, sometime mid 2008, but I never quite got down to finishing it. I don't think i'll try to now though; it probably wouldn't be true to what I was wanting to write then. But at any rate, here it is in it's unedited inglory

2008-03-02T22:47:00.010+08:00

Guest starring our very own (and very first) Guest Blogger!:

Hi.

While I wait for the very useless Hotmail to load up and spit out the picture inside, I shall instead complain about how useless tomorrow is going to be and how the fat cats on top should just let us go home instead of subjecting us to 1hr 40 of Kenneth Huang (or S. Lai, if your life really sucks that bad). That and the fact that our dear Warlords screening temporary teacher is no longer around ): (I WANT TO SEE THE ENDING - EVEN IF IT IS CONTRIVED.)

Oh! The picture has finally loaded. Oh dear it's tiny. I need a new phone.

Anyway this is the most awesome rainbow I have ever seen in these 17 years of mine. If I recall it appeared one August midday when the lot of us were out having swimming PE. That red spot in the middle is the sun, and a nice beautiful rainbow formed around it! Pretty no? I also killed my eyes and saw red spots in inappropriate places the rest of the day.

I forgot the science of it, but apparently it's caused by ice crystals melting in the sky and reflecting (or refracting?) light.

2007-12-31T01:16:00.000+08:00

2007

In keeping with the whole facebook theme, I guess you could say that I is missing telunas very badly. I don't believe I ever considered not going to stay in Singapore to do work. I'd like to go on and on about how great the place is, but I think enough people think I'm crazy as it is. But honestly, all those stuff you've heard about the place; they're not exaggerations. Anyhow, it's 1 thirty seven AM now, so technically I guess you could say we're into new year's eve! Cue party poppers and random shouts of joy. For the first time ever, I've managed to come up with new year resolutions even before the new year ends. And no, my electric isn't one of the resolutions. Although I am pretty resolved in getting one. Eventually. And like they say on TV, our lines are now open. Feel free to donate freely.

The year's passed so fast that this blog post would be like but one grain of sand, in an hourglass. Or in a more oriental based situation, like grains of rice in a bag of Thai Fragrant Rice, of which this bag is but one of the millions of bags of rice in Thailand, which incidentally gets transported to the rest of the world via entrepot trade, wet markets, and e-bay in rare cases. Anyway. Next year's looking as bleak as a pack of coffeebeans with a nasty decaffeinated label slapped on. But this year's been great, from the chill time with friends to the late night IA rushings. But before I degenerate into some nostalgic-esque korean soap of sorts, I better shut up. Telunas just helps you appreciate stuff so much more. They say that sometimes the less said, the better, and this is probably one of those times.

Like once famously mentioned,
Let is snow baby... Let it reindeer.
Happy new year guys

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-12-16T00:57:00.001+08:00

Coffee

Three cheers for very bad photo! Anyhow. You know, there really isn't much better for getting you into the christmas mood than sitting in a coffeebean (would have preferred starbucks, really) and sipping some coffee and soaking up christmas music and caffeine-inebriated atmospheric air. Actually, I fail to mention the sadder part of such a story; like how I was there for the sole purpose of completing my econs IA. Nevertheless, with a christmas spirit at stake, I managed to finish that little bugger before the joint closed shop on me.

B-Side

Who put this track on?
The tune's ticking, but we're not singing along.
And rhythm, it left. Long since you, had
So much
On your mind. Now mellow moods run
Amok, amidst melodies unfamiliar
Yet.

"I know this!" This rings a bell. Alarms
You, you never saw this coming.
This crotchet, that crutch. Hold the rest,
Come cadence. Suspense
Made simple, for the end you knew
Wasn't right. Left you hanging on A minor
Lack of conclusion.

Riled you turn-
Its airtime is over. All has been heard
That has been heard. But
What was left, is now under
The bridge, and past the chorus.
Not unusual though was the presence of further,
Hiding behind those releases once
Remixed, remastered; revealed
Through scrutiny and searching.
Now found, you scarce believe.

That b-side of yours,
Made simply forgotten.
__________________________________

Two posts in one! Though it's true that they are kinda short posts. Oh well, telunas beckons soon, and then maybe I'll be inspired to write more, although inspiration's sorely lacking at the moment, and various aberrations of work-derived origins threaten my very existence. I am no longer coherent, so I think I'll end my post here. See you guys in a few days. The holiday's really slipping away.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-11-30T23:20:00.000+08:00

Cataclysmically Clustercaustic
Of Snowglobes & Small Settlements

Heh admittdly this isn't a picture of mine, but I couldn't help but use it here. It's really an amazing piece, seeing in how everytime you look at it you draw out a different emotion. When I first chanced upon this little wonder, I also happened to notice numerous posts about how cute it looked, and I readily agreed. It brings to mind snowglobes and lego houses, towns and worlds that mimic our very own, except in miniature form, and with hefty pricetags. The thing about holding a world mimicking yours in the palm of your hand is how awe-filled (no, not awe-ful ho ho) you become. "So this it what our world would look like from a God-eyed view. Except maybe a whole lot less lifelike." Snowglobes and their worlds within our world fill us with mindfunk, and the ability to make it snow in their world in the middle of our heat-strikenly, globally warmed and equatorially challenged Singaporean summer is really nothing to be scoffed at. Who can't like snowglobes when you look at it that way?

But that's just one thing the picture brings to mind.

Strangely enough, the very picture that instills awe and wonder, also happens to impart some really negative micro-waves of emotion to the viewer. The viewer picks up these contrasting emotions like how a man would a five cent coin on the road; his hope rising from what appears to be promises of gold, or possibly even a whole dollar (whoa!), but what turns out to be merely disappointment. Though some may find that five cent find a stroke of obscenely good luck, at this point of time I really feel like being negative, so I'll stick that whole false hopes idea.

But I digress! That was one really extended analogy, but at least that's over. Now back to the picture. Recently when I looked at it, I began to wonder something other than the usual wonder. Sure, snowglobes and cute little village-town-planet things look cute and all, but there's something really disturbing about it all. Snowglobes encase little worlds within them, which people view and enjoy everyday, and even write extensive blog posts on. Yet, the beef with snowglobes is exactly that - they encase stuff. The glass wall that seems to preserve this little world is exactly the same glass wall that prohibits it. Ever seen the show Lonely Planet? Well, I haven't (though I'm quite sure it isn't about solitary planets being sore about their solitude), but I must say this is exactly what comes to mind. A world trying to find it's place in our world, and being unable to because the inhabitants of the world we live in insist on keeping these little worlds stuck in little glass globes, and sitting on our display cases of houses.

At this point of time, I must apologise for going all philosophical and serving up plates of Plato, or whatever other famous philosopher you care to name, but I'm in a really ranty mood today.

The tree in the picture pokes its head out of the forest of houses that surround it, and while drawing all the attention of the viewer to it, still seems to scream a sense of detachment. The little floating planet's surrounded with houses of every detail, but the irony of it all lies in how the barren tree, which one would normally pass over, seems to clash with the buildings of that world, yet also holds the entire composition of the picture together.

Yeah, detachment. Lately my head's been one massive mess, and I'm just... floating along. I can't seem to put any order to anything, and the I'm walking around in a daze. Stuff happen, and stuff don't. Stuff, stuff, and more stuff. It's great just shelving stuff when you can't put any sense to anything, just like how someone's messy room would look like. I think my brain and conciousness kind of decided that school holidays extended to them too, and ended up taking self-proclaimed leave. They're probably somewhere in Europe now even as you read this ramble. Maybe I should get down to doing some school work. That always helps pin stuff down. Afterall, what are we if we don't have work? Savages.

A really poor reference there signals that I should stop and spare you the misery of reading further. It's a rare occasion that aimless and floaty posts like these surface from the murky depths of this writing space, and I can assure you I'll try to keep these to a minimum. I guess writing crap down does help get some order going, and maybe soon enough the snowglobes can get off the floor in their ruddy mess and at least onto the shelves, looking pleasant and just like little worlds worth marvelling at, and start filling me with awe once again.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-11-23T23:30:00.000+08:00

Of Reflections And Pots Of Gold

It's a strange thing how we only pause for thought when some sort of trouble comes our way. Man somehow works like the ultimate troubleshooter, churning up huge amounts of delay, lag and frustration not too unlike the Mac-Afee sort whenever some threat pops up. Problems always seem so much easier to mull over, while you know what they say about fleeting joys and the like. As I continue to write, this post begins to degenerate, slight testament to how that good feeling comes and goes way too quickly to grab hold of, kind of like really great cheesecake. Maybe I should get down to the point of this post.

The night 23rd of November was not your typical night, considering how far from being dark and stormy it was. Quite on the contrary, it was a night with cloudless skies and a moon that looked like it got exported straight from some manga character's eyes: Really. Big. And not to mention pretty damn bright too. There it sat in its lofty abode in the eleven fifteen twilight sky, and basking in its almost 3D-esque grandeur it implored people worldwide to abandon their mortal ways and embark on a path of werewolfhood.

Or in simple terms, the moon damn nice today seh.

A sight this stunning was begging for a photo capture, but as I whipped out my trusty handphone, I could only languish in how the moon looked like a sorely mispositioned glob of blanko on the dark canvas of my phone screen. Oh well, it was worth a try. Nevertheless, it was enough for me to stand there for the whole part of five minutes, staring at the moon as it stared at our world; the staring match of the century, which the moon inevitably won, granted through underhand methods though; such as by burning a hole in the back of my retina. (I'm still getting the hang of this semicolon business. Damn you strange punctuation mark, damn you!)

Sadly, such scenes come as often as good bands to singapore, and go quicker than we run to the toilet at the call of nature. Reality strikes back, and the weight of the world falls off the canopy of the sky and onto your shoulders, and you can't help but hunch. The post began with the hopes of pudding in the bread and butter, but it appears that it only had false promises of pudding (facebook is bad for you that way), and a positive conclusion is hard enough to dig up. At any rate, we can always look forward to these punctuations of peace and possibly even joy, like the commas, colons, semicolons and periods that litter our sentences, and that hopefully perforate our world with.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-11-09T23:48:00.000+08:00

Time Is Running Out

Lucky him. I, on the other hand, was running home. Quite the contrary to running out really.
It's not often I post about the happenings of my day, since most of the time there really isn't much to write about anyway. But this time, writing this post is some way of cooling down, and it beats pacing up and down my room or trying to perform various positions of yoga.

Today was not the best of days. Sleeping at two in the morning and waking up at six in the morning happens to have several strange effects on your mind and body, not too unlike that of heavy LSD overdosage. Nevertheless, I made a valiant attempt to survive my day on my winnowing sleep reserves. It's too bad that valiant attempts almost never work. This happened to take the form of a sixteen hour day. If you do the mathematical studies there, you realise that that's four times the amount of sleep I got. Being the ever-resourceful and ever-lethargic singaporean citizen that I was, I decided to take the opportunity to fall asleep in just about every corner I decided to relac in, as well as every bus that decided to grant me seating pastures. Call me antisocial, but it seemed to have worked. Here I am, online at twelve in the morning, writing some inane post. Ironically, I wouldn't BE writing this post if not for the fact that buses can get so damn comfortable when you get used to them.

So, on with the story. After much brainstorming of katrinic proportions, we decided that we really should let the unfortunate workers at Gelare go home. Then came the semi-elucidated mrt trip, and the trip-hop to the bus stop (hoho that rhymes) to grab my bus back, kanye telling me something about being harder, better, faster and stronger all this while. Could have been one of the reasons why I even made it to the bus stop without collapsing down the stairs. The bus was taking forever to come, and when it DID come, it decided to pass by and go do that thing all buses do when they don't stop at the freaking bus interchange, whatever that is. So then my bus does come! And by this time Justice is being served in copious amounts, remixes aplenty. All is looking and sounding good. Good enough for me to get comfortable and fall into some deep slumber only usually rendered possible by some shinylooking apple.

Usually there's this thing called the biological clock which saves your life and wakes you up when you need it. It woke me up pretty fine, just about three bus stops before my stop. Sadly, my biological clock caved in to a simple chemistry of physics, where the up-down motion of the bus soon led to a nett down movement of my eyelids and a converse up movement of audio levels in the snore department.

By the time I could figure out the science of what was happening, I was just about three bus stops away from my house. I jump up of my seat, jump out of the bus, and jump start my terry fox back home. It happens that the skies decide to mourn and cry over my sorry situation, and their tears of rain descend upon me as I make the first run of mine in a really, really long time. Wait. 'Why not take the bus?' you ask. Considering that I'd already spent just about three dollars on bus and mrt fare with a concession card for the day, I really didn't want to incur more weight loss on my already anorexic wallet. Inspired partially by the fact that I was getting severely wet, the fact that I wanted to get home as quick as possible so i get finally get some rest, as well as the fact that I was about to get royally floorwiped by my parents for getting back so late the fifteenth time in a row, I decided to run.

By the time I entered the dairy farm stretch, I realised that a subtle, serene scene lay before me. The street lights emitted soft pinkish-purple glows, which reflected delicately off the falling crystal droplets of water, and the overall effect brought to mind images of picturesque fantasy, a la Stardust (Which is a really great movie by the way). Nevertheless, it's hard to appreciate such things when you begin to feel like you just swam with your clothes on, so I popped the key into the door and ducked into the cover of my starkly boring kitchen, only to end up here. On hindsight, it seems that the pink picture of perfection was probably not exactly some miracle of nature, but rather the blood rushing into my head at breakneck speeds, sans the neck breaking. And then again, a break from the shit of reality never hurt though.

Oh if you were wondering, I found this chapter off a book by Northrop Frye, and I decided to associate my blog with some famous guy. Ha. This also goes to show that contrary to my online msn status, I actually have been trying to do something for EE! And yet, the very fact that here I am writing a sodding blog post sheds some light on the reality of affairs. Oh am I screwed.

I shall end my rant now. I hope this makes up for a really long dry period of lack of postings

the view from here,
2'2"

2007-09-27T20:53:00.000+08:00

Closing Down The Pattern Department

It appears we have a problem down here,
Pieces of your world fit rough round the edges.
Token sums and broken runs of records
Played once too many. Hope filters through mere
Gaps, pilfer us of reason and of sense.
Restore the rhetoric that had us run
Care-less then, yet wrought with wrongs done.
Fix it right up we thought this would, immense
Stupidity or blind faith gone good?
Pick up the pieces, leave the picture hanging
There. Perspective’s a wonderful excuse,
For ignoring the negative you could
Live another day to tell some others
The do’s, the wont’s and the don’t bothers.

Hoho my mediocre first attempt at sonnet writing!
Following a recipe of one part inspiration from English class, and one part stress relief for the upcoming final exams. Take a tablespoon of stress, stir in with a cup of anxiety and place in oven on a timer that's probably longer than the time i have left, and add utter frustration to taste. Serve chilled. Or on the verge of over-boiling, seeing how chilled is the last thing i feel right now. I definitely need to make myself another ice latte.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-09-10T21:15:00.000+08:00

Smile Like You Mean It

It seems to many that a smile means something positive, a semblance of happiness at least partially present in the bearer of it. Yet, how much of this age old stream of thought still stands? You probably have heard of people telling their children not to "show a black face", and that it affects the mood of everyone around. That's some great social observation and application there isn't it? The world could do with less sadness, so let's start by not being sad ourselves. Simple enough a theory, it just might work.

And then again, the thing about such theories is that they are just that. Theories. Trying to move the momentum of your mood in the socially acceptable direction just happens to have this way of backfiring and blowing the hydrogen right out of your hot air balloon. And yet, isn't it so much easier to just stick with the acceptable? A happy person makes everyone happy. Sure he would, wouldn't he, since a happy person wouldn't be radiating any negative emotion in their general direction.
There definitely will be those who wouldn't give two shits to the public opinion, and go their own self-fulfilling way down that road of less traffic lights. And then again, traffic lights are there for a reason. A pretty good one too.
Then we have those who genuinely want to up the relative positive of the mood of all parties involved, for it feels good for others to feel good.

Undoubtedly so, either way we have a situation where the happy face seems to bring just about that many more better outcomes, and hey so shouldn't that be the way to go? After all it sounds simple enough, and everyone benefits.
Therein lies the problem where sometimes you never really get to that point where the benefits can even be reaped. Your emotion trip just met with the roadblock of the across the causeway kind, and your tank's empty from the get go. It's no wonder it's so hard to pinpoint just why the smile seems so handy a tool to use when the vehicle breaks down, since there wasn't much to pinpoint from in the beginning, other than that your mood happened to have this cruddy core.

Maybe the smile may be easy as easy to pull off as it is to put on, but hell it's only easy because not doing so would be worse.

We don't all try to give
Politician smiles,
Eyes and teeth and the
Obligatory wave.
But such a picture perfect
Perspective covers up
Wholly well the hole
That lies on the inside.
Not because we want
To, but because You
Do.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-08-31T23:42:00.000+08:00

Walk With Me

Wow. It's been close to a month since I last posted, and I sure miss it. Maybe you took my inactivity to be a sign of abandonment. But alas! Such abandonment is not to be so until I so say so. Sadly every time I've been wanting to post there's been a lack of either a) text to type, or b) photos that have at least some vague sense of inspiration-arousing ability. Nevertheless, for those of you who still do read this, welcome back. Thanks for your undying support, and your insatiable appetite for literary trash. On a happier note, say hello to my new friend, D40x. Technicalities aside, it fulfils all util points and happiness quotients for the present, as I allow myself to obessess incessantly about how I actually now have a camera which doesn't stop to ring or vibrate half way through trying to take a photo. Perhaps the only sad thing is that I can't exactly play tennis with it. Depressing, I know, but a worthwhile trade for something with what, three times the amount of megapixels? I promised less technical talk, so I'll conclude my rant for today, but if ever you have cravings for ravings, you know who to look for.

The gray road stretches
Up ahead, but hey, don't we
Enjoy the going?

We're back in business.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-07-27T23:50:00.000+08:00

Smoke And Mirrors

The stage beckons you back.
Flooded with lights but your soul silhouetted,
Faces filled with conviction, but spirits that slowly weaken.
The crowd goes wild.

Adrenaline pumped like an amp
In overdrive, distortion turned up to
Eleven. Where at that same hour you know you meant
To tell them that this is who you are.
The crowd goes wild.

The night is over,
Left for you to remember.
Maybe some day they'll understand.
But until then this you can savour.
The crowd goes wild.

Sorry for the really blurry pictures, it doesn't really do justice to the event.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-07-04T23:04:00.000+08:00

Holding On

In vast spaces of black,
Everything else is filled with lack,
Simple signs of weakness show
Louder, when they in darkness glow.
Nothing seems more present than
Nothing.

Yet,
Things not seen can't help but gleam,
When on such like these you can lean,
Bringing burden upon this one,
Where willingly it's deemed gone.
The greatest present for the
Present.

the view from here,
2'2"

2007-06-30T21:55:00.000+08:00

Revisiting

You knew it was coming sooner or later. This photo just had to rear its ugly rear at you again from the safety of its net of the world-wide variety. Somehow things which happen have this way of happening that makes you wish that they never had happened. It makes you wonder why when you had to take the road of life, why you had to have chose the highway with the road accident, I mean, collision ('accident' implies that there's no one to blame. haha. hot fuzz!) But then you realise that after all, all roads lead to Rome right? And since you're travelling on the road, the fact that the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains, means that your journey is pretty much independent on whether the weather stays in your favour or not. Plus, now you know that the grass isn't simply just greener on the other side, but probably rather waterlogged at that. With this in mind, you can now champion the cause of travelling without having to have worried about getting your salted peanuts. You can now have your PIE and love it, knowing that the CBD has its ERP and hence suffers a notable amount of GST. Now you know that quantum is bollocks anyway, as who really cares where your particle will end up, as long as you get bacon for breakfast the next day. It might also dawn on you, after dusk perhaps, that not everything matters, but the things which do, matter a lot.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-06-30T01:26:00.000+08:00

The Shadow Proves The Sunshine

Pursued by your shadow,
Haunted by the sun.
Plagued by the present,
Embrace the to come.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-06-15T10:56:00.000+08:00

Lunch For The Sky

The blur here is unrelentingly painful, but I could always use the explaination, or excuse, that I meant for it to look painterly. So there.

I tried to not just get the beach, but the people involved as well. Sadly, I don't think they really wanted to be involved, and also because a guy with a phone for a camera looks pretty damn dubious. I can't decide though if the people giving massages overthere had a great spirit of determination, or if they were just being pains in our asses (which they would subsequently try to massage away. Oh the horror). Though I think I'll stick to avoiding them for now.

It is not often when the intangible nature of the sky has the opportunity to overwhelm the solid state that is the ground we stand on. Now I've seen clouds from both sides, silver linings could very well mean something which would get caught at airport security.

And that deviously majestic glow right there is what causes the subtle roasting of your skin to that brown, crisp perfection. Which happens to hurt a hell lot.

Some things cause the world to stop and to look. And sometimes, this thing is the world itself.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-06-02T01:11:00.000+08:00

The View From There

... There being this foreign land of Thailand where we spent a week of our sad student lives, a welcome change to the numbing repetition of work and wallowing in quick succession through our progression of school. Sadly I could not take a piece of Thailand home, but I could take a few photographs, and this is what I leave you with. Though these serve as an inundation of inadequacies which barely possess providence enough to depart deliberation in you, I at least hope that they might arouse in you feeling - be it feelings of reminiscence, shock, horror, awe, indignation, joy, grief or insight. Now enter this painted story, of tales of bravery, bravado and bullshit, where the world seemed to revolve around one place, and the stories it has to tell.

2007-05-08T21:49:00.000+08:00

Waiting Its Turn

Red lights in dark nights,
And all that jazz.

I need to find more time to post, somehow.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-04-23T18:00:00.000+08:00

Perfect

I was thinking for the longest time about how to begin here, but I never could come up with a satisfactory introduction. But what I realised then, was that this would never be a perfect introduction. Realisation dawned on me like the sun dawns on mankind during well, dawn. Only then did I realise how things need never be impeccable and flawless, if only because such was impossible. Everyone wants to have the perfect this and the perfect that, but what they don't realise is how by their definition of perfect, they wouldn't ever get their dream.

People try to find something which is the best, and don't want to settle for anything less. A flaw in their picturesque scene they've already painted in their head leaves them devastated. "The world is a horrible place, nothing's ever right.", such people usually end up saying. Perhaps what they don't realise is how their expectation is the one that isn't right. What they seek doesn't happen to be on the menu of life for today, and they blame it on the chef. Such people, or more precisely their food, usually end up the victims of unspoken happenings in the kitchen. I guess it would be safe to say that it's unreasonable to expect someone to always look amazing, say the right things and do everything well, because such things just can't happen. What can though, is getting over the flaws, because after all it is the little inperfections and idiosyncracies that make something, or someone, so much more special.

What so many fail to realise, is that 'perfect' is what we deem our situation, or the subject matter. Perhaps we should stop trying to look for the perfect, and instead perfect our way of looking. And maybe like Mr Watanabe, when our time comes, we too can agree that indeed things were Perfect. They were all. Perfect.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-04-16T20:18:00.000+08:00

Ignorance Knows Best (Or Worst For That Matter)

Never a day goes by without the age-old question of "How do we know" haunting us. It comes with the teachers, it comes with the students, it comes with friends, it comes with a side order of fries. But maybe it's time we got over that question. Attempting to discover the mode of discovering kind of works like you holding a torchlight and you trying to find your torchlight in the dark using that torchlight. In other words, it doesn't work. Considering that light travels in relatively straight lines (nothing is not relative, or fixed for that matter, nowadays), trying to use one to identify itself wouldn't exactly be the smartest of things to do. Yes, yes, I know my theory is flawed, and my analogies bollocks, but surely you too tire of such pointless ambitions and incessant ramblings over what doesn't really matter. Not like coffee does anyway.

Perhaps the important question then would be "Why do we want to know? No, really." Some have said that man are curious creatures by nature, wanting to scourge out as much information they can about anything and everything. But we all know that there are people who wouldn't give a rats ass as to what's happening, and we sometimes are as guildty as aforementioned. Now, this brings us back again to this revolutionary groundbreaking question once again. Why DO we want to know?

Maybe it's so that we can have that sense of rest. Maybe it's so that we can now change to suit the situation. Maybe it's so that we can proclaim our knowledge to the ignorant. Maybe it's so that we can make sense of this dishwater world we live in. Maybe it's for future reference, to answer that question which might make you look like a fool if you didn't. Maybe it's so you can sleep at night. Maybe it's... I'm running out of reasons here. Maybe I shouldn't look for them.

You know that saying - "Ignorance is bliss"? I'm beginning to subscribe to such an ideal, and seeing that it's supposed to be ideal in the first place, I don't see why not really. If you contort your mind hard enough, you might come up with the same conclusion that I did. You know how those residents of asylums always seem to have this smile fixated upon their face? Maybe they know something we don't. Or maybe they don't know something we do. And after all, wouldn't you rather not know what the hygiene state of that makansutra acclaimed stall's kitchen (make that cookery cum washroom hub) is? Or would you really want to know whether the ten second rule or the ten minute rule took incidence this time? The more we know, the more we cloud our vision. The more we know, the more affected we get. Maybe that's why the placebo effect's so strong, and maybe that's why stereotypes are so wrong. But I'll leave the stereotype issue to Soyinka. Just for now anyway.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that knowledge is bad. But sometimes, the more you know the more you doubt. The more you open your eyes to, the more cynical you get. Advertisements become blatent lies, and Intent gets strewn about the messy room of the world at large. It's things like these that make me want to stay ignorant. Why not, when it keeps the clouds where they should be, up there in the sky, and not in your eyes.

Well, now you know. And actually now, I bet you wish you didn't.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-03-31T22:35:00.000+08:00

Hear How The Silence Screams

It is the deafening silence after the thunderclap.
It is the stifling still air after the rain.
It is the quiet after the roar of peoples.
It is the absence after the presence.

There is a certain sort of despair that happens in such a circumstance. It takes the form of a lingering lack of presence, its haunting chill looming over your shoulder and slowly filling the air around you, displacing all as it does. The dense atmosphere around you condenses as your mind begins to swim. You wish you had company to chase away the encroaching lack.

A drowning thought surfaces. What if you couldn't always have the highs? What if everyone was meant to float upon liquid mediocrity? Adrenaline cannot last forever, nor can euphoria. Trying to clutter your world with the busyness of business isn't quite going to shake the equilibrium and erupt a change. What if we were all meant to rough out not just the lows in life, but the middles too? Settling for nothing less than extraordinary would simply mean settling for very little.
You gasp for air, and inhale globs of frustration. You wait for the wind to come.

It is the deafening silence after the thunderclap.
It is the stifling still air after the rain.
It is the quiet after the roar of peoples.
It is the absence after the presence.

It is the I within nothing
And the nothing inside
Me.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-03-25T21:25:00.000+08:00

The Ride Of Your Life

A gaping chasm opens wide before you, breeding foreboding and causing you relative distress. Of course there's a way down, but it looks too much like those slippery slopes you hear of in stories - those that once you embark upon never let you come back. Here would be a good place and time to sit and contemplate, and maybe even grab a cup of coffee while you're at it. Afterall, who wants to make a hasty decision? Maybe if you were harassed to think of a place to eat a hasty decision might be in order, but not for something as huge as this. Some things require time to ponder on the implications. What if you regret it? That wouldn't be too much use if you were already half way down the aforementioned slope would it?

All around you people pass.

Some stop dead in their tracks, confusion and terror in their eyes - it's not every day you see such an abyss.

Some pick up speed and jump, relying on intertia and adrenaline to keep their thoughts off what lay before them, cheering as they did, but such expressions of achievement fall on no ears but their own.

Some take the slope you had your doubts on, and it isn't long before they disappear from your sight too - quicker than the jumpers that's for sure, but gone just the same.

Some bring equipment along with them in huge packs. It's a wonder how they got this far with such a load. They begin to descend this precipice with a certain confidence, knowing that they have something to rely on.

Some make their way with others, some with more, some with less, some with none.

And there are some who are just like you, watching the world pass you by and get ahead of you. If there was any trace of doubt in them though, their countenance said nothing.

It's getting late, and you should be going on your way. You know the world isn't going to wait up. Just as you step to the edge, your ears pick up a scream and a shout. One in terror and one in ecstacy. You don't know which to let yourself hear. You don't know which to make real. Your legs tremble as a bead of sweat makes its slow and ponderous journey down the sheer face of your face. You propose closing your eyes and going for it to your conscious mind, and it rejects your proposal. There are few people left around you, and the sun begins to go down. You tell yourself that this is it. You take the path you take...

And you step out into the ride of your life.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-03-21T17:00:00.000+08:00

A Word For The Weary

Your burden is heavy, your path unending
You grow weary, but the world is uncaring.
You catch an eye, though an eye of scorn
You try to scream, but your lungs are torn.
Your faith decays as your vision fades
You've lost all hope you once had made.

Yet take heart, this won't last forever
Things usually hurt before they get better.
Though there are moments you might feel down,
Your eyes need never follow to face the ground.
Your burden is heavy, your path unending,
But draw away from such despair
And what you find is a life worth living.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-03-19T20:03:00.000+08:00

Take Cover

Come rain come shine,
Where do you hide?
Come pain come time,
What is your shelter?
Come the weight of the world,
Where do you take cover?

Sorry about the long delay between posts, will try to post more soon...

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-03-07T20:44:00.000+08:00

Amidst

Broken architecture belies
Existence that inhabits
Within such walls.
Found by few,
Seen by some,
It is unnatural to notice the
Natural.

Juxtaposition

Who knows for sure the value of your own world when placed in comparison with the rest of the worlds that exist.
But then again, TOK steps in and argues in your favour, for once. If your knowledge can only be proved by your experience, then this very barrier, visible or otherwise, limits you to know something - That there's a world you can't just step out of and head for another, because it's a busy road on the outside, and your's is already moving too fast anyway.
At least derive some comfort in knowing that what you're feeling is all that you're knowing. The world limits you that way, but perhaps it's so we don't get run over by the numerous onrushing problems.
Then there was the incident of the select few who are able to decimate such problems with the hypothetical arsenal of a mere bicycle, but such occurances are rare, if not humanly impossible anyhow.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-02-27T21:12:00.000+08:00

From Down Low

From down low we look high
Towards the expanse,
Mirroring empty
Spaces inside.
From down low we look high
Towards unreachables,
Daunting distances
From down here.
From down low we look high
Towards the imposing,
Taunting towers that
Tear our spirits.

From down low we look high
Towards the heavens,
Catching a glimpse of
Glory great.
From down low we look high
Towards such magnificence,
Lifting spirits of
The downtrod.
From down low we look high
Towards such inspiration,
Reminding us: There,
Is hope yet.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-02-25T17:25:00.000+08:00

Tradition

I know, I know... It's way past the due date for a Chinese New Year post, but hey, there's still about a week left of it to go. Plus I had to get over the manderinannualgenesisophobia. Five yu shengs in two weeks is too much of a painful reminder.

How long can people go through the same motions, yet with the meaning still intact? How long does it take for that which once moved you to cause you to scream 'cliche'? How long does it take to take that magic away?
Some let the sunset burn a permanent mark in their minds, leaving a residual scar of an amazing moment, only to never feel the same way again. Others let the sunset in, charge it rent then let it out, free to visit again whensoever it wants to.
Surely we can't all desensitize. Surely the motions can still carry the meanings. Surely not everything degenerates. Surely the future's worth looking forward to.
I'll never know though, but here's to making an effort to appreciate it.
After all, you can only lose the meaning of things when you don't have your eyes on it.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-02-20T14:22:00.000+08:00

Search

Everyone's looking for something, but not everyone gets to find it.

Apparently my previous post was too long to upload pictures, so here are two instead of one.
Black and white's the new colour it seems.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-02-20T13:21:00.000+08:00

Unfamiliarity

Activity is the best friend of a man with too much on his mind. After all, mulling over thoughts is difficult when you're too busy to do so. But take the activity away, and you create a nice stagnant pool of thought for the breeding of blood sucking frustration. And this, this is what a sleepy town (You never really know what a sleepy town REALLY looks like till you've seen this one) in a neighbouring country can do to you.

It was this sleepy (read: comatose) town that confronted our writer this Lunar New Year. Despite the countless times (much to the disapproval of) our writer has been to this settlement (I use this term loosely), he only knew it like the front of his hand. And for those of you who were wondering, no, our writer does not look at the front of his hand very much.

Imagine this.

You cross the causeway, and look back at the retreating forms of civilisation, sanitation, hygiene, santy, internet access and various other synonyms of that sort, and you groan. Rather loudly infact. You take out a book which was more for inducing sleep than anything else, and doze off for a lengthy two hours (I did mention the sleepiness of this town... It kind of rubs off). You wake up and spot a house, a house which occupies the only 3000 square meters of land you know relatively well in the whole neighbourhood, maybe even town, maybe even in the whole sodding country.

You step through a doorway into crumbling architecture, and greet relatives you're supposed to know well, but never really could. You collapse into the couch, amidst the cloud of dust that would ensue immediately after.Time passes, albeit slowly.

You go for dinner, and long awaited home cooked food gracies your palate with their wholly welcome presence. For a moment, you wonder why the food and places make an impression so much more than those partaking the food with you. Thankfully though, the complication of picking up pork bits with two wooden sticks takes up most of your mental capacity, and such thought is lost in the grey mess (yes, mess) up there once again.

You go for lunch the next day. You meet many more who you recognise, but you fail to find much connection other than by family tree. You look for someone perhaps even remotely close to your age, and you find no one. Nearby, a table explodes with shouts and yells and various bits of coloured stuff go about in all directions, staining the table a subtle shade of disgusting. Nevertheless, you await the happening of such at your very own table and examine the bowl of chilli in the meanwhile, attempting to find the fly in this one, too. The usual banter takes place in its unexciting tones, bleeding tradition. But more on tradition another time. You make acquaintance with your food. At least that is the same culinary catastrophe you're so familiar with.
At least that you knew. This realisation wafted over like the uninviting scent of your lunch, and opposing all logic, you continue to eat. Stopping is not an option, as your relatives let you know, as they push mountains of edibles (barely) your way. You take heart in knowing that you can't talk with your mouth full, and ensure that this is always the case. Time passes, in its usual leisurely manner.

You leave the next day, bidding farewell to this strange land, the unfamiliar people and the food you wish you could forget. The causeway runs by underneath you. Over the horizon you see home, but then something strikes you. How much more do you really know about things there? Granted the place is smaller, but it still has its unknown side roads and alleys. Granted the people there are much closer to you, but everyone still goes about their own lives.

For a while you think that maybe if not people, at least things you knew. At this juncture TOK rears its ugly head, but you ignore it with as much ignorance as you can muster, for that can haunt you another day, but not today. But then you realise that the people matter so much more than things do, and that even barely knowing people beats the hell out of knowing the idiosyncracies of a wooden table.

Imagine that.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-02-08T23:55:00.000+08:00

Underexposure

Maybe the world seems a bleaker place when you don't want to open your eyes fully to it.

Artificial Eyes

If you look you will
Realise, that all things look
The way they want to

Sorry for the short posts lately... Haven't had the time to post more promising lengths of text without compromising quality, or my marks in school heh. In the meanwhile, I hope you like substandard haikus and dreary pictures.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-02-04T01:27:00.000+08:00

The middle is a line drawn thin

How we hide in our
Ambivalence.
Change has too many
Implications.
Stick to the constant
Equilibrium.
We won't diverge from
Consistency.
Lest we end up
Changing everything we used to do.
Possibly for better,
Possibly for worse.
Either way we'd rather
Contentment.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-01-28T19:26:00.000+08:00

Down The Road Less Travelled

It was a dark and stormy night, but that was not today.
I get off the bus, hardly looking forward to the perilous and ominous journey home. The moment I depart the comfort and peace of my aforementioned mode of transport, I realise something different. The air is dry and cool, not to mention saturated with the occasional gust of wind. My pace slows down. Cars rush by, quick as ever, only to get stopped by the traffic light. The green man bids me hello, and I return the greeting. Behind me I hear the wind grabbing reality and making a break for it. I smile. For once I don't look back, because the journey to come beckons me more. I see a man taking his dog for a run. I am inspired to do the same, but my memory reminds me of my lack of a canine companion. I watch the glow of the afternoon subside as i walk. I see my destination around the bend. My tired legs gain energy from where ever energy comes from, probably mc squared or something, and they take me forward. Just before my destination, a path catches my eye. I wonder why. It tells me why by showing me.

I think that maybe I should sit right here for half an hour. But I decide against it. Such seats were built for those who need them. I see more joggers, covering hundreds of centimeters in a single stride. Surely we don't always have to be going somewhere?

Such is the view from here, but there is no one here to enjoy it. Maybe I am. But that is all. I decide to take the view with me for you. Maybe you'll enjoy it to.

I look down. I see life.

And I think of the life to come.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth

Then took the other as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet, knowing how way leads onto way
I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood
And I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference

Robert Frost

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-01-26T20:23:00.000+08:00

The Night Life

Cars fly by so swiftly
On wings of wheels,
Carrying those who want to go
Somewhere,
Anywhere,
Other than here.
None will stop,
None pull over.
Not now,
Not ever.
Even if I were to wave
Frantically at them as they came,
They would not stop.
Am I to blame?
Their bright lights catch my eye,
Leaving me blinded in their wake.
Oh yes
Bright lights guide your way,
But as to what,
That person did not say.
Maybe they lead home,
Maybe Rome,
But come the end
It's here I'll stay.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-01-22T22:33:00.000+08:00

The Predicament

Surely life isn't all green grass and plush cushions. You know that period of time when the stuff you used to slide on runs out, and you just can't go forward? You could hide, definitely, but for all you know you might just have some guy stepping on you the whole time. We know ignorance is bliss, but whose ignorance are we talking about now?
So you reached the end of your home territory, and you touch on the unknown. It's a cold hard surface, that's for sure. Who knows what people or problems you might face? With every new environment comes new fears, comes new suspicions, new dangers.
You met with a predicament. You're stuck. You rely on the goodwill and hopefully upright moral stature of those around you to just get by the day. You don't want to move. What if they spot you. What if they didn't. That might come to a painful end too wouldn't it?

Time sure flies when you're having fun, but other than that, it's a snail's pace, an unending race, and reliance on grace. Hmm. Don't snails have the worst lives?

Metaphorically speaking of course.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-01-20T23:19:00.000+08:00

From The Outside Looking In

Maybe this glass marble is feeling half-full, maybe it's half-empty. But perspectives don't matter when either way you end up falling short of feeling any close to full.
Maybe you disagree. Maybe you feel like this is the inside looking out. Who knows? After all the grass is always greener on the other side, or so they say.

If only things were as simple as a bunch of differently coloured and positioned marbles, maybe the world would have a lot less frustrated people.

Neon

She's always buzzing just like
Neon, neon
Neon, neon
Who knows how long, how long, how long
She can go before she burns away

Thank you John Mayer, for I couldn't think of much else to say about this conceptual picture.
If you had managed to guess what this was, you're pretty good... Things just don't look the same when you look at them under a different light don't they?

The Simplest Substance

What if we could be,
Much more than what we're made of,
Just by our actions

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-01-17T20:13:00.000+08:00

These Roads Don't Lead Anywhere

A long stretch oh yes,
Going no further than
Where we take ourselves.
A long stretch oh yes,
Undergoing more than
What we bargained for.
A long stretch oh yes,
When we lose our way
On a one way street.
A long stretch oh yes,
How we reach the end
And find nothing at all.

Fields Of Green

It's not often you get an open uninterrupted view as such, and definitely a breath of fresh air to breathe fresh air for once. Not many spot what's so amazing about such a view, but only because the whole point is not to focus on anything, but rather to enjoy the view in it's entirety. You might think I'm flipping mad, but try it someday. The view from there just might astound you.

Line The Way

Trees line the paths we
walk, providing shade that's oh
so appreciated

Serenity Falls

Despite how much one could obsess over how great something is, it doesn't take a hard boiled egg to know that there's always a less than fine side to it all. These photos came from a huge field, spanning about almost the distance from one mrt to the other. Compound that with it's blooming flora and picturesque look, you have one empty patch that sticks out of its surroundings like a bald patch sticks out (well, not really sticks out) on a man's head. Took me some time and an unwelcome shock before I realised anything. Actually, an unwelcome shock just helps sum up my almost tripping on a half-broken grave stone, except leaving out all the grisly details and my apparent idiocy.

Sometimes such realisations, bad as they are, are better off left as surprises. At least for half a day I believed that perhaps there was still something pure, untouched and perfect left in this mangled up world. At least for a few hours I believed once again that there might actually be more great finds that the world has not yet capitalised on. At least for a few minutes I believed that such stunning simplicity still existed in such a magnificent way. At least for a few seconds I believed.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-01-15T20:02:00.000+08:00

Music, my solace

There's something about compelling lyrics, breathtaking melodies, chugging power chords and unforgettable riffs that just can't be replaced by anything else.

And yes, the background is supposed to look like that.

The pride and joy of some

So now you know. Quite the landmark isn't it?

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-01-15T19:24:00.000+08:00

A Hat Full Of Sky

Some days cannot be categorised as having a specific mood. A 'happy' day reminds you of bubblegum and candy coloured balloons, which isn't always the case. A 'sad' day brings to mind images of dark and gloomy skies, which i have actually come to quite like. A 'complicated' or 'okay' day would have you sent to your room for trying to be funny and not answering the question properly. Sadly those days are usually the kind of days you get. Trying to explain it wouldn't do the day justice. But since pictures paint a thousand words, they might do a better job. I put up three though, just for good measure.

The beauty of the sky is in its change, or so I've just found out. Each of its different looks amidst the many you could find will leave an impression on you unlike the other. What most consider to be glaring sun in the afternoon melts away and gives rise to a sunset most would pay four whole dollars for a postcard of. Maybe these pictures didn't exactly motivate you to want to spend four dollars, but I hope they proved a point.

Look up. No, it's not a bird, nor a plane nor the twister, but there lies a view that's worthy to behold.

Now look ahead.

Now go.

viewed from here,
2'2"

2007-01-14T23:02:00.000+08:00

Silhouette

Everyday we pass new people, we meet new faces. Some of these become people we know. Some of these people we know become people we know well. Sadly, that's where it ends. In this world of residual recognitions and hellogoodbyes, who really knows what sort of impression really lasts. It must be awkward travelling through the boundlessness of space on an oversized rock at speeds of 1 orbital/365 days with a bunch of people you don't really know. Who would have thought that the faces of some could tell so much less than their retreating backs. A faceless world. A world of strangers. A world of silhouettes.

Before you start riding on such undertones of depression though, realise that it's not something that can't be helped, and Sherwood put it best.

All of the ways that I have tried to understand,
Have taken me further from the place that I had planned,
And maybe the reason I have strayed so far from home,
Is I have insisted upon traveling alone.

viewed from here, 2'2"

2007-01-14T18:32:00.000+08:00

Welcome to this space, where the world looks like it doesn't. This site is dedicated to those who want to see beyond what they think they do, as well as to those who wanted to see this happen. I apologise for the quality of the pictures, but if you feel strongly against such, then let me introduce you to my get-a-nice-camera fund...

Anticipate

It's amazing how as we progress through life, the things that used to make us anticipate and look forward to with all eagerness slowly cease to do the same magic that they used to. Familiarity need not breed contempt, but it sure does propagate dissastisfaction. Maybe the key to making the magic last is to constantly look forward to it, and to take it as it is - in its beauty. The more you analyse it and scrutinise it though, the more you reveal to yourself for the trick that it is. Why not beat dissastisfaction at its own game by scrutinising it, and realising that it's a trick in itself.

viewed from here,
2'2"