Love, this country

Four cities in four weeks, and having returned yesterday morning, there is a growing fondness for Sydney. I can't believe I just said it. KL had nothing going for me, muh as I like the more rustic places in Malaysia, and I was becoming more frustrated by the day whilst in Singapore. I had initially thought of spending a good few months in Singapore next year as part of my field-research, but I think I'll pass. It's no longer just a place where the people are only interested in making money, looking pretty, and being utterly empty. S, who recently visited Singapore, thinks it's a city that has lost its focus. I think it has gone blind, and in its sudden blindness erupted a mass hysteria (very Saramago...) to earn, spend, and preen as if there were only now and no tomorrow.

Some pictures from the conference in KL; there was only one other delegate from Australia, this bubbly girl from the sunshine coast. I learnt more about how to attend conferences than from the conference.

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And then there's Singapore. Other than the presentation at nus, I fixed a new crown on my front tooth, extracted my wisdom tooth, and in between such dentistry and swollen gums, saw my family, mrs c., some friends, ex-students, and attended a piano concert. And then I had my most comfortable flight ever - I suppose the Brits can still get some things right. Fly British Airways (it's a greater way to fly).

Before all this traveling, the previous six months in Sydney felt like forever; yet when I went back to Singapore and seeing everything in its familiarity, it was as though I'd never left. Anyway, I should get back to my daily routine. At this rate time is running, one year is almost gone, my time is fast running out. I arrived at 5.30am, took a little nap before dousing myself in coffee and going off to uni to conduct my make-up tutorials. As I mentioned earlier, I'm really glad to be back here, I feel much more at peace.

.sg

the best thing that happened during this conference was to have met AA, my former prof and boss, and other than that, nothing much else to rejoice. and before i board the plane in half an hour, i think this winterson article will serve as talisman for my arrival:

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Jeanette Winterson

The Times

23 August 2008

Readers of my previous column will know that I managed to boil my mobile phone thanks to an excess of Right Brain activity brought about by immersing myself in writing a book.

Since that unfortunate event, I moved over into Left Brain for long enough to buy a new phone, possibly quite a male phone, if phones play to gender, and I have become fascinated - and horrified - by the Text Templates. Is this how we live, love, and use language now?

I'm not coming home for dinner. What does that mean, other than what it means? I'm having an affair? I'm leaving you? I'd rather do anything than eat your steak and kidney pie again tonight? The message sender clearly has a home, and someone in it who is doing the cooking, but the peremptoriness suggests that if the marriage isn't finished yet, it will be soon. If someone sent me that text I would leave the dinner on the back step on top of a copy of Oliver Twist - just to make it clear that there won't be any More.

I love you. Who is so busy that they cannot write those three necessary words? I love you is always a quotation, and it is the least original thing that any of us can say, but just as it must be often said, it must be sincerely said, and as if for the first time on a planet new-made from love. What shallow software programmer thought it appropriate to turn the stuff of life into a text template? I really worry about these total Left Brainers who foist their deeply unpoetic values on the rest of us in the name of efficiency.

I was at a dinner by mistake recently - by mistake because it was full of people who never read books and feel rather sorry for those of us who do - when a man who advises companies on how to be more efficient actually said without irony or embarrassment that an arts degree was useless to society. I pointed out that from where I was sitting, people who use phrases like “monetise the brand” are insensitive to language and to life. I hate the phoney word and I hate the Gradgrind spirit behind it. “Who is Gradgrind?” he asked.

Send your spare copies of Hard Times care of Times Books, please.

Monetise is not a word. I am all for new coinings but ask that they have some value. Finance types don't seem to understand that language is not signage - it is central to human life. By reducing a rich, robust and poetic language to signage, we impoverish our minds. Yet I could cope better with a text template that says How shall we monetise the brand? than with one that says Get Well Soon. How about one to text back that reads Drop Dead?

I love the speed and compactness of texting, and the playfulness of its zippy abbreviations. Yet tact, sensitivity, compassion, it does not do. If I want to say sorry to someone, the very least I can do is begin by tapping in those eight letters, and not scrolling past Call me at the office, and Merry Christmas, on the way to my inadequate apology.

Communication technology is all about My Shortcuts, and that makes sense in the office. It doesn't make sense in our personal lives. Love and happiness, worthwhile relationships, friendships, depend on time and effort, not the shortcut. We can't treat each other like something in the Inbox, because soon the things we value end up in the Outbox.

A poem is the perfect compact form, and I spend a lot of time reciting poetry to myself - a line here, a line there to keep me in the richness of language, and to remind me that it is worth finding a way to say things simply, but beautifully, and without insincerity or affectation.

Ads, texts, e-mails, jargon, soundbites, straplines, headlines, keep us constantly in a reduced state of language. Information only is fine in any state, but the heart is not for information only; it is the core of us, and a fully developed language speaks to that core. It is why art is so important, never useless, and why a society that misunderstands language as FYI loses the bounce of being alive.

I love you - the three most difficult words in the world, and ones that have been glossed by the best poets, novelists and dramatists all over the world ... not a text template.

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article4587829.ece

KL

hello from KL, i'm bored with this place already. why is everyone here only interested in making money and looking pretty? did these people give up their genuine, long-evolving culture and way of life for this hideous rupture of modernity? sounds like another country i know. it was fitting, though unplanned, to be reading herbert marcuse's One-Dimensional Man under the twin shafts of mahathir's historical erection.

and so i was shopping a bit; i've developed a penchant for red ties, and i spotted a beautifullest red tie at the sydney airport, it was a zegna and i thought it'd cost an airplane, but turned out to be a steal. And so here i was zipping in and out of stores looking for another red tie that I could buy; and once again, i found one, and from a least expected place (raoul). i was pondering whether i should get my converse sneakers here or next week in singapore, and guess what - five minutes later the soles of my shoes came off. so that settled my initial dilemma.

then it was the quest for a coffee plunger. someone need to invent a plastic (as opposed to a glass ) one so that i can carry it around wherever i go. clearly this world doesn't understand that i need coffee, and INSTANT COFFEE IS NOT COFFEE. this morning at the hotel cafe:

waitress: *pours coffee
me: excuse me, what coffee is this?
(when it comes to real coffee it's really either brewed or espresso, unless you're so inclined for ristretto - but it doesn't happen very often)
waitress: black coffee (la...) *sustained look of horror*
me: err, i mean, how did you make this coffee?
waitress: from Nescafe (la!!!)

if only people know how instant coffee is made (chemically and artificially), i doubt they'd continue drinking it. it's not difficult to get REAL coffee. and coffee is NOT expensive. buy real beans from a real cafe, buy a coffee maker (of any type), boil water, pour into cup. that'd just add up to a grand total of 60c a cuppa, and for something that's real and divine, is really very cheap!

i should shuddup now and go have my dinner. i do miss hawker food and i am gonna try their hokkien mee here. conference starts tomorrow, and i hope all the schmoozing would not make me go mad. i really do not like people very much, especially if they're not the ones i know.

happy birthday singapore

When gambling in a casino, the house always wins. individuals' pickings, no matter how rich, will always be mere crumbs in proportion to what the house creams off. Of course, the house will always make sure those individuals feel rich and royal, even though they are not. For those who can, they indulge in the occasional fun and fantasy; for those who can't, it's puzzling how delusional their hopes can be. And for the ones awakened, they stay away from the casino at all profits and costs; they know it is simply not worth the while. And if they are parents and good ones, they would similarly lead their children not to temptation.

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I REFER to Ms Heng Siew Cheng's letter, 'Why one couple is resettling in Sweden'', (July 17) and the replies by Singapore Senior Minister of State for Finance and Transport, Mrs Lim Hwee Hua (July 22), and 'Where else can you buy your home in 5 years?'' by Mr Peter Wadeley (July 24).

... Mr Wadeley implies that Singaporeans can buy a home in five years. I disagree. Last year, [Singapore's] median household income was $4,870. Even with grants, an average family cannot pay off a flat that quickly. It is also unachievable for Ms Heng and her Swedish husband, even if their collective income barely breaches the HDB's $8,000 bar.

Mrs Lim's comparison is incomplete. Nine in 10 Singaporeans merely lease their homes (HDB flats are typically 99-year leaseholds). Freehold ownership is higher in Sweden: Forty per cent live in landed property, 20 per cent in freehold condos and 40 per cent in rental flats. Swedish rental flats are akin to HDB flats. The main differences are that there is no downpayment, and the rental contract does not expire.

It is true, as Mrs Lim says, that Swedes spend 13 per cent of their income on housing. But for the money, half of us have our own garden - and precious time - to play with our children.

She suggests it is less expensive to raise children here. It is true that consumer goods are cheaper here and Singapore ranks third globally in per capita GDP (purchasing power adjusted) and Sweden 12th, according to the World Bank. But as more of Singapore's GDP comprises imports and exports, the statistic does not reveal the extent of benefit to its citizens.

The World Bank uses Household Final Consumption Expenditure (HFCE) as an affordability benchmark. Including goods and services provided by the government, it tells how much one has for useful spending, either directly or through tax. Sweden's HFCE per capita, in 2005 figures, is US$30,000, (S$42,000) double Singapore's US$14,000.

Ms Heng is concerned about raising children here. Having lived in both countries, I agree. The United Nations' Human Development Index, based on 350 indicators, tracks 'a long and healthy life, knowledge and a decent standard of living'. Sweden ranks sixth worldwide, while Singapore trails at 25th.

I am not advocating the adoption of Sweden's welfare system wholesale. But, if Singapore adopts a tiny part, giving parents flexibility and cheaper childcare, it probably means a tax hike of just a few per cent.

I would like to extend a warm welcome to Ms Heng to Sweden.

Jan Sundström

school/work

i hadn't even had time to breathe since returning to a flurry of back-to-back things. school started and uni is once more a sea of faces and books and hurry. i presented my paper at the departmental seminar and that went ok, i got resounding compliments but i think it's still theoretically sloppy. i've to spend the next 2 weeks writing the proper draft for the conference. the institute that i'd been working at asked me to consider a more permanent position, which is quite impossible given the amount of work and travelling i'm undertaking. and i had my three tutorial classes today, one after another. it's a sorta deja vu standing in front of a bunch of 19 year old kids and writing things on the whiteboard expounding the glories of studying global politics. i suspect it would be a matter of time i start quoting winterson and shoving her novels down their throats. once again, class dynamics (or is it the time, the feng shui?) seemed to play a huge part; the first tutorial was great and i talked so much i ran over time; the second one was a lil ugh ... (why're they giving me cynical, mocking looks, as if i'm spouting nonsense?); and the third was simply fantastic, so very fantastic i thought i wanted to see them everyday. haha. thankfully it's the weekend, and i'll get some breather, and return to the happy grind again. 

Melbourne

The people who know me would know how attached I am to Melbourne, it's very much an emotional thing, and one that is over and beyond the physical structures that constitute the city. And what a beautiful city Melbourne is; city of gardens, of fountains, of trams, of literature, and gradually, of my youth. 

There're too much of Melbourne to compress into photographs; like the newly refurbished spires of St. Paul's, the white sandstone columns of the Parliament House, Melbourne's architecture is, in contrast to Sydney, rather stunning. And the difference is also in the Melburnians; they just seem to have more laughter and bigger hearts.

I loved how gorgeous, simply gorgeous, and elegant, this lady looked, especially with that rose-lined hat, and in a wet market (Queen Victoria Market) no less. 

Melbourne University, of course. I gave a paper in the Politics department that afternoon. The uni has changed so much, not just in the new buildings still building, and the horrendous looking chunks of student housing, and vapid marketing banners and slogans everywhere exhorting you to thinkMelbourne and/or dreamlarge. bleargh. What happened to that old world of staid sandstones and mildewed hardcover books of outrageous ideas and brilliant thoughts?

Ah. Here. One of the few sandstones (left standing). I never realised how imposing this building looked. 

The Royal Exhibition Building in Carlton gardens. One can appreciate its grandeur only when one's not sitting for exams in there. I still remember being dumbstruck by this exam question: "is realism moribund today? discuss", and hopelessly praying to the high empty ceilings for salvation. I used to live just a stroll away, and looking back, I never fully appreciated how much a privilege it was to live in such proximity to this all.

P's farm, 500km out of Melbourne, 2500ft up in the alpines, and it was quite a weekend up there.

For the sole reason that is P, and his pipe, and his Wagner, and his stories, and, his outrageous ideas and brilliant thoughts. His old world of aristocratic Oxford is fast-disappearing, if not already, and simply watching him, old world aristocratic bearings and manners and all, is inspiration enough. Simply watching him makes me want to be brilliant.

And then collecting and chopping wood, lighting the fire, pouring the wine, and talking into the wonderful hours of the night.

Back in the city, with S who came down from the UK to reunite with us all; and how he verbally wrote my thesis over a coffee at Brunetti's.

And this person, of course, who with wine and cheese and S, finished writing his thesis in his head, and getting quite fat from all the eating and drinking.

Melbourne's evenings are always cast aglow, if not in a wild sky of red, then this spray of gold. 

I'll be reluctant to leave, and I'll leave with much sadness. That's the way with Melbourne, the city will change, but its light will remain. That's the way with old friends you first met right here, and whom you meet again after all these years. That's the way with memories, that once lived in time and were real, and that come alive once more, but are never quite the same again.

oh melbourne

Yes I'll be presenting my paper at the conference in Salzburg in Oct-Nov :) the paper will be published as a book chapter, which means I've secured ONE scholarly publication. Which also means I can't go to Italy as originally planned, and then I'll have to go to the UK earlier than expected.

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For now, hello from Melbourne!!! where it's my third day that I can't stop smiling my happy smile. Returning to Melbourne, I fall in love with this city all over again. I remember landing in Melbourne and instinctively looked for the sky. And it was grey, a glorious Melbourne grey, right in the middle of its grey winter, accompanied by that cold.. a colder cold, a cosier, a kinder cold. And I know I’m back in the city that I love. 

I feel so happy to be back...

What is it about Melbourne? Is it the stubborn memories of those times long past, those early wintry walks to uni and aimless scorching summer in the shade? Is it its laneways and old stones and desultory chapels? Is it its cafes and coffees, cakes and pastries? Is it the artistic air? Is it the trams? The friendlier people? Is it just Melbourne? 

I’m putting up at P’s institute, and it’s an absolutely fantastic place to stay. I love the huge bay windows in my room that let in light right onto the bed. Sometimes while lying on my pillow, right above me is the moon, sometimes full, always surrounded by stars. This place is like a sanctuary for troubled souls, and I feel completely at peace here, all light and all quiet.

In fact I was thinking of going back to Sydney, pack everything up, rent a car, and drive it all down to Melbourne. But a few hours after my arrival, I was asked by a lecturer to tutor three classes for him next semester. Which means I'll have to abandon my capricious plans to escape to Melbourne, and stay put in Sydney. Which also means I'll have 75 first-year undergrads as my students, and I get to play teacher again. *evil laughter*

I'll post pictures soon, probably next week when I return from P's farm: looking forward to spending a few days in the middle of nowhere with no telephone and no net and just the good old peace, quiet, and solitude with a good old pipe-puffing professor. 

esperanza

That's the Esperanza, the Greenpeace ship that docked in Sydney two weeks ago. J and I hopped onto the ferry and cruised over the harbour as well as one of the most beautiful Sydney afternoons to another side, just to have a chance to hop onto the ship and have a tour around. People tend to shy way from Greenpeace because whenever this name appears, images of violent, crazed protestors come to mind. And it's true, Greenpeace can get aggressive (but never violent), and their members are wildly passionate people who care greatly for the environment. You may not agree with some of their tactics and beliefs, but you can't quite say you don't care about our haywire environment and dying planet. At least someone is doing something about it.

I'm tempted to bring in Chee Soon Juan here, for there're interesting parallels. Through skillful use of words and manipulation of phrases and perspectives, the Singaporean propaganda (i.e. Straits Times etc.) so successfully demonised Chee Soon Juan that whenever that name comes up, one immediately think of a raving madman. One almost never remember this was a man who was a university lecturer. Yet all our notions and perceptions of university lecturers - measured tones, eloquent sentences, brilliant minds - don't fall onto our visual imaging of Chee. Why? Have we ever heard him rave, bark, shout? Yes, perhaps, through the paraphrases and skewed reportage from the media, but never in person. Because in fact, Chee has never raved - he's not a madman that we have come to think he is. Have we ever heard him speak at Hong Lim Park, or logged onto Youtube for videos of his speeches and interviews and protests, or read his side of the story on his SDP website? No. Because the media has done the reporting for us. Because we don't need to form our own opinions. Because we don't have a mind of our own. Because ... it's better not to think about it, lest we become another Dr Chee (If only we were half as eloquent and smart and brave). Why are we so afraid of being a Dr Chee? Because we'll lose our jobs, we'll get sued and bankrupted, and have no more money to show off to our neighbours, friends, and relatives. Because deep down inside we know we're nowhere as eloquent, smart, and courageous as Chee. Because deep down inside, we don't want to find out why we are so timid and mediocre. Because we know that if we do, we'll be stripped as naked as the naked emperor.

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One of the biggest reasons why I'll never bring up my child in Singapore is I can never bear to teach him the moral values of truth and honesty. To adhere to these two values in Singapore would be to lead a life of misery, poverty, and incarceration. Truth and honesty gives way to money and power for more money and more power.

Having personally gone through the education system first as a student (it almost destroyed me), and much later as a teacher (I almost destroyed it), I've come to see it as a system that destroys dreams and life and that churns out mindless bots. We end up with kids who ace exams because they can cram, and we dump the rest who can't ace and who can't cram, and either way, we end up with kids who can't speak, can't write, and can't think.

We say we're bilingual but we aren't fluent enough to converse in either language. And when you do, your friends laugh at you, as if you were lolling off a foreign language. We say we're an educated workforce but we can't see beyond the As and Bs and Cs on our empty diplomas. We say we value intelligence, yet can't see past the school from where we graduated and the swanky job title on our name cards. We falsely equate intelligence with qualification, though qualification does not an education make, and intelligence is more than a string of As in Math and Science. We say we're an entrepreneurial country but we need to teach creativity to a people whose creative impulses were snuffed out in their stifled childhood. We say we're best in this and that, but all we do is to copy the world and build it newer, bigger, flashier. We say that without the PAP in government, Singapore would perish, yet at the same time, we pride ourselves in having an astonishingly brilliant and first-rate civil service. We are obsessed with labels and categories and can't see beyond the apparent contradictions and shades of grey. As Oscar Wilde starkly put it for us: we know the price of everything, and the value of nothing. We have forgotten that the most valuable things are also priceless ones. But we don't want priceless ones, we want expensive ones, and preferably more than one in different colours, models, and versions.

We're a country blessed with lots of sunshine, yet life is one big monotone with days of black and white. Singapore can be so much better a country, more intelligent, more gracious, more compassionate, more mature, and happier. Perhaps, also less of a sick joke. But the people don't want to be so. They simply think that any otherwise, Singapore would die, and that is if they even think at all.

It is such people and such thoughts that create today's Singapore - prosperous, but ruined.

When kids walk out of their schoolgates for the last time, no longer a kid, the world before them, what will happen to those wide-eyed innocence and easy laughter? Must they lose them, and lose them so quickly?

a sunday out

Kensington park near my house that I have to past to go anywhere.

___

Some years ago, when the people who built skyscrapers and cathedrals finally finished what they had set out to do, that is, to build skyscrapers and cathedrals, one with lots of concrete and the other with lots of sandstone, they discovered an empty piece of land left forgotten right in the middle of the city. They couldn’t remove the land because that would simply and swiftly replace it with another empty piece of land. They didn’t want to build things on it because that would add more weight to an already heavy city. So they agreed to hide the vacant plot. They paved some footpaths and manicured the bushes and the grass that had begun to sprout from the neglected earth, and planted some trees with hard sturdy trunks that were bent at a diagonal, and whatever concrete and sandstone that were left were used to line the little kerbs, shape a fountain decorated with naked angels, and erect a memorial for the war dead, lest we forget. The land that couldn’t be removed was now hidden from view, and to celebrate this simple feat of ingenuity, they decided to call it Hyde Park.

St Mary's Cathedral at the tip of Hyde Park

Hyde Park comes alive on Sundays, as if preparing to go to church. Bordered by thick roads, the sound of traffic is never far away, like waves lapping on a nearby shore. Only perhaps less soothing; only this time the blue is up in the sky, an endless inscrutable dome with no beyond. Sometimes, the church bells toll, and would certainly toll again when the Pope descends onto the city next week, and give his blessings to believers and non-believers alike. I am not a believer – when there is too much light, I step onto a man’s shadow and await another shade. This was just what I did earlier, stepping onto other people’s shadows in the park, while skateboarders went zooming past, catching wind in their wind-ruffled hair, while a dandy in white tapered trousers and brown moccasins and a pink sweater hiding the colour of his shirt played the flaneur, looking at no one but at himself, while a lone youth sat on a corner bench reading the last few pages of a very thick novel, while lovers and pigeons cavorted on the sloping grass beside each other, separated by breadcrumbs and cheese, where a sermon of fire and brimstone was delivered from the pulpit in the cathedral, while its stained-glass windows of Mary and Child looked serenely out, to somewhere, the sound of bagpipes, and the Scottish highlands seemed nearby.

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Japanese and Aussie hiphop dancers

erm ...

F is German and he's just found salvation in the city - bread, pretzel and beer from his hometown

I had something called kassler, that had the b-e-s-t porkribs I'd ever tasted

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Who am I?

The story behind Hyde Park is of course not real. I made it up just then out of boredom. I don't know how Hyde Park came into existence, just as I don't know how I came into existence. There's probably a factual explanation, a truer truth somewhere. Often we don't bother to find out, and it doesn't really matter anyway, because even more often, excavating for the ultimate truth is a futile exercise when there is seldom such a thing as one truth, when there are only multiple truths and that they change with time and they merge into fiction. The question of Who am I always invites a tale, either as pure story or some embroidery. I'm a doctoral student in the humanities who loves literature, doesn't club and smoke and do those fancy shopping and pretty money things and am impressed and fascinated by, and inexplicably attracted to people and things that're somewhat average, quotidian and pedestrian, without affectation and artifice, and especially if accompanied, naturally, by some poetry, coffee, and a waft of cigarette smoke from outside the window, and these are fancies consequent of having spent an inordinate amount of time reading and daydreaming in cafes, buses, trains, and sometimes on planes, and whatever time is left I swim and run, and when I run out of time, I panic and start scribbling out my thesis. But this story will change in time - it might not even, like a dream, come true. But does it matter who tells stories, as long as there are stories to be told?

out of character(s)

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