it just keeps getting bigger. 1:56 pm

As some of you might know, I'm in the business of tourism. Part of what the Tourism Board does, and has to do, is continually push for the next big idea that will draw in the ever-demanding, ever-savvy bunch of travelers of the future.

Singapore continually reaches for the sky when it comes to tourism ideas. In fact, sometimes I do wonder if we do a dis-favour to ourselves my setting ourselves benchmarks that we are continually pressed to outdo.

But surely, competing with other cities on the basis of "bigger" and "larger" and "world's first" might not necessarily be a sustainable strategy. Just take a look at the latest Abu Dhabi added onto the global tourism map. A behemoth.

No. In this current world milieu, we have to move away from a strategy of building 'bigger and better' tourism products. We need to accept the reality that Singapore is well, Singapore; an island state.

Perhaps the way forward is to be an inspirational city; for our given size and circumstances, we have gone beyond what was dreamed possible for our limitations, and have become an inspiration. It is a very bold side-step, but possibly one we necessarily need to do if we want to continue to compete into the future.

Why try keep competing building better bicycles, trying to leap-frog the rest, and build the world's best bicycles? Why not start building spaceships instead?



Uncle T

sporeboyindelhi 10:22 am

Dear friends,

Having moved to Delhi for a year, you can follow my Delhi-specific journey at http://sporeboyindelhi.tumblr.com.

This blog will still exist, but Delhi-specific thoughts shall be penned there :)

Uncle T

C'est la vie 2:07 am

With nothing to lose but the security of comfort zones, I await take-off.

Cinema, technology, TV and a connected world allows my imagination to get creative on what my Delhi experience might be.

But I go with no guidebook, only pre-conceived ideas I struggle to throw out. But that's unrealistic, to throw it all out. And so I do second-best and be prepared to let Delhi shape the year ahead.

Armed with just a rusty sense of adventure, a belief in Love and the Faith, I close my eyes into the unknown. C'est la vie.

A decision. 8:16 pm

It felt as if it were already mine.

And when I decided to let it go against my passion, it hurt like salt on a raw wound. I bit down on my already-dried lips. My body hesitated, unsure, but a drowning voice of reasonable prudence called out. The cartoons with angel on one shoulder horned angel on the other are not exaggerating.

In the end, I'm sure not wholly based on my own strength, I walked away. Initially I felt numb, as if I suffered a great loss, cheated. Like someone gave me a gift and then snatched it away. Ripped from me.

Then a seed of pride slowly took root; I had made a choice that was more discerning despite it against my passions. This time I followed my head and spurned my heart. No. I followed my head only if wisdom resides there. This time, I made a wise choice.

I guess that is what sets us apart from animals. Many behave based largely on instinct. There is less discernment, less contemplation in animals. Purely banal. And it felt good to affirm my humanity with this decision.

Wah what big decision is this that requires so much drama? Its merely the decision not to buy a camera lens I want so much, and delaying its purchase only until Ive hit my savings target.

But its not always how big or small a decision is that matters so much. Rather, its more meaningful to see how these decisions are made, big or small.

Perfume of memories 8:55 am

That scent. I knew it from somewhere! And when my mind remembered, the memories it brought made me ache.

I closed my eyes as the perfume scent triggered flashes of memories. They made me ache; at once beautiful and painful. But the pain was a numb pain, not acute.

It was her scent. One I knew daily; from the living room to her study room; from the kitchen to frontdoor. Back then, I knew that scent by instinct. It naturally brought comfort, comfort of her company.

Her scent brought back memories, but she no longer was here. Sure, its a nice scent. But now it triggered merely memories; recollection, not longing. I am grateful to know the scent, to have known it intimately. But it was time to let go. Not letting go would be allowing sentimentality to clasp its shackles on my feet, not letting me move on.

I don't think the scent will lose its effect on me. But its time to let that merely be a nice memory to store at the back of the cupboard.

Daily Battle 10:02 am

The grey canvas stretched across the sky like an endless grey-carpet. The urban skyline sentinels on the ready. Beads of rain escaped the canvas like the first-dusts of a looming battle.

And I heave a sigh as I brace for the day's battle ahead, weapon at the ready, awaiting the first clash of steel and blood. I close my eyes to reach for the distant puddle of hope. There it was, I see it; the beautiful sunrise after this battle is done. That would be my puddle of hope.

I hear the first war-cry as my computer boots up, and I run into battle.

Urge to linger, bookshop 7:34 pm

I didn't need to, but the urge was too strong.

It was still bright outside; leaving the office with sunlight hitting my face felt foreign, nearly unreal. Iwas heading home.

Then I passed the bookstore near the train station. I hesitated towards the bookstore; my logical mind was processing through the mental pages of task lists to see if I needed to go to the bookstore. No need.

Somehow, I found my feet walking towards the bookstore; I was in. My irrational compulsion overcame authority over the rational cerebral mush. I was going to the bookstore not because I needed to, but because I wanted to. Though I didn't knw why I was drawn to the booksyore.

Perhaps it reminded me of the dusty quaint Leicester Square bookstores of London. Perhaps it was the urge to people-watch as they browse books; there is something different in their eyes as they stare down pages, as if staring into a different universe. Perhaps it was the irrational itch to buy a book though I know it was cheaper to buy online and that Ill likely not read the book till a year later. Perhaps it was the comforting feeling of walking along aisles lined with shelves of knowledge and bits of our world waiting to be discovered. Perhaps its the imagination that bookstores inspire in me. Perhaps.

Whatever the perhaps may be, I took a one-round stroll through the bookstore. Before I knew it, time to head home.

I swear I feel a little more warm and fuzzy inside each time I walk into a bookstore and linger in its aisles. And my brain ticks differently; it seems to forget linearity and explodes into possibilities. Miss that.

The stirring of the gentlest of breezes 7:03 pm

I stare at the spreading red dot on my Indian cotton. I shake my head in a half smile at where beef stew should not have been. It's been a long week as many have been in the last few months. So I guess I was allowed the stew slip-up.

I jump into a cab on a Friday and speed away from Arab St. It turns out to be a quiet evening, and I'm surprisingly pleased that it is.

I caught a movie at lunch today,  a local movie. And despite the relative short time it took of my day, it made a difference to my day. The movie stirred something in me, as gently a leave may tingle in the gentlest of breezes.

It reminded me to dream. It reminded that its okay to be romantic. We live in a forgetful world where it buries all that is pink, fluffy and cotten-candyish deep within the silent stores of iur hearts where hardly any light reaches. So we need such reminders; the Singaporean movie let light into that deep cellar that working life has helped darken. I was reminded of fighting for romantic love, not simply going with convenient love. Love had to be fought for, with scars and hurts.

And then I was reminded of her. Her somewhere now in Venice, her somewhere holding the spare key to that dark cellar where all the pink and fluffy were stored. With friends all around wearing pessimism as if it was the latest fashion trend, I do stop and wonder sometimes whether convenient live was the only real love in our world today. "Long distance relationship? Good luck man," I can still hear them say.

Has consumer technology of today turned against us? Have we humans spawned our very own doomsday? What technology has done was make daily living more convenient and supposedly more efficient. But have we allowed this thirst for convenience gnaw into certain areas that is not always about convenience and efficiency? Love, ethics, literature...

I don't know. Do you?

Insurance for expectations 1:56 pm

Never let your expectations build. Because when they get smashed, no one can compensate you for them, no one. No comfort will fill the emptiness that follows, no pin will be able to prick the numbness that follows. You can at least buy insurance for a car or for a house. But none for expectations.

Today, I had my expectations shattered and had to accept it with grace. And my only fault in all this was allowing my expectations to build.

No comfort. Just a walk under a blazing workday afternoon sun; I caught myself literally looking around for someone I could burst my disappointment on. No one. I decided that this had to be done alone. Besides, othees may try to comfort me through rational reasons why I should not let this affect me. But such matters are hardly a matter of pure rationality is it?

I have rationalised the emotions I felt after this incident over a comforting home-cooked meal. But the sting of the emotions will linger, and serve as a reminder. But life goes on, so does the work-week.

same place, different men 12:21 am

It has been more than a year. Gavin and I met in the Birmingham seminary, Oscott College.


I still recall how unwillingly I dragged myself from university and onto the train that Easter weekend. I was meant to go to the College on Friday morning, and I was only lugging a suitcase onto the Birmingham-bound train that Saturday morning. Why should I go? Don't I have better things to do? Exams were approaching, I needed to study. There were all the right reasons for me to to go for this Easter retreat at the local seminary where they trained Catholic priests. Was there even a reason for me to go? Yet somehow, the guilt for not accepting the invitation to go for this paid-for retreat was too much to bear that Friday evening.


I took the local train from Coventry to Birmingham, passing all the small towns I never knew existed in my three years there in the Midlands. Perhaps there was so much of my surroundings I missed being so engrossed in my own tiny life.


The typical cold English wind was typical that morning, biting through my coat and scarf. With a print-out from Google Maps in hand, luggage in the other, I made my way across the industrial suburb on foot, passing pub and electrical store and landscaping company. Finally, I saw its sign; Oscott College. A tall door of wood and steel seemed to suddenly appear amidst a very tall hedge. I cross the road; you would had to stare very hard to make out what the signage to the handsome door. Feeling absolutely tiny compared to the door, and with flashes of frightful scenes out of childhood cartoons, I rang the electronic doorbell. Announcing my name and intent, the electronic locks released, and the door jumped open. I pushed open the ajar door and stepped in. The door slammed behind me.


Without over-dramatising, what sat before was like a scene out of Robin Hood or some Harry Potter scene. There were two paths before me, one left one right. One couldn't make out where the paths started or ended as the brown leaves from the towering trees above strewn the entire grounds for as far as the eye could see. Only eyelets of the ground beneath showed up amidst the leave-carpet. I took the right path.

After passing a shed on the right and some small low-rise buildings to my left, I could literally hear the sounds of the city slowly fading behind me, along with that gate. It wouldn't surprise me if the gate was built that big as a metaphor to the great divide between this mysteriously alluring compound and the harsh world out there. As my luggage's wheels jabbed itself with the fallen leaves, my foliage on the left slowly revealed a stone building. As it slowly came into view, it was truly a magnificent Oxford-ish building of about 3 storeys. I was awed as I stood staring at its centuries-old facade. Standing there still digesting the sight before me, I spun around for another hit; there lay a long stretch of flat green fields and beyond that, the city of Birmingham stretched out before me. It was as if the city was bowing towards Oscott College which sat on a slight hill.


But it was at this seminary I met Gavin, the Manchester-born Irish construction worker. Charming bloke with a smile that told you he knew how the extent of his charisma. The confidence of his shaven head matched that sparkle in his eye, that you can't resist but feel sheepish when it catches your stares. Yet amidst his easy charm and his equally easy admittance to all indulging in all the hedonisms this life could offer, that was something good in his eyes, something earnest and truthful. Gavin, like the 10 others there at the retreat, was considering priesthood. I suspect I'm the only one in the retreat who hadn't decided on priesthood.

What struck me about Gavin on our walks when he shared his life, was how real a person the bloke was. He's like you and me, as sinful, as tempted; in fact I think he has led a more hedonistic life than two of mine. Yet, this young man found God, and now is even taking a step further.

Today, I'm proud to say Gavin is going to start his formal discernment as a priest-in-training. He is off to a Spanish seminar. I am so glad, joyous, for him.

But funny how we both were at Oscott more than a year ago. A year later, here I am fat, unkempt, tired, whilst Gavin is excited about laying his entire life down for God. Truly, we might start at the same place, but end up being very different men.

Uncle T

His voice in a foreign land 11:53 pm

"...being placed in a foreign land takes away distractions of the routines we've built around ourselves.

it provides you a place to be so intimate with yourself that you hear the echoes of your soul. and its possibly only in circumstances as these that you'll hear His voice, and what He has to say to you."

Uncle T

woman. 12:47 pm

"by this gesture a woman invites us: come, follow me, and you don't know where she is inviting you to go and she doesn't know either, but she invites you in the conviction that it's worth going where she is inviting you. that's why i tell you: either woman will become man's future or mankind will perish, because only woman is capable of nourishing within her an unsubstantiated hope and inviting us to a doubtful future, which we would have long ceased to believe in were it not for women." 

- immortality, milan kundera


thank you jamie for this :)

Uncle T

Fragility of the body 1:49 pm

Its so fragile, this thing called life. Heard of it? Yup, life. It is so ubiquituous to our being and daily selfs one cannot be faulted for even noticing it is what it is, let alone remember how fragile it is.

I've always admired the human body, our humanness. How these different organs come together like an intended design of a perfect machine, everything in perfect balance. How parts that are meant to be hard is hard, and how parts that are meant to be soft are soft; fingernails-earlobes, teeth-nostrils. Designed to perfection.

Yet the human body, our humanness, is so fragile. Sure, I understand our human being is more than the physical. We are body, mind and soul. But I don't think I'll be blamed for noticing the fragility of the human body, especially in a material world that embellishes the physical. A cut on the skin at the right place can make you bleed to death. I have this perennial fear when I feel my veins pulse in my neck that they would burst anytime and I might die. Yet this is the body that can run marathons if we will it to.

He lay there, fragile and unrecognisable. Where once were the recesses of a pronounced jaw, there was now bloated skin. Where once was a enthusiastic and creative character, there was now a frail body, comatosed. Skin and bone amongst the machines. Where his kidneys were was now a void, empty. The machine with the spinners next to his bed was now his kidneys. Machines. Doctors said he was on life-support; the machines were giving him life.

No, it cannot be. The machines were merely helping him. He was alive because he is fighting based on his human will deep inside that skin and bone. We are individual beings not only because of our anatomical construct, but more so that being of emotion, intellect and will. Yet science has yet to find a way to house the human being without the human body. That our being is a function of our body; we cant store ourselves outside our bodies. Perhaps one day we might.

'The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak'.

...and so for the 5th time. 10:36 pm

"And so for the 5th time, they part and say goodbye. Like the previous 4 times, they didn't know when they would next meet. Somehow, this time there no tears. Perhaps this time more confident that the old cliche might finally have some truth in it: parting is such sweet sorrow.

'Come what may' sounds painfully beautiful rather than pure resignation to a fatalistic view.

And so for the 5th time, they part and say goodbye. Till they meet again."



Uncle T

right back where we started... 2:35 am

We waited for the storm to fall. The clouds gathered till the night sky turned white. The clouds became the canvas upon which the lighting choreographed its tropical movement. The wind played its part by rustling the leaves and disturbing the calm serenity of the water.

We were right back where we started, but only different this time. The storm did not come, only mere droplets of drizzle. Perhaps the storm is still brewing, and will take time before it pours its eternity upon the earth. We wait.

We wait for our chance. Show us only half of it and we will seize it.



Uncle T