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.

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.

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.

Stirred, But Not Shaken

Rejection is a painful affair.

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.

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

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.

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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.

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.

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.

Crisis

I have lost the ability to write.

Let us never lose the ability to think.

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

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

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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!

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.

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NB: Thanks for the fries, made my day haha

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

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

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.

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.

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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

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