Fengshui & Faye

I bought a sturdy chair, and I moved my desk to the window, and now there's light. Lots of light. And I find myself sitting here reading, thinking, looking out of the window into the horizon and right into the sunset. Is good. Good fengshui I think. Is all good.

Though I should be banned from Youtubing Faye. Someone find me another Chinese singer with that voice. That voice that I have fallen in love with for half a lifetime now. THAT VOICE.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH~~~

Tan Hong Ming

Look at these two Malaysian advertisements (out of the many on youtube), and be amazed by how mature and advanced the Msians are in discussing racial issues. Makes Singaporeans look like baby ostriches with heads stuck in the sand.

The hours

One of my favourite films is The Hours. It's a remarkable piece of art on many, many levels. Ostensibly, it's a film about three mundane lives of three women. It's split into three narratives running like a Bach fugue. The first narrative portrays the life struggles of the great Virginia Woolf in the 1930s just as she is writing her great novel, Mrs Dalloway. The second narrative is set in the 1950s, and revolves around a Laura Brown, who is trapped in a marriage with a devoted husband whom she does not love, and who reads the novel Mrs Dalloway and empathises with the protagonist in the novel. The third narrative is set in present-day NYC, where a Clarissa Vaughan (who shares the same name as the protagonist in Mrs Dalloway) is preparing a party for that evening (just like the Clarissa in Mrs Dalloway) for her good friend, Richard, who had just won a major literary prize. During one of the movie's climax, something happens to Richard, and Laura Brown from the second narrative enters the third narrative; and we find out that she is Richard's aged mother. In a way, they're all linked to the novel Mrs Dalloway; and in a way, they are Mrs Dalloway. Art and life woven into a lustrous spiral, and from it, a higher, greater art is created.

Three of the finest and most remarkable Hollywood actresses play the respective leads - Nicole Kidman, Julianne Moore, and Meryl Streep - who deliver the exquisite screen-lines penned by the acclaimed playwright David Hare. The movie is based on the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel of the same name, The Hours, by Michael Cunningham, who in turn had written his novel as a tribute to the great Virginia Woolf and her great novel, Mrs Dalloway. And coruscating throughout this luminous piece of art pretending to be a movie is the hauntingly beautiful orchestral, composed by none other than one of the last living classical composers of our time, Philip Glass.

Like all the good things that have happened to me, I can't really remember when I first watched it, or how I came to watch it. Probably someone lent me the DVD, and an innocuous movie-afternoon turned into one of those proverbial life-changing moments. I've watched the film many times since, and like all great things, like all great novels, great art, I take away something new, something different each time I watch it. Something I never knew existed in the film, despite the numerous viewings.

There is this particular scene in the movie, where Virginia Woolf tries to escape Richmond to go to London, but is stopped just in time at the train station by her husband. In that explosive scene, Nicole Kidman delivers a stunning, absolutely stunning performance, and with the most intensest of dialogues, just pure poetry. I shan't try to replicate it here; the effect would be lost. But watching the film again recently, and feeling all that I've been feeling lately, it was as if Virginia Woolf came alive and was speaking for me, was me.

So the gamut of emotions, of loss, of finding myself lost, and alone, and confusion, despair, and then that intermittent, temporary, glimmer of light and hope. And the thoughts of moving back to Sydney, of giving it all up and moving back altogether, thoughts of all those what-ifs and maybes; what if I'd remained in Singapore to teach; maybe I'd have been happier? Maybe it would've been the better choice? But all these come to nought when it comes to where I am now. I am happy where I am, I'm happy to have come. But the thesis is beginning to weigh me down and like Mrs Dalloway, I can't help but worry; worry if I'm good enough, if I can pull it off, buy the flowers myself in the morning and throw one hell of a party in the evening. Like Virginia Woolf, I can't help but feel for certain that I'm going mad again, that I can't go through another of these terrible times. That I shan't recover this time, that I'm beginning to hear voices, and can't concentrate. . .

That last few lines are from Virginia Woolf's suicide letter just before she killed herself. I'm not gonna kill myself and do what seems to be the best thing to do. But there were times I thought I was at my lowest ebb. And then there were times when I remembered, from the film, that while we defined our own humanity, we cannot find peace by avoiding life.

___

When the month of June was here, I had wanted to put up one of my favourite literary lines. I've put it up in this blog before, a few years ago. It's a line from Mrs Dalloway. But somehow I just didn't get to put it up. And June came and went. And then July, and August, and the winter, all have had their time and gone. Spring is now here, and September has arrived. Time really flies. Like that little sparrow you can never catch, living its own time in yet another spring September sky. One can only watch aside, look up from below, and admire such beauty, and hold on there, wishing for a fragment of time's precious fragility.

.... they love life. in people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.

-- Mrs Dalloway; Virginia Woolf

My night friend

And for many nights now, while lying in bed just before I fall asleep, I would start talking to this guy beside me. It is usually one-way, with me doing the talking, asking the questions, and then providing the answers. But more often than not, there are more questions than there're answers, which only begets more questions from me, like: "why aren't you answering my questions?!?" But he's a very quiet guy.

And last night, just before I fell asleep, this thought occurred to me. That the writing of my thesis is forcing me to confront all my physical, temperamental, and intellectual inadequacies - weaknesses, and flaws that have plagued my entire, entire life. That is, weaknesses and flaws that ought to have prevented me from climbing up (not that I've been very high up) the career ladder, the social scale, the food chain, so to speak. Yet, and yet, I have somehow wittingly or unwittingly squeezed through each gantry, bypassed the roadblocks, escaped the traps, and arrived at this point. This very gate where I would be let into the hallowed halls of academia. Or not. This very gate where I am confronted with all these flaws that I have to overcome, that I must, or else.

Such are the heavy thoughts that have accompanied me the past many nights, to bed, to sleep, and, perchance, to dream.

All while my quiet friend beside me keeps very quiet. So very quiet.

A quick hello and I'm still alive

They say the first year of candidature is the honeymoon period. You enjoy the novelty, the 'free time', the easy life of a student, reading all the great great books. Then comes the second year when the clock starts ticking, and you start feeling the panic. I'm in the middle of this second year now, and the ticking clock is getting very loud, and I'm getting very panicky indeed. And a range of feelings I've never in my life felt before, or to such an extent. Uncertainty, self-doubt, despair, depressed. And sometimes it's the thought of finally finishing that is keeping me going. The thought of all those who'd loved and supported me through the years. Those who helped me get to where I am now. And it's such thoughts that remind me not to give in, give way, and give up. And I am kept going especially by S., without whom, and it is to S. that I dedicate my thesis, my PhD. And no matter what, I must complete this dedication.

And they say the final year is the worst. O-o. :(

___

Anyway. For those who are sick of the propaganda churned out by the Straits Times everyday, do bookmark this fantastic website for your daily dose of critical news commentary: The Online Citizen. For those who're writing argumentative compositions or GP essays, this will be a useful resource. For those who do not want to remain a dumbed-down, propagandized robot, this will be an indispensable weapon. Spread the word far and wide. Of course, there's another reason why I'm plugging this website. But that shall be for another day.

And a quick hello to everyone reading this. Good luck for your coming exams, and send my love to one and all. I know... student life is hard. But it's also the best. : )

Love Singapore

Think back to your childhood. Your first recollection of yourself. Your first memories. It is always voices that you hear. Voices from somewhere, and no image in your mind. The background is fuzzy, in monochrome. But the voices are clear. Someone else's voice. Perhaps your mum, or dad, or grandma, an aunt. A loved one, calling out to little you, a warm cuddly greeting perhaps.

As you gradually remember your childhood, those voices begin to recede. The images sharpen in your mind. Fragments of your childhood appear, and colours reveal themselves: walking to kindergarten, your hair neatly combed, your schoolbag full. A teacher writing big, big letters on the chalkboard, you looking out of the window at the generous sunshine. Your classmates' laughter at recess time.

When you think about why you love Singapore, somehow, it is because Singapore is the place you grew up in. The little shoebox where your childhood memories are kept. The place where you first found happiness in its innocence, its gentleness, its purity.

Think about why you love Singapore, and it is not because of the gleaming skyscrapers in the CBD, as if they are all there is to your country. Not the cheesy slogans and tacky National Day songs. Not the National Day parade whose pomp and pagaentry you remember only for as long as the fireworks briefly light the sky. Not the pledge you recite daily, unthinkingly, reluctantly. Not the national anthem whose meaning you do not know, and can't be much bothered about anyway.

When you think about why you love Singapore, somehow, Singapore the country, and all that is artificial about it, disappear. In its stead are the people and the places that you love. You can't explain it. But you have slowly begun to learn, that's how love is. Singularly obstinate, beyond anyone's command. Just like those childhood voices that you hear.

This national day, try celebrating a little differently. Forget about the forced singing and the fake pledges, the flag that means nothing, the fireworks that do not last. Shallow gestures of patriotism that add little to the meaning of Singapore, to the meaning of love.

Instead, think about the moments when you were happy. Perhaps your first love. Your first kiss. That particular and utterly spectacular sunset after a long and tiring day. Revisit the places that you grew up in. The void deck where you played hide-and-seek. Your old primary school. The friends that you once made. Your childhood memories.

Then, think about how it is these - these familiar places and beloved faces, that make you love Singapore. That make you want to love Singapore. That tug at the ribbons in your heart and that make you want to remain in this place.

When you love Singapore this way, the state, the country, even the nation, begins to recede. When you love Singapore this way, Singapore becomes irrelevant. Becomes unimportant. And when you love Singapore this way, it is a truer, more sincere love for Singapore.

July's almost end

A fragment: I remember standing by your window taking in the view. It was evening, warm, the sound of traffic softly bubbling from below. Singapore was spread out, as if waiting, its street lights coming on, inviting, beckoning. And then you came over, standing behind me, looking out into the evening too, waiting, inviting, beckoning. Night then came and went, but only a little too quickly.

___

In a few months, I'd be saying this: A glorious decade, mine, is almost coming to an end. And what a decade it has been. And how I wish I had written it all down. A memento for myself. Every word a moment. Every letter a memory.

Half-way through my candidature now. I've to work harder. Keep writing and write some more. And then I'll finish on time. I must finish on time. I want to finish on time. And live a whole new decade, in another new life.

___

A friend came to visit, and for three weeks I played tourist and was kept busy. Melbourne was an utterly marvellous host. Salvadore Dali, John Brack, Pompeii, Pinter, the Tokyo Ensemble, the MSO. Then there is the beautiful winter in this city, and how we drank to our hearts' content.

___

How many years has it been, since I first heard your voice? Fifteen? Sixteen? When I was a complete stranger to myself? And it is still your voice that I hear, beside me all these time, in which foreign land. Always this voice, gently releasing this divine sadness. Like droplets of nightfall. Like this . . .

Street music and a student in Melbourne

Every weekend I would after a long exercise of dilly-dallying at home, finally take the tram into the city. The plan would be to find a cafe and sit down with a coffee and book. But that's the easy part. The hard part, being in Melbourne, is to decide on which cafe to go to. And I usually cannot decide until it's a little too late, almost getting dark, the cafes about to close, and I've been wandering around the streets and laneways for quite a long time. It's not that while I'm drifting on the streets I'm always thinking of which cafe to go. One's mind is constantly assailed by the streetlife of which one is part, like random actors rebelling against a script on a stage wide as a city, directed by no one but traffic lights, travelling vehicles, and in tandem with the oncoming crowd.

There's a spot in the city centre where I particularly like to simply stand, still but purposeful, as if I'm waiting for someone. For one doesn't desire to see or to be a madman in the city, inciting fear or arousing suspicion. It's a very musical spot. First the buskers' violins and guitars come weaving through. Then the assorted instruments on the streets - footsteps, conversations, ruffling in handbags in time for the tram bells to come and go - before finally, if the hour is right, the clock tower above you chimes in and strikes, again and again depending on the time, lifting you lightly in this brief orchestra of Melbourne streets and laneways come alive.

And then a student comes to Melbourne and you play not only amateur tour guide, but also willing tourist all over again. But you shun the touristy paths, for they are not the real city. The secrets to Melbourne are not along grand promenades or in mega-shopping malls - they are between these edifices, in the interstices of concrete and stone, behind chain stores, beneath slants of sunlight. Find an opening gap of a laneway wall-to-wall of spray-paint and graffiti, and Melbourne reveals itself: indie bookshops in a city of literature, quirky cafes in a city of coffee, old record shops in the underground in a city of mazes. In a different universe, in a world of its own, a secret gem to discover.

Melbourne days

He sat opposite me on the tram, longish fraying hair of yellow and white, framing triangularly his delicate face. If he weren't all dressed up in vibrant colours, I would've mistaken him for one of those old tramps you see around in the city, always covered in dirty woollen pullovers and always carrying a big rucksack. But instead he looked like Santa Claus; a Santa in white and blue, not in December at Christmas, all red and snow, but at the end of May, around about the beginning of our winter - Here, all the way down, in the southern hemisphere, in the middle of a Melburnian tram trundling towards the outer suburbs. 

I reckoned he was coming back from a footy match, for his white and blue were the colors of the local club. The tram stops. People got on and off. Someone in the streets, a middle-aged lady, spotted the white-and-blue man - all matching scarf and jumper and beanie with a little knob at the top - and enquired from across the streets and into the tram, "Did we win!" It was a question but it wasn't really a question. There was palpable hope that his answer would be in the affirmative; there was an obstinate certainty that, Yes, they had won; there was an urgent desire that insisted on a Yes, they must have won; they must win. 

And Yes, the man replied, stretching his neck out, "We won!" 

The woman shouted something back, something of an exhilaration, unintelligible, for her words were overwhelmed by her own clear tenor of euphoria, as well as by the noisy, indifferent rumble of the tram that had started on its way again. 

a book of my own

I've been buying so many books the last two months that when I stepped (AGAIN!) into a bookshop earlier on, I felt like a gambling addict who'd just stepped into the casino. Amazon.com is a fount of great evil from where cheap(er) books, rare books, books you've always wanted to buy but for some reasons hadn't, and books that're simply begging to be bought, can all be bought at the click of a mouse. And so I clicked, and so impoverished (monetarily) I am. 

Then there are the second-hand bookshops where every book that you think you fancy or want to read is simply there to be bought for a few bucks: cheap paperbacks, cheap hardcovers, books you never knew existed. Even a rare Virginia Woolf (essays on London) and a gem of Jeanette Winterson (an essay on why she loves books) - cloth-bound, thick paper, stitched together with thread and imprinted in gold . . . And so I bought, and I bought, and so more impoverished (monetarily) I am.  

And then there are the bookshops proper, lined with the newest novels and hiding the pleasant surprise of older ones that can only make such an appearance on a bookshelf in a bookshop than, say, Amazon.com can't. And how can one resist a new novel by Toni Morrison or John Berger, once again (and perhaps inevitably, but for how long more?) in hard cover, thick paper, stitched together with thread and imprinted if not in gold then silver or copper or some such . . . and so I bought, and bought and bought, and so very impoverished (monetarily) I am. 

I remember when I was in Primary school, my most-feared Chinese teacher used to tell us how he'd visit the bookshops every week, and how he would invariably purchase a book each time, for there's always a book to be bought. And as kids who didn't really appreciate books the way books are meant to be appreciated, how we sniggered at him then. But now look who's laughing at he (that is to say, me...) who visits bookshops not every week but almost every other day, and who walks out with not one but two, three, four books.

And how it is a measure of my monetary poverty that I weigh every purchase that is not a book - coffee and cakes, clothes, groceries, etc. - with how many books I might otherwise be able to buy. E.g. a mental dialogue with myself by the shopwindow/boutique/cafe would go something like: "by forgoing 3 cafe lattes and 2 cakes, I can own that hardcover Rushdie!", or, "that pair of Nike shoes cost FIVE BOOKS!!!" Sigh. If only I can have my cake and read it.

I hope I live long enough to finish reading all my books, although there are so many books to be read, to be had, and there is only one life and so much I can read. Or perhaps rather, I shall endeavour to live for as long as I shall finish reading all my books? And then perhaps I can drop dead happily, leaving behind all my books, testament to he (that is to say, me...) who once upon a time had read, for he thought life was simply too short not to have read good Lit., not to have owned good books, and not to have known the simple pleasure of the book - in words in its poetry, in stories in its imagination, in pages in his hands - cloth-bound, thick paper, stitched together with thread and imprinted in gold . . . 

(The latest casualty of my wallet as a result of that inescapable pilgrimage to The Bookshop is caused by F. Scott Fitzgerald's assorted writings "The Crack-Up", edited by Edmund Wilson (simply must buy!!!). Edmund Wilson is of course that august literary critic whose complete essays and reviews published by the Library of America I have purchased off Amazon.com and whose arrival I'm still awaiting. See how books conspire!)