Random Post 163 9:47 pm

I am on the bus home. Same number, but new bus. The seats are now some untearable synthetic red thing. The bus passes through a familiar route, one literally that captures much of my teenhood. The bus pulls into the stop where the ex-girlfiriend lives.

an observation
One observation, other than the one that you now have to wear seatbelts at the back of the bus. I do wonder how young couples make out at the back of buses these days. The observation: nearly everyone on the bus is engaged with an electronic device, including me, in trying to type this. The boy next to me is figuring out some love triangle over the phone.

The lights on the bus are so bright I feel naked. Just a few years back, dim buslights were conducive for falling asleep, creating alluring orange hues that guarantee you miss your stop.

where will it take me...
I wonder where this ride will take me. Hopefully to a place where there is good company, love, jazz, coffee, a pen and a paper...


Uncle T

"i think you need a girl from outside the circle".

"kor kor nicky, i've just re-evaluated my values, and girls are not my priority now. cannot la..."

It is 0748h on a Wednesday morning. I am locked out of office, sitting at McDonald's working on powerpoint slides.

Uncle T

As uncle limps downstairs 11:21 pm

Kow! It hurts.

I limp downstairs. My right leg is nearly useless after I uselessly got injured at floorball over the weekend. Yet I limp with enthusiasm, in anticipation. I limp towards the letterbox.

I am hoping to receive the postcards. Funny how my comfort comes in the form of pieces of cardboard, likely with hyper-contrasted and kitsch pictures on one side. Naturally, all the limping is for the other side of that cardboard; the words from a foreign land.

Yet all that greets me in the letterbox is indeed a cardboard, an over-sized one at that. Walao. In it, is a piece of paper. On the paper, there are many many many many many numbers. The numbers tell me squat. Yet apparently this piece of paper is of the utmost importance. I tuck it away without even fully taking this UK paper out of its envelope. Exam transcripts, so they call it.

I limp back upstairs, still waiting.


Uncle T

Untitled Poem 11:08 pm

context of the poem: this was randomly written on the way home. not everything always has to make sense la :) this is one of them that might not; at least not to some.


Hideous sores that cruelly fester.
Their romantic affection, irksome.
Paper hearts and plastic stars
Seem like vintage memories of teenhood.
I can nearly touch the Catalan sun
Yet all I hear is silence. Cruel silence.
Comfort seems only to rest
In the crevices of life's randomness.
The amphibious orchestra now sing,
Yet all I hear is silence. But
why the silence?

I don't know. Do I want to know?



Uncle T

Trains of Realities 11:07 pm

White tops, blue bottoms. White tops running. The familiar morning chatter of kids heading to school in the morning. I spot the few shirts tucked out, one of the crimes you can commit at this age to earn a place at detention.

I walk past the other shuffling bodies as the the orange morning rays find their way across the grey building; I was taking the morning train to work.

I have done this for so many years of my life,taking the trains at rush hour, to school and later to work though work then was temporary. Sure, now things are slightly different. Now, work is permenant, and it looks to be so for a long, long time. I have done this in New York, I have done this in London. So, by any measure, I should be used to this. Yet, this train journey to work felt foreign.



- a day at work transpires -



I am back on the train. Only this time in the opposite direction towards Jurong East.

A young teenage couple kiss. They smile at each other and kiss again. I smile at them. People on the train are surely more chatty than 12 hours ago.

I have taken the train back home from work before too, both in New York and in London. Yet, somehow it was far more exciting taking the train there. Maybe its because it was all an adventure, working in a foreign land, living on your Own. Your life then was yours to screw up, yours to do as you please. It was solely yours. Now, perhaps not so; try staying out past midnight on a weeknight and see if I will get a text message from mummy asking where I am. No, I'm not whining, but just stating a fact.

So perhaps that is the difference taking the train there and here. These are two different realities, and the reality now is that perhaps it is all less than an adventure, and I must accept this. And I will.

Only problem is, right now, I prefer that other reality more; going home to Brooklyn.

My thoughts get interrupted, 'next station, Yio Chu Kang...'



Uncle T

Eavesdropping the past 11:22 pm

Sorry, but I couldn't help but eavesdrop. It was just too tempting, too familiar.


Girl: Would you allow your girlfriend to go out with other guys?

Boy: Of course I will allow.

Girl: Won't you get jealous?

Boy: Of course I will. But I won't stop her because I love her...


Fine, this is not word for word eavesdropping (hey, I was also busy pretending to do work on my laptop!). But the chivalry and righteousness seemed so familiar. Too familiar. I smile.

I wonder if the boy really meant what he said; I hope he did. I wonder if this 15 minute talk on BGRs would impress the girl and the silly righteous boy gets the girl; I hope he does.

I wonder if I can still say the same things he said and mean every word. I really do wonder.


Uncle T

Living, Not Just Existing 11:21 pm

Today I left work whilst the sky was still bright. It is the first time in 2 weeks.

I bumped into an English couple just outside my workplace. They were from Birmingham, and my lips smiled as I recognised their accent; less than a month back I was there, living in another world.

But that brief encounter lifted my spirit, enough for me to smile through the packed peak-hour bus through town. But it is not just this brief encounter with the couple that is the only spirit-elevator.

Over the weekend, a semblance of purpose to my new life back in Singapore started to take shape. Well, not exactly a grand single vision; at least not as yet. Rather, there is a growing excitement as I attempt to embark on projects that will hopefully lead me to that grand singular. There are many things that interest us, yet only one or two that we are passionate about. I am seeking that passion-object, and it is exciting.

You might quip that it sounds all too philosophical. But don't we all sometimes ask if we have a greater purpose? A purpose beyond being slaves to daily routines we impose on ourselves or allow others to? Perhaps it is just me, but it might just be us all.

I can't stand just existing. I want to live. Don't you?


Uncle T

a short reprieve 1:44 am

Away from the mulling, away from the thinking; away from the tossing and turning of a troubled mind. No, not a devastated mind, neither is it self-pitying. Simply troubled.

So away from all this I will be, even if just for a night in Melaka. I think the company there will be a refreshing one as well.

So before jumping right back into the fray of the third week of work, I am going to bask in whatever Melaka has to offer.

A short reprieve.


ps. Happy birthday Singapore :) I am proud.


Uncle T

Lost in Bewildering Helplessness 11:12 pm

The music froze
My fingers stiffened
The blinking cursor just
Stopped blinking.
Just didn’t know where
I was.
Choked, choked, choked.
A little sense of how He
Felt as Judas came by.
Choked.
Love being drained and
Still choking.
I’m lost in bewildering helplessness.
I…
Don’t…
Know…

I choke, lost in bewildering helplessness.

Uncle T

I cannot order my chocolate tart tonight. 12:48 am

I cannot order my chocolate tart tonight.


Impatient headlights and jazz.
Headlights started to cut and dot the growing darkness of the Saturday night; my first Saturday of my working life. I, too, turned on my headlights as the jazz soothed the impatient weekend cars worming in and out of traffic. I lean back into the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other against the door, propping up my chin.

The jazz helped; it always helps make wrong situations alright. It just calms my nerves even as a reckless and plain idiotic driver cuts my lane dangerously without signalling. Its as if some of these drivers knowingly make a dangerous manoeuvre and close their eyes to pray to their god(s). Either that, or they are simply dumb to not realise there actually are consequences to such potentially fatal side-steps. The jazz always helps; each time my nerves palpitate, jazz walks over quietly and squeezes my hand, smiles and says “everything will be alright darling”.


“Happiness…coming soon”
Alone, I drive from Bukit Timah to Lasalle Arts School. I was going to watch a play “Happiness…coming soon”. I quite enjoy the drive in these private moments with jazz, alone in her tender caresses. During such drives, I never feel lonely when I am alone. Yet, the reality of the solitude hits when I get out of the car as I headed for the theatre doors. That reality hits, and hard.

Good theatre is temporal enjoyment, but great theatre inspires. By that definition, it was a great 55 minute play. Then again, nearly everything inspires something in me. Whether it is inspired to fruition is a different matter altogether. But for those 55 minutes, I did not feel the loneliness of the empty seats on my left and right. Credit to the cast and crew, I felt part of the play. Yet once the houselights came on, I could nearly feel the glare of the empty chairs next to me.


“In my solitude…”
After one cup of dao huay drink (soya bean drink), I head to a faraway place, Portsdown Road. Tucked amidst the ancient trees and the ghosts of British military presence, this was my sanctuary; almost. Here, the solitude feels romantic. Even the weak street lamps have an enigmatic aura. Here, solitude is powerful. I sip my black coffee.

But I cannot order my chocolate tart tonight. The tart smiles at me seductively from the display window, but it is not to be, not tonight at least. What is in a good chocolate tart when you are alone and cannot share it? What is in a good tart when there is no one there to laugh at you as your fork makes a crumbly mess of the crust? What good is it if there is only one pair of lips to praise the tart to another pair of ears? What romance is in a burning tea-light candle when there is no face for its glow to embrace?

Tonight, I cannot order my chocolate tart. Because tonight, I am alone. I am waiting for my jazz girl.



Uncle T

A Good Movie 1:48 am

I am on the flight home to Singapore on an A380, and I just finished watching a movie “The Reader”. The credits are now rolling, and the accompanying music is beautiful; French horn, flute, piano, pizzicato viola. It is a good movie. Or perhaps I should watch it again before I conclude so.


A sobriety
But it is good enough to inspire me to write. It is good enough to make my lips tremble. It is good enough to engulf me with a sobriety a good movie, a good book does. I do not even understand all of the movie. But does it matter? It drenches me in a consciousness that allows me to notice every detail around me; my retina changing size as it oscillates between the glow of the screen and the darkness of the cabin, how the person next to me puts his cup into the cup-holder as he continues to read his book under his private light, how my fingernails hit the keyboard like a lady with long nails, how my lips feel as the tissue wipes away grains of salt after the crisps. I can feel the sobriety on the tips of my hairs.


The damp clarity
I do not know what this means, but this dampness of a heightened clarity of mind is so powerful it inspires both my mind and my fingers, allowing words to flow from both entities as if two jazz musicians improvising perfectly despite meeting for the first time.

The double bass and the piano continue to flow into my ears, into my words. I do not know what this all means, where all this is heading.


Uncle T

Learning to "let go" 12:27 am

My familiar grey hat in front of me, double espresso with milk next to me, I await my flight home. No, my flight to Singapore. For now, I am not certain where home is. But I will get there; I will know where home is, and I will get there. Home is where the heart is.

And now I must begin. I am ready to learn to “let go”.

The opening scene of the movie “Love Actually” is of an airport, and has remained a poignant mental mantelpiece for me. Airports are gateways to change, to alphas and omegas, to journeys. I cannot believe how real those Hollywoodish scenes can be, but here is mine right here, right now. Once I leave Heathrow today, I officially end one journey and start a new one upon touching down at Changi. It doesn’t get more Hollywood-harbinger than this.

And to begin this new journey, I must “let go” of the previous.

I never believe when someone says letting go is as easy as “turning the page to a new chapter”. Even if someone did say it, I believe they are euphemistically expressing a painful process, much like swallowing whilst having an awfully sore throat; you get on with it but it sure is sore doing so. Perhaps it is easier for others, but leaving Warwick behind sure has been and is difficult for me.

How can you actually let go of something that has become a part of you, when it has infused itself as part of your eternal entity? It is not like an accessory that can be taken off, it has become an organ; my university life in Warwick has become a part of me, a harmony so tight like a perfect fifth. So letting go will be at best “letting go”. To “let go” is to come to accept that the future holds opportunities and realities that my past cannot hinder. My Warwick experience can augment but can never replace my future.

Just two days earlier, I was so reluctant to throw out my old clothes. Daddy joked in his exaggerated philosophical stature that a new life was ahead of me and I should throw out my old clothes for new ones. But his joking swaddled me in a profound sobriety that I have to be brave enough to throw out the old to make way for the new. And so I did. Two bagful of abandoned clothes later, my heart wept not for the buttons and made-in-china fabrics, but for the breathing memories they held.

I sip my coffee. I check the time; one hour to take-off.

What about the hearts I got to know, the faces I got to recognise, the accents I got accustomed, the stories I shared, the bodies I got acquainted, the souls I intertwined, the experiences I smelled? These can never be let go off; they can only be archived in the shallow depths of my spirit, the key always in my mental-pocket, on hand. “Letting go” is learning what to keep, what to throw.

The speaker above informs me it is soon my turn to board.

I stare at my keyboard which is more British than Singaporean, my ring more French, my red luggage more Londoner, my grey hat and made-in-china shoes fully British.

The speaker above informs me it is even sooner my turn to board.

Faces, smiles, lips, running mascara, late-night messages, hands, cups, chairs, grass, bunnies, ducks, books, winter, Grey’s Anatomy, dresses with strings, suppers, toothbrush, summer, eyes, kisses, books, tears…

Its my turn. I have got to go. Row 45. Seat J. God. It feels like standing at the hatch before the sky-dive I never took. I can almost hear the MRT train announcements in Singapore. Almost. “Let go” nic.

My nostrils flare, I bite my trembling lips.






Uncle T

The Room of Unfamiliar Memories 7:46 am

He walks into the room of unfamiliar memories. Yet, there was something familiar that lingered; a theatre ticket, a postcard, a face, a lingering presence. Yes. The room of unfamiliar memories also had a keen familiarity. He feels the room glowering bright and dark, bright and dark; oscillating between the familiar and foreign, familiar and foreign. He sits down to catch his breathe. He tries to forget the queasy feeling and closes his eyes.

In this realm of closed-eyes darkness, his mental projector sputters to life. Just like in the movies, scenes flash by; just pictures, no sound. He can almost hear the projector’s drone as it plays moving pictures of a smiling face, a roller coaster ride, a long stroll along the pier… He almost reaches out to hold the images. He jerks back to the reality of the room. It still smells of a person.

The vacant room of unfamiliar memories.

Sitting on the bed’s white covers, his eyes scan the photographs on the wall. Some recognisable faces but mostly alien faces grinning madly, hoping the photograph captures a moment in time of pure happiness, pure elation that will never be lost. We all hope that don’t we, when taking photographs? There. Amidst all the photographs, he sees a recurring face. Yes, it has that familiar smile. He subconsciously smiles as he reminisces that smile but quickly catches himself.

He starts to get fidgety. He gets up and runs his fingers along the edges of the tidied wooden desk. His fingertips contour the tiny unevenness of the wood-top. His eyes aimlessly stroll the room; its walls, its cupboard, the contents of the shelf. Suddenly, he tenses and pauses. He has the desire to open the cupboards, rummage through the books, smell the items on the shelves; he wants to discover the life behind them, their stories.

He wants to discover these faraway unfamiliarities.

Once again he catches himself. He tries to calm his breathing that crescendoed with his thoughts. He tries to push that desire to discover the life beyond these articles. Yet, he cannot seem to forget this desire. It lingers.

He awkwardly walks over to mirror on the wall. He looks into it as if hoping it would provide some guidance. Realising childish hopes of talking mirrors truly belonged only to fairy-tales, he looks at his own reflection and turns away. He decides to leave the room. Not because he wants to, but because he know he has to. He takes a final breathe of the room with his eyes, and walks out.

He leaves the room of unfamiliar memories, leaving a trail of hope that perhaps it will be all less unfamiliar, someday.


Uncle T

The Cacophony Orchestra 2:53 am

The swirl of the washing machine. The onions being chopped on the worn chopping board. He reads. Her life unfolds as his dedicated eyes run across the lines of words. A picture paints a thousand words; a word paints only a partial picture. He imagines all the bits that the words do not reveal. He tries to complete her life-story with only his imagination; soft, fluffy cloud-like imagination which dissolves in the hand. The washing machine continues to churn.

So does his desire. No, it has gone beyond curiosity and crossed that narrow border into desire; some unexplainable hunger. More than the words he reads about her, beyond the imagined gaps he fills between the fonts, he wants to know her. Yet, he gets this strange feeling he knows her from somewhere before. The tap drips into the stainless steel basin.

He wants to be part of her story.

As his cornea takes in every sarif of the words on the page, his being is desperately wanting to jump into the well-thought verses and poetic imaginary; he wants to be in the narrative. He wants to be the narrative. He wants it so bad that he cannot bear reading on not finding himself in the story. He wants to throw the pages into the English summer breeze, yet he knows Regret will hound him the minute it is done. The water in the electric kettle starts to boil.

But how? How does he get into the story? Would the story be equally enigmatic and captivating if he forces himself into it? No, if he wants to be in the story, he wants to be invited in, fitting perfectly as a semi-colon fits into a beautiful sentence; how romantic. Well, perhaps such romance is reserved only for day-dreams and Hollywood. "Damn it! Is it wrong to dream, to desire?" he yells silently. All he hears is the click of the electric kettle. The water is boiled.

He waits.

He still does not get an answer. When will he get an answer? Will he ever? Perhaps it is best he learns to let go. Perhaps her story is best the way it is, with him following it off a page. "Drop the darn story and move on. Move on," a undecipherable voice whispers in a shout. No. It just seems all too real, all too certain that this might just be the story to follow from start to end! He wants an answer, an inspiration, a feather of direction. The washing machine spins to its climatic scream.

And still he waits for an answer. The food starts to cook in the boiling water.



Uncle T

right back where i started 7:27 am

I am back in Coventry, as Daddy puts it "my territory". So its right back in the city I set out from some 3 weeks ago when I last finished my exams.

I must admit its rather surreal, sitting in another person's room, where it will be the final location of my preparation before heading back to Singapore for good; Dawoon's room shall be the location my mind, body and spirit will prepare for that journey back. It is a journey not just of 13 hours, but from the head to the heart as well; the journey of acceptance of a chapter that has just gone by.

As Dawoon's photos stare down on me, sharing snippets of memories, so too does my mind string out polaroids of memories that Warwick has brought me.

It is all rather surreal; having Mummy and Mei being here with me in Coventry, at Warwick, and as graduation beckons in 14 days.

Oh boy. As Mei says "ZOMG". Amen.

Uncle T