It's actually been sometime since I sat down proper and wrote things down here. My last few entries have been written in a hurry, my mind elsewhere, myself heading elsewhere. I can't believe I've been on the move for the last three months, and the whole traipse across Europe just flash past my mind in a psychedelic blur lasting all of two seconds. I can't believe in a little more than a month, I'll be packing my last four months back into my suitcase, and get on that plane back to Sydney. When that time comes, and as I walk past the customs in Australia, I imagine I'd be feeling exactly like when I had just landed in Australia, last February, after departing from Singapore. Has it been a year already.
I haven't really had the time to reflect about the ending year as I was putting up at my friends' place in Oslo, and had some pretty big dinner get togethers with their friends and family. It does seep my energy to put myself away and take on a more sociable persona, which is not my natural self. And before I know it, half of January has gone.
What was 2008 for me like? That year opened with the ongoing ennui of being in Singapore, along with its attendant frustrations, until I left. I wouldn't say I had to adjust to a new environment, though I had only visited Sydney once some years back. But it was a new university, a new place I stayed, got to know many new friends, of course. Everyone was a new friend. I discovered that communal living was not for me, a little too late, but I got out in time. I suppose being a foreigner, the perfect accommodation is always going to be a problem, until you set up your own home. I got to know a lot of good people, who became rather close friends. We'd hang out over lunch and coffee at the lawn outside the library, or have a proper dinner somewhere up the hill or in the city, or go to a movie, or just chill out at home over a bottle of wine. They are mostly fellow PhD mates, struggling with the same problems like the non-existent thesis, the forever lazy arse, the neverending urge to read and never stop reading (and thus never start WRITING). We indulge in the constant bemoaning of our fates, though we really do enjoy it - the fates and the moanings. We all know why we whine, it's a necessary exercise of catharsis, of validation, of bonding. Then we feel better, and we return to our computers, surf a lot, read a lot, and type out thesis some, and the cycle returns. I'll never forget what L once told me over lunch, that "some people will never be happy until they submit their thesis three, four years down the road. But then, what's the point."
I try to bear that in mind, though I think for someone like me who's forever lazy, and very seldom unhappy (that's not to say I'm always happy. There's a state somewhere in-between, like bochup-ness, that accurately describes my permanent state of mind), his words in fact serve to remind me to try to be happier than I am. Happiness is subjective, I suppose. Some people need friends, or loved ones, or loud music, or a lot of alcohol. I'm happy when I wake up in the morning knowing that coffee is there in the making and milk and sugar are there for the adding. I'm happy knowing I'm doing the things I love, like studying. I'm happy when I know whenever I open a page, any page, of Winterson or Woolf, their words soothe my soul and send a shiver down my spine, their sentences draw out my ever last breath. I'm happy logging onto Youtube and indulging in Faye Wong's MVs for two hours, entirely amazed by how ethereally crystalline her voice is. I'm happy at the end of the day knowing I've done an honest day's job, even if I might wake up the next morning and trash the previous day's writings and start again. I'm happy when I can walk in the streets just being alone and being an anonymous face in the crowd. It really doesn't take much for one to be happy. Know the little things that make you happy, and surround yourself with them.
Actually I've been writing a lot, I just haven't posted them here, because I don't think it's relevant. This is a very personal space, and I say personal things here. Good friends read this space and know what's going on in my life. But there's another aspect of me, a more intellectually-driven, more political one, that needed an outlet for expression. I've found that outlet, and in a big way, discovered a lot about writing itself. I thought, by having a specific purpose to write, a specific target (and I don't mean just writing about what I ate this morning and what movie I watched etc), the writing has become more focused, less self-indulgent, and actually said and meant something. And of course, I realise I need to curb this habit of writing and saying things in this convoluted manner that actually can be expressed in simpler terms. I suppose not everyone can be a Saramago writing his endless sentences and win a Nobel.
Most importantly, I thought simply by writing those pieces, my writing improved. Which is what I have believed all these while, that while reading is very important to improving your language skills, it's the actual writing, the very act of putting your thoughts onto paper, and constantly editing and re-editing what you have written, that you become better at writing, that that piece of writing becomes more polished. If I went back to look at my other blogs that I started eons ago, I don't think I'd recognise myself. To be honest, the fundamental reason why I blog is because I want to practice writing. This blog was started originally as a repository of my scribbles in my notebooks, and that's why the earlier entries are not in chronological order. Sometimes the entries don't make sense, even if they appear to be about something/someone, but they're really just writing exercises. So I'll keep reading, and writing, and write with a dictionary and thesaurus nearby, because sometimes the words I need I don't know yet, and sometimes a new word that I learn remains with me the rest of my life.
Like the word 'interpellation' that I came across a few days ago:
interpellation †pleading, intercession XVI; †interruption XVII; (after F.) interruption of the order of the day in the French Chamber XIX. — L. interpellti, -n-, f. interpellre interrupt by speaking, f. INTER- + -pellre thrust or direct oneself.
It has its roots in the French language, and it's such a beautiful word. Just listen to the very sound of it - 'interpellation' - the light tinkering opening, the symmetrical assonance, the brief loll of the tongue against the amber ceiling of one's mouth, before that inevitable, yet o so gentle, shush at the end. Such elegant finality. Such a capital word of Parisian lyric. Sometimes in our rush to say our say or write our sentences, we forget that words are beautiful in themselves, that words are sounds, and sounds come in a kaleidoscope of tones, music, and song. Strung together by rhythm, nuances, and cadence, it becomes a piece of art. Sometimes in our rush to make words mean something, we demean the very purpose of words. Words are not just there to convey meaning, they're also roses of poetry.
So this year shall have me writing a lot more, writing for self-indulgence, writing for a purpose, and writing for the thesis. And generally indulging in the little happy things that make me happy. I hope you would too. We have only one life, and only so much time, and sometimes, the time to say goodbye is not for us to say. We can only be happy while we still can.
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