The night stage 3:20 pm

Sometimes I really believe that a gung-ho spirit and enthusiasm is enough to get through life.

I did something new two nights ago; an endeavour I've never attempted. It was adventurous and gung-ho not in a Everest-conquering way, but in a fish-out-of-water kind of way. Leading up to it, I was quietly excited. Then the evening came.

We went out to ION Orchard, a new-ish shopping mall in Singapore, to do a fashion photoshoot.

It was like going onto a stage to perform a song. And you dont realise how inadequate you are until the houselights fall and the spotlight on you. And it is only then, when the glare of the attention fills your eyes that you realise you're not ready for this. Oh crap. And then you freeze, lyrics lost in your larynx, the melody dissolving in your diaphragm. Stage fright, some call it.

That was really how I felt that evening. For many times across what ought to have been a mini adventure to relish, I felt as naked and helpless as the stage-frightened musician. It was then that it hit me that being gung-ho about stuff, especially in artistic endeavours, is not enough. 'Go in and just whack' is what I thought was enough. Sure, we did prep work prior to that; found a model, browsed magazines, pseudo moodboards, recce trip, sewed up a dress for the evening, meetings...but all that was still not enough.

Photography, in this particular case fashion photography, is not an activity you just decide to do and taa-daa. It is a craft; one that requires patient diligence in both theory and practice, one which requires patience and commitment and where competence is often proportionate to dedication.

It is not the first time the concept of craft has come to me, yet it continually comes up each time I set myself to an artistic endeavour. Perhaps it keeps coming up because the concept of a craftsman is rather juxtaposed to what one may call artists today. Not just artists of the painting sort, but all other forms of artists modernity seems to have spurned. Perhaps its also the way artists of today tend to go with the notion of glamour and celebrity-status. So it is not surprising to me if I witness an 'artist' of today pursuing his artform for the sake of celebretism and not in the name of craftsmanship.

I'm conflating my thoughts into a mesh of words. I'm sitting on the floor at Dhoby Ghaut MRT Station still in my checked office shirt, with fingernails still smelling of the office keyboard. I should end here.

But I pray my learning of the craft doesn't.

though its none of our business... 6:32 pm

Though its none of our business that the Americans are getting a new Health bill, thought it would be nice to know about it? Here's a convenient summary of the bill Obama passed.

http://waysandmeans.house.gov/Media/pdf/111/HCare/2010_SUMMARY.pdf

Well, its not exactly not our business. Passing of this bill could mean less sick Americans coming to Singapore to seek medical treatment, means fall in our tourism receipts, means less GDP, means less bonus, means less money to spend on camera equipment...

But passing of this bill could possibly, arguable nonetheless, cement Obama's presidency, and ensures that no nutty dyslexic President takes over. This is on the assumption that Obama's good at what he does. After all, he's so good that he got a Nobel Prize for doing nothing; by my standards, that's damn amazing.


Uncle T

Reflection in our daily lives 8:52 pm

What is it in our urban, modern lives that seems to discourage personal reflection and contemplation?
Or is this question a relevant one to ask? I'll assume it is for now.

He sat down at about 5 in the afternoon and removed the packet of balsamic vinegar from the plastic bowl. He rips apart the technology and pours the sour liquid into his bowl of vacuum-packed salad. He claims it is his 'afternoon snack'. He then invites us both to sit down and join him contemplate about life.

Pak contemplating at the kelong, Tanjung Pinang

I look out the 9th floor window and see that its raining.

At about this time daily, his mind steps away from work on its own and contemplates about life. It reminds me of monastic monks stepping away from the cloisters to mumble a prayer. As he absent-mindedly munches on the oxymoron of instant salad, he asks what would we do if we were told we had half an hour to live before the world ended.

His response of wanting to throw his enemies off the 9th floor is not relevant to our conversation here. But how many of us are as disciplined as he about contemplating life like he does, daily? The Jesuit monks do, and have been doing so since St Ignatius. Surely, there is some benefits from doing the daily Examen of consciousness and life. Yet if its good for us, how come the majority of us don't do it?
We shower daily, or at least I do ever since coming back to live in a tropical country. We do so to keep clean, to prevent a build up of dirt lest we become filthy. We do so instinctively. Yet when it comes to contemplation and reflection, we hardly do it weekly despite it sharing a very similar analogy to daily showers. We ignore contemplation till the woes and toils of daily urban modern life build up until it becomes unbearable.

One symptom of this unbearable build-up is when suddenly we ask ourselves questions such as 'when did my passion become merely a job?' or ,what am i doing with my life?'. Such a possible but not necessary symptoms. A friend recently exhibited such symptoms and it pains me. It pains me because it could have been prevented. And these things happen even to good, smart people.
To be fair, daily contemplation alone is not the encompassing solution. But its a good start no? Surely its a good thing no? I'm rambling.

So what do you think are the things in modern urban lives that discourages us from contemplating our lives? Tell me, tell me.

 reflecting, tanjung pinang

J'adore a Paris 12:43 am

Uncle T

Written in the stars 9:47 am

You hear the waves lapping against the wooden stilts that hold the house in its place; kelong, a house on stilts. Buble and Diana Krall plays in the background. Darkness just engulfs you 360, save for the random houselights along the beach. Then there is the velvet carpet of sparkling stars.

Block out ambient light and you will see the dotted blanket of star-diamonds. And suddenly you realise that the stars seem like they are dancing, swaying to the jazz. They dance! Its so pretty, so beautiful.

Funny how we could stare at the stars for hours, enjoying the constant sea breeze, flirting with my hair-fringe. It was like staring at a show that came to a stand-still and nothing changes. Yet, we just watched the stars, and felt light, feeling satisfied somehow. But we also had shooting stars. Those made us smile really wide. Waiting for those patiently were surely worth it.

I wish I could unlock the mystery of these stars. How they can make me feel like I feel. Everyday should feel like watching the stars, eternally tranquil. But perhaps such magical moments should be rationed to make them, well, special.

i missed it! 11:57 pm

It seems a little silly to feel the way I do. But I do.

I missed the recent run of Giselle by the Singapore Dance Theatre over the weekend. I missed it! And I didn't even know I did till I did. I could not have made it anyhow as I was away in Indonesia, but that doesn't soften the wound.

I know its just another dance performance, but somehow it stings.

I still have yet to watch a classical ballet performance. I must soon.


Uncle T

yoursingapore.com 3:33 am

goodbye Uniquely Singapore...hello Your Singapore! :D

do visit the funky new website www.yoursingapore.com

Uncle T

The Haunting Stain 9:18 am

You realise the blotch on your skin,
The blemish that haunts
In your reflection.
You look harder, wondering why
Its there, hoping its your imagination.
But no. The spot is there.

You turn away and hope that
Out of sight, out of mind,
But it already burnt its
Existence into the fabric of
Consciousness, and it
Haunts.

It gently brushes against your
Consciousness, unnerving
And it just won't go away,
That spot of imperfection.
Perhaps perfection is over-hyped.

Even if I choose to look past the
Smudge, the glaring judgement of
Others persecutes like an itch
I cannot reach, one that may slowly
Turn into pain.

bombay on film: falling in love 11:47 pm

my favourite amongst the lot: outside on the street of barista coffee | bombay

Uncle T

The gift of a book 3:44 pm

I barely knew her, and it was probably the last time I might see her in a long while if not ever.

Yet what she did that evening may probably be what I might not forget in a long while.

All I knew of her: she is Korean. She reads and writes fluently in Korean, Japanese, Mandarin and English. She now lives in Singapore with her family. Her spoken English was not as fluent as her written. She was very fair, with a deep set of eyes that flowed with years of experiences. I caught myself, for brief moments, swimming in the nostalgic green of her eyes. She is over 50 years of wisdom.

We have had brief conversations at the workplace as colleagues in the last month. She learnt I studied abit of philosophy; I regretted even mentioning it because it came with it an expectation I couldn't fulfil. She was a voracious reader, and she expected the same of a philosophy, somewhat embarrassed, student. She started rattling of continental philosophers I barely knew. Gulp. I just smiled and nodded.

I looked up all the literature and philosophy books so recommended, and realised they were all classics, and I never heard of them. So I am no student of philosophy; I merely have a piece of thicker-than- usual paper which said I studied philosophy. Gulp.

Then that evening she pulled out a book from her bag and handed it to me. It was a thin book. It had a cover illustration which would not make me buy a book off a shelf if I judged a book by its cover, which I admittedly do far too often. She said I could have it. It was a Korean-published English copy of Khalil Gibran's 'The Prophet'. I was stumped, but before I could process what just happened, she went on sheepish about the fact it was a cheap copy, it had Korean annotations, it was not new...

The gesture was overwhelming, and I was sincerely touched. I realised as I grow older the bar to being 'touched' has been raised, possibly bumped up by cynicism.

When I composed myself, I asked her to write something on the inside of the book. She apologises for not writing in English and writes in Korean. She translated what she wrote: keep reading and through reading lead a better life and be a better person.

That really hit me again.

When was the last time I thought about reading as a nurturing process? When was the last time I heard of reading as romantic as this? I subscribe to over 30 RSS feeds on Google Reader; each day I have an excess 1000 online news articles to read. In the Google age of information-overload, reading has becoming more of an efficiency-quantitative excercise. I really cannot remember when I last heard of reading being alluded to being an experience as opposed to routine exercise.

I admittedly browse when I read; too little time with too much information to devour. It is snippets of information I pick up as I sieve through writings. I often curse at writers in my head when they do not write economically. And here is this Korean lady who gives me a literature book, asks me to ponder upon every sentence, re-read books and says all this will make me a better person. She then explains why she needs no religion in her life to act as cosmic-guide; all her reading has provided all that she might need from religion.

Wow. And all this said over a few pieces of paper stuck together into what is a modern joke called a paperback; at least the Googles and Amazons of our world today have made it so with e-books.

Despite all the words here to describe, this was really a brief encounter of book-presentation. But it really made me think, got my brains firing. It reawakened a sedated linguistic conscious that decidedly went to sleep and turned reading into a efficacy-deal. I miss literature, and all the nuances and textures that comes with the craft.

But I'm not about to overly-romanticise this. Yet, I'm being conscious about a discerning reader; knowing to exercise the right balance between being effective and appreciative in reading. After all, there is no point reading too much between the lines in modern writing when there is not much being put in there.

Google keeps it simple for News readers 1:00 pm

Once again, Google adds yet another consumer-centric application to its growing suite of services that makes me think really hard whether to get an Android phone versus the iPhone come May.

The Google Fast Flip is a convenient way to browse the news, understanding the current blind-corners and inefficiencies of reading news from different sources in our information-overload age of the Internet.

Read their blog for more information on this service: http://googleblog.blogspot.com/2009/09/read-news-fast-with-google-fast-flip.html.


It's yet another experiment Google Labs have taken on, and it just makes working at Google ever more desirable; the continual innovation machine that keeps the consumer at the core of its drive.


Uncle T

Inspiring Strangers 12:29 pm

Where I work now, I get strangers walking in and out of our doors. Sometimes we even have long conversations; other times we even exchange contact details. And at other times, these strangers even inspire; they make you stir on the inside.

Loving couples always catch my attention. Not the ones where they cannot stop gropping each other's anatomy like monkeys plucking fruits off a tree. Not that kind of lovin'. Its the subtlely loving couples that get to me. The ones where the man gently allows the lady to interrupt him whilst I tell them all the tourist information I can throw at them. The ones where the lady asks all the questions but the man stands silently behind her nodding with his hands gently on her waists. The ones where the old lady supports her old man as they totter towards the exit. The ones where the old lady smiles proudly even as her old man asks a mundane question; it is almost as if she is still in love with his voice since they first met.

Seeing this day in and day out brings hope; hope that each day can be more than just routine, hope that there is still love in this world. Not 'big love' that modern concoctions like Valentine's Day-flowers shibangs, but subtle, old-fashioned love; the tenderness that love inspires.

There was this particular couple that walked in. He was dark-skinned Asian, she was white. They were probably in their 50s closer to 60s. They smiled and sat down. They started asking about former military barracks in Singapore, about Tengah Airbase and Seletar Airport; they were in Singapore in the 1970s and wondered if all these places still exist. I could literally see their eyes twinkle with nostalgia and resurfacing memories. There is a certain look that people have when they reminisce, especially in the eyes. I like that look, very much actually. The look of reminiscence, the look of being human.

They are actually British, from Lincolnshire. They worked for the British airforce. The lady went on to proudly tell me that she was involved in the first-ever exercise of the women's British airforce (WRAF) in Singapore. Again, I saw the twinkle in her eye, this time with pride showing in the creases around her eyes. After our long conversation, they invited me to visit them when I went back to the UK. He gave me his email address; Govind is his last name. I am surely contemplating this should I return to the grey island this summer. Then as they were about to leave, the lady asked if we still had Merlion keychains we used to give away as souveniors. Sorry ma'am, we unfortunately have run out, I'm sorry. Then I thought what the heck, I'll give her my own shrimp-like keychain that hung from my orange bag. Its just a keychain, and since she wanted it, she could have it. I gave mine, and they were grateful and left.

But as I waved and smiled goodbye and they walked out the door, I suddenly felt a huge sense of loss and a thousand memories came crashing down on me and i skipped a breath. Obviously the Merlion keychain was more than a silly thing hanging on my bag. It was my last one after giving away others on my travels, and I knew that they were no longer in production. For a moment, just a brief one, my heart sank so far I couldn't locate it. The bittersweet memories of giving away trinkets that hung from my bag on my travels came rushing back. Of how it was painful giving away hanging trinkets that for myself held so many memories, yet there was something sweet in the pain of giving a part of yourself away to newfound strangers you befriended, some possibly never to speak to again.

I guess the very act of giving away a memory creates yet another in itself, so at least it still quels my own nostalgia appetite.

Very soon this stint at the Visitors Centre will end. Next week would be the last week in fact, and I honestly do wonder will I get opportunities to get inspired by strangers once more. Being inspired by strangers in foreign lands, after all, is one of the powerful memories from my 3 years abroad, now but a past I must put behind me.

Free-falling with a smile 9:28 am

Expectations.

That was I guess what the night-long conversation gradually centrifuged around. Last Saturday, Poh Mui and I began our conversation at the bookstore, which ended only when she got off the taxi we shared. From chatting about a stifling social structure, to Indian travels, to workplace jokes, it also started to fall around the topic of expectations. You know a conversation is revolving around a theme when we started to crack mundane 'expectations' jokes.

Let us set the context. There is a hope of a near future that I started out hoping for. After some time, I started to consciously shut out that voice of optimism in my head; that happened when I started getting reminded of the potential agony of free-falling when you hope so high in the clouds. So I stopped hoping, or so I claimed. The expectations that come with hoping sometimes sets me up for an excrutiating smack when that hope fails to materialise. So the simple logic follows: hopes comes with expectations, expectations sets me up for pain, hence stop hoping to avoid pain.

Poh Mui disagreed. She advocates holding on to hopes but without expectations. Hopes without expectations. Is she even human? I admitted to her that I really couldn't fully comprehend such an idea. In my mind, expectations was so intrinsic to having hopes that they were never possibly mutually exclusive. Sure, I understood the theory she espounded, of having hopes but blot out the expectations that may come with it. In practice, having tried for nearly 11 years, I can't seem to do that. At best, telling yourself not to have expectations merely softens the thud of betrayal and hurt I feel when reality fails to reach my hopes.

Poh Mui kept repeating that I should hope without expectations. Perhaps if it was with anyone else on any other night I might not have been as patient. She said that repeating would get the idea into my thick head. And in a way, perhaps it did. Poh Mui's relentless insistence on the idea did penetrate my cynic-shield.

Perhaps its all about having the guts to do it. Right now, I'm standing at the edge of the airplane, parachute on, and refusing to take that final and crucial step off the plane because I was caught in the web of logic. I was trying to make sense of something that didn't. In things such as this, it really takes that leap of faith, not pedantic careful steps of logic.

The conversation that night might be that necessary push in the back to start the free-fall. I've stepped off that edge so many times before in my life, yet somehow I am reluctant this time. Perhaps this is what age does to you. I guess everyone needs that little reminder.

I guess everyone has their different philosophies of life. Some would never even put themselves in that precarious position on standing at the edge of a free-fall. But that is me; at so many times in life I've been there, and so often lept. And each time, whether I landed safely or fell with a thud, the ride was always worth it; it often made me a better boy.

Perhaps in the end, its about the courage I have to be myself, to close my eyes and step off the edge, smiling.

Aftermath of a reality-quake 11:11 pm

I was hit by a quake of reality last evening. It shook me up quite bad.

It didn't help that I arrived home from work at 3am in the morning, a heavy body with a heavy heart. So dragging myself out of bed yet again to work wasn't easy.

Yet I haven't had time to digest the emotional buffet from last night. After dragging myself out of bed today, I started work at Orchard. Lethargy first blocked out the mess in my head, then the bustle of the work place made me absent-minded about the mess: Almost.

The mess is still not sorted in both my head and heart.
But somehow I don't feel as burdened, lead-footed. Perhaps its Ella & Louis on the busride home that is serviving as the panacea.

But I know this is but a temporary solution. I have to deal with this mess directly and surely. Somehow, sometime.

Somehow, sometime.

Back to Changi for the last time... 4:27 pm

I just finished a weekend programme, Choice Weekend. I last did it end of last November. Back then, I went as participant, this time as presenter. The irony is then I was rather disgruntled participant, this time very pleased presenter.

As I ride across the shadows of trees on the expressway, I am traversing across the island from Jurong to Changi. It would be my final shift at the Changi Visitor Centre. All too quickly and suddenly, yet another mini-chapter flips by; tomorrow I start at the Orchard centre.

I have realised from the weekend retreat that I'm still getting used to being 25. Once again, I become the young boy in the adult world. Somehow, people do make first impressions on one's age.

Anyhow, time does fly by. Its already the end of the first month of the new decade; Apple finally has the iPad released. It leaves me wondering what else lies ahead in the new year.