Murdering innocent citizens

In Singapore, because of a law, one can be hanged even if one were innocent. The scary thought is: how many innocent people have we hanged already.

I'll leave the debate about the death penalty for another time. To me, the death penalty does nothing - it does not deter others from committing these crimes (or else logically-speaking, there would be no such crimes by now), and it deprives even the most hardened and despicable of criminals of repenting, changing for the better, and possibly do good later on. Come think of it, we let so many imperfect citizens roam around freely, while we hang those who would actually emerge even better citizens and who would benefit society much more. So the death penalty takes away that precious opportunity that everyone deserves - repentance and forgiveness. When it comes to a certain point, we're pitting vengeance with forgiveness. It should be obvious which one is morally superior - and that in freeing that criminal we may eventually save ourselves from someone else's revenge.

Meanwhile, here's a very short clip about why the death penalty especially as carried out in Singapore is unnecessary, and wrong. Wrong because lives are taken away. Sometimes innocent lives. And sometimes it is our loved ones' lives:

cute cute

hmmm... it's not very often you come across a stranger who's so cute and so utterly and entirely your type that you want to go up and to that stranger, 'hey I think you're really cute.'

hmmm... or maybe I'm drunk. hmmm... but i wasn't drunk when i came across that stranger.

hmmm... and I mean really really cute.

sucha cutie pie cupcake.

hmmm...

*roar* :P

How they've made me love Haydn

I still remember how YC used to rave about the classical music that he came across - this particular piece, that particular orchestra - and he would occasionally lob a few mp3s over to me. Then, a mild revelation came in one of those mp3s - Chopin's piano concerto #1. Argerich's interpretation and play, Chopin's characteristically-dark melody and melancholy, and my being stuck in Singapore during the monsoon season of 2006's November, all made sure that I continuously listened to it. So much that it became an obsession of sorts, and a sort of escape from the noise and inanities and frustrations of my surroundings then. Somehow, ten years of learning and practicing the piano (I can't say I hated it) did nothing to open my ears to classical music. Typical of many things that we learn/do in Singapore, my piano education was shorn of context, passion, love, music, language, and life. It was just a daily tedium of practice, weekly chore of lessons, and yearly possibility of examination. Until I heard that particular Chopin, long after I'd stopped learning and playing. And suddenly classical music made sense. I saw, heard, and felt its language, texture, argument, rhythm, and character.

Then, I started attending performances in the evenings at the Esplanade, mainly, again, to escape from the outside world. But nothing beats listening to an orchestra 'live'. For two hours your mind wanders through a kaleidoscope of nature orchestrated by violins and flutes, strings and wind, through the primal to the sublime, and through the beyond of all your emotions you never imagined possible or existed. I'll never forget that day I went to a performance of the Chopin that I'd been listening for thousands of times in my ipod. I think Thibothet was the pianist. And I think I was very moved close to tears, not because it was revelatory, but because it was an ethereal moment of recognition. Just like how another time, a man seen furiously wiping away his tears as the Mugorssky was coming to a triumphant finale.

These days I try to go to a performance once or twice a month, sometimes more if there's a good programme. I no longer go as a form of escape. Enrichment perhaps. They give really good discounts to students, and sometimes if I arrive really really late, almost to the minute of its starting, they give me free tickets.

I attended two really superb performances the last two weeks. The first was one of my favourite piano concertos - Beethoven's 4th. It's funny, because my favourite parts are not the piano's (which is really the whole point of a piano concerto), but the violins'. Anyway, I really love this piece, and it's got a whole lot of sentimental value too. It was S' last night in Singapore back then, when, after everything had been packed and the apartment that we used to cook and eat our dinners emptied out and stacked up with boxes, we decided on Beethoven's piano concerti to accompany the rest of the night. It was one of those instances when a particular mood, music, and time coalesced into an important piece of memory. And two weeks ago I saw an absolutely stunning performance of it, the audience was rapt afterwards, standing ovations were everywhere, and the applause didn't seem to end.

The other was the Jeruselem Quartet playing Haydn and Schubert (nice review here). They had such emotional depth in their playing, that listening to their CD afterwards, I was immediately brought back to that irreplaceable and disappeared moment in the recital hall. They played the Schubert quintet beautifully; it's such a truly sublime piece of music, so complete, it's like a beautifully-fulfilled life lived, fell in love, died and entered the eternal. And how they made me love Haydn so much:

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And E, if you're reading this, you'd be pleased to know that I have come to love Mahler's no. 2. Yes... because YC sent an mp3 of it right at the moment when I needed it most.

Three books

Gosh, it's so hot today I feel like fainting. Just a few days ago I was wrapped up in three layers of clothing and still shivering, and now I'm going about with nothing but boxers (oops!) and still sweating. And even that I feel like stripping off. Being the experienced boy from the tropics I performed all the necessary rites: the cold showers, the iced water, the chilled watermelon, the cold milk, the afternoon swim. But still no can do. Why? Coz the one and only thing is missing: AIR CON.

Actually I came here because I had something to want to say. For an entire week what I wanted to say was bubbling in my head, waiting for me to log-in and type it out. And now here I am, and I can't remember what I wanted to say. I think it's got something to do with . . . mmmm . . . mmmm . . . I really can't remember. I'll come back to it when I do.

Maybe I'll talk about books instead. I bought three books last week because of the joyous occasion. Actually I only wanted to buy one book. More significant I thought. Then I saw another one I wanted. So I thought, ok, why not. Then I saw one more, and I thought, why not right. Then I continued, thinking and browsing, thinking and browsing, and then I thought OK THAT'S ENOUGH. And so I bought three books. Just nice, three:

#1 - F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise: I've always wanted to read Fitzgerald. I remember going to Borders with KS a long time ago because she wanted to get a copy of Tender is the Night. I loved novels then - I've always did - but I didn't really understand novels the way I do now. Most readers of Fitzgerald would probably have read The Great Gatsby. I think it's a great book, even thought I've never gone past the first ten pages. Probably because it's one of those books you know is very good, very well-written, but somehow you already know what it's gonna say/be about. I guess the surprise element wasn't there. But I do love The Great Gatsby's opening paragraph. It's a gem of wisdom to be had for anyone who thinks s/he's too good for other people. And I think Fitzgerald has this gift of capturing and then describing human nature, above and beyond the simple yet elegant and engaging prose that I think is a gift in itself.

#2 - Herta Muller, Nadirs: When I was flipping through the pages, I had this feeling that I was holding onto something precious, something significant. The words literally burned in my hands. Incredible sentences and images. And chilling. I've never read anyone who could write like that before. And I probably wouldn't have known who Muller was if she didn't win the recent Nobel Prize for Literature. And I must say the translation must've been superbly done, if these translated words could still retain their poetry, intensity, images, and send the shivers down my spine.

#3 - Meanjin, current issue. Haha. How can I not get a copy of Melbourne's very own literary magazine, given where I am, what I am, and why I am, at this very moment?

Why I adore the night... and Winterson

I love this piece by Winterson! *awww*

the passing of an age

There's this funny feeling today. I keep remembering the times that have passed. Times when I was younger, in my late teens, and times when I was perhaps happier, even though I didn't realize it at that time. And not only in thoughts, but also the smells of particular times, places and moments that wafted in and lingered at the back of my throat. Those times of carefree Sundays and rainy afternoons. Those times when I was young.

And more than once I felt... fragile?

***

A few days ago I was sitting by my desk by the window. It was a dazzling spring afternoon, and I saw how beautiful the scenery was. First the window - a long, white, and elegantly-paned bay window that extended down from the ceiling; then the building opposite painted in yellow that reminded me of Miami; fronted by a lone tree and lamppost, the sky was blue beyond, and neatly scattered with little square puffs of clouds. All framed by the elegant window, presenting a tableau so literally out of the ordinary, so beautiful, like it was a painting brought out into the garden, into a farrago of light.

***

And here I am by the window again, and now it's night. A last night of sorts. Reminds me of that remarkable, brave, beautiful, luminous novel by James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room:

I stand at the window of this great house in the south of France as night falls, the night which is leading me to the most terrible morning of my life. I have a drink in my hand, there is a bottle at my elbow. I watch my reflection in the darkening gleam of the window pane. ...

Only I hope my morning tomorrow wouldn't be the most terrible. Just that it wouldn't be yet another morning.

It would be the morning where I shall mutter to myself with all the joy and lightness of spirit that I can muster: And the lovely night could only last so long. An age has passed, and time belongs to a new day now.

Secret blog

Ok, do it if you want, if you insist. Just make sure you know what you're getting yourself into. Go. Do it. I dare you. GO!

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And this is a great blog - The Secret Political Blog - all the more amazing they're JC students! I think if every Singaporean read them instead of the shitty Straits Times, Singaporeans will finally grow a brain. Hehe. Bookmark the blog for your daily dose of brainjuice!

never ever

never. ever. do. a. phd.

Is it October already...

I was scolded by a dear friend recently. I had so wanted to leave, and now that I have left, why am I wasting time, getingt bothered by what's going on miles and mile away, when Melbourne is right at my doorstep? And he's right. Why not use the time to walk the parks in the morning, read in the cafes... and ... write my thesis? There're only 18 months left. There should only be me, my thesis, the occasional indulgence of Melbourne. Isn't that what I've been wishing for - doing what I'm doing and being where I am?

I haven't been reading a lot of novels of late, initially I was quite up to speed with my writing, then I got distracted (by you know what) and lost that momentum. For a good month or so I didn't touch a novel. And then Coetzee's new novel came out and I bought a copy, and I thought, 'Gosh, how I miss reading novels.' Coetzee is brilliant. So very brilliant. There's a Melburnian connection too - I first read him when I was here a few years ago. Read his Elizabeth Costello, and then borrowed his Youth from the library. Didn't like him at first, found him dreary and his constant stream of rhetorical questions irritating. Of course that was before my literary turn. . . And when that turn occurred, Coetzee appeared to me a great writer, exquisitely so, remarkable, given that his style is so understated, pared down, and yet, each word, cadence, sentence strikes right into your heart. You see his words there on the page but they seem to hover beyond the page too, in a luminous kind of way. Lambent, I think is the better word. I suppose great writing is transcendent that way. Anyhow, his novel-memoir Summertime is really good, not just the writing but also how he subverts genre and plays with structure and form. Any publication by Coetzee is really quite an occasion in itself.

Then, a few months ago, I chanced upon an article written by the Australian cartoonist Michael Leunig. He was writing about the bush fires that had just ravaged country Victoria, and somehow that article - the writing - struck me. Light, poised, and very touching. But there was something else and I didn't know what exactly was it. I sent some of his articles to a friend, who after one look, said, 'I like how he reaches into the sublime.' And that was what it was - he would talk about his childhood, write about nature and the birds and mornings, and then his words would rise ever so often, so effortlessly towards the sublime. He's like a modern-day Blake who writes in prose. I now look forward to his fortnightly column, and I just bought his collected essays. All very, very, good. Here's one of my favourite articles of his: Gently Downstream.

I remember spending an entire summer here alone that few years ago. Three months of hot days and lazy afternoons, it was a book and a different cafe everyday. I had just bought Faye Wong's album then, and simply couldn't stop listening to it, so much that the songs in that album now never fail to remind me of those days, of Melbourne. I was listening to it earlier on the way to the gym, and the familiar streets, the sunny weather, the music, just brought me back to that few years ago. Those were really quite happy days.

I didn't plan on writing so much, just wanted to talk about novels, and what my dear friend said. I guess it's a timely scolding. It's October already. I have to buck up. There's only gonna be me, my thesis, and the occasional indulgence of Melbourne. I've decided to not do any work on Sunday. So tomorrow I'm gonna wake up early and head to the Botanic Gardens, read in the cafes, visit the galleries, bookshops, generally wander about the city.

Gosh this is starting to sound like a confessional, or one of those shuddery self-help books (that don't help anyone at all). But there've been some bad times, times I felt alone, afraid, doubtful, felt like packing my backs and going back to Sydney, or even Singapore (the horror). But I'll always remind myself of this one particular afternoon, where I had just bought myself a takeaway latte and was walking home and was feeling miserable and having these thoughts of giving up and going home when I took my first sip of that latte, and, gosh, what a revelation that sip was! The latte was absolutely divine! And I thought, *this* is why I'll never leave this place.

Disgrace

Some things your government and its propaganda newspapers don't want you to know: the slums of Singapore.

Have we lost our humanity?

Reform Party

Excerpts from an interview Kent Ridge Common had with the Reform Party's Kenneth Jeyaretnam --

KRC: If there is any message you would like to relay to the NUS community, its alumni and students and staff from other tertiary institutions, what would it be?

KJ: My message is that it is possible to have hope. We can change things for the better but to effect this the Reform Party needs your support. We therefore call upon all Singaporeans not to be afraid, to wake up from their slumbers and come forward and support us. If you share our vision of a free and prosperous Singapore, where your government aims to raise your living standards rather than just to increase the size of the economy by expanding the population, where every citizen is empowered to exercise his or her rights and to express themselves freely without fear, where the years that you gave up to serve the country during NS count for something rather just being a millstone in the race to compete with foreign workers, then vote for the Reform Party.

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!)

O Winterson, long live gays & lesbians!

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Winterson has a new book out! Actually it's a short story collection by various writers, including some of my other favourite authors: Andrew O'Hagan and Ali Smith. 

Winterson has made her short story publicly available here. As usual, the classic Wintersonian story: fragmented narrative, contemplative rhythm, story without a plot, only full of light, love, and poetry.  So I'm getting the book! 

Actually last year there was a book of love letters, and Winterson contributed a very lovely piece. But I didn't think it worth getting as the other writers' pieces weren't as good. Maybe I'll get it if there's a paperback edition. Anyhow, check it out. In any case, try to get hold of Winterson's piece. Is very lovely.

And another favourite writer of mine - a poet - has been named poet laureate of England! No small matter given Carol Ann Duffy's a woman, and a lesbian, and she joins the ranks of Dryden, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Day-Lewis, Ted Hughes. 

Winterson doesn't really qualify for poet positions, but hopefully she might one day become Nobel Laureate! Hehe!

The Name 
By Carol Ann Duffy 

When did your name 
change from a proper noun 
to a charm?

Its three vowels 
like jewels 
on the thread of my breath.

Its consonants 
brushing my mouth 
like a kiss.

I love your name. 
I say it again and again 
in this summer rain.

I see it, 
discreet in the alphabet, 
like a wish.

I pray it 
into the night 
till its letters are light.

I hear your name 
rhyming, rhyming, 
rhyming with everything.

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And this is really amazing. I hope there'd be more of such events in Singapore! It actually makes it look more like a country than a ... factory??

Sex education

And so the inevitable has happened: MOE has suspended AWARE's sex education programmes. Excerpts from MOE's letter: 

"... In particular, some suggested responses in the instructor guide are explicit and inappropriate, and convey messages which could promote homosexuality or suggest approval of premarital sex. ...

Parents are ultimately responsible for inculcating values in their children. MOE's sexuality education programme aims to complement parents' role in helping students make informed, responsible and values-based decisions regarding sexuality."

-- MOE, Straits Times Forum, 7 May 09

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First of all, MOE's accusation that AWARE is 'promoting homosexuality' is moronic. If you're a straight man and loves women to the hilt, no amount of gay movies and gay novels and gay porn and hanging around with gay people will turn you gay. Just as if you're gay, no amount of straight movies and straight novels and straight porn and straight people will turn you straight. If you're gay or straight, you're gay or straight. You just are. One's sexual orientation is not like a credit card to be promoted. duh. What AWARE's programme does is to encourage everyone to be understanding and tolerant of one another's sexuality, amongst other things which I will talk about below. Because only when people are understanding and tolerant of sexual minorities can discrimination against gay people be eliminated. And it should be eliminated. Or is the MOE trying to encourage discrimination?

When people say things like "but Singapore is still a conservative society", they forget that they themselves constitute society. They forget that they are 'conservative' because they are 'made' conservative. They forget that society changes, and that they are part of that change, whether they like it or not. Just a few decades ago, women weren't allowed to attend school or hold a job. Arranged marriages were the 'norm'. So were having multiple wives and mistresses and domestic violence were aplenty simply because the men could get away with it. Stretch society back a few more decades and you get Chinese women with bound feet, colonial subjects forbidden to enter certain premises, and you lived a life without freedom simply because you were of a certain race, gender, and subject to a foreign Queen. These changed because your forefathers fought off the "this is simply the way things are" justification and fought for their rights, against racism, against injustice, against inequality, against colonialism, against oppression. They fought for what is right. Come think of it, during my great-grandmother's, even grandmother's time, it was normal for girls to be married at 15, 16, and start having kids. I believe in today's parlance, that is called teenage pregnancy. Anyway I'm rambling. The point is society's value and norms are constructed by ourselves, and they can change, are always changing, and will change.

I hope MOE will reinstate AWARE's sex education programme. The following are my reasons:

First, it is precisely because parents DO NOT talk to their own children about sex, or that parents themselves are ILL-INFORMED about sex (Ha ha ha. But I'm not kidding) that the responsibility has been pushed to schools to provide sex education. Sure, it is a sensitive topic, and every family has its own sets of moral values it wants to uphold. For example, how I bring up my own kids would be very different from how my friends or other families bring up theirs (obviously I would be a very, and I mean VERY, liberal parent). But the point is someone has to do it, because like it or not, students are very curious, and rightly so, and they're also very eager to experiment.

Second, I would rather students be fully informed about sex than to adopt (and for parents to insist that schools adopt) what is still a don't-ask-don't-tell method of conducting sex education, peppered with neanderthal scare-tactics, e.g. "If you engage in premarital sex the girl will get pregnant and will have to go for an abortion and/or you will contract STDs, or worse, AIDS!!!" [followed by bombarding the poor student with lots of gory pictures of foetuses and disease-ridden penises oozing with pus]. Scary, you bet, but are these informative and educational? No. Have these arcane methods prevented students from experimenting with sex? No. Rather, this is what happens: the problems associated with teenage sex remain unresolved, and everyone - students, teachers, schools, parents, and ultimately society at large - buries their heads in the sand, pretending everything is well in their make-believe world of asexual parents and virginal students. 

Third, even if parents do talk to their children about sex, it does not necessarily mean that what parents teach is right. Often, personal prejudices and mis-information are fed to their children, thus perpetuating ignorance. Parents do not have all the answers all the time. That is why parents send their children to school - that their children be educated by professionals and specialists. AWARE's sex education programme is developed according to international standards and ratified by experts, the classes are conducted by trained personnel, and aim to provide students with as much information as possible, and in a non-judgemental manner. This is because AWARE believes that only when one has as much information as possible can one make sensible decisions pertaining to sex, as well as form judgements about issues and about other people. For example, some teaching points from the AWARE programme:

A) people might place pre-marital sex as negative, but it is really neutral. The key is whether the couple is aware of the consequences and the responsibilities and is ready for them. Sex with girls under 14, with or without her consent, is considered statutory rape. Sex with girls under 16, with or without her consent is considered carnal connection.

B) Homosexual - people have different preferences for their partners. Homosexuality is perfectly normal. Just like heterosexuality, it is simply the way you are. Homosexuals also form meaningful relationships, and face the same emotional issues that heterosexuals do. The Singapore law does not recognise homosexuality and deems sexual activities as unnatural. 

As far as I can see, it aims to provide information to students as objectively as possible, and it steers away from moralising (because, if it does, liberal parents like ME would be furious! "Who are you to teach my child that homosexuality is wrong??? No one wants to be gay, and if he or she is, then he or she is! There is no fucking right or wrong!!!") More importantly, it aims to dispel the many myths perpetuated by PARENTS as well as by society. 

This is crucial, because when teenagers start to discover their sexuality from 12 years and up, the straight ones would discover they're straight (i.e. take an inexplicable, but natural liking to those of the opposite sex), and those who're gay would discover they're gay (i.e. take an inexplicable, but natural liking to those of the same sex). To deny teenagers the right to acknowledge who they really are is damaging to them. Try telling straight teenagers to stop looking at those of the opposite sex is difficult enough. Now try telling them to STOP being straight. It's not a far-fetched scenario - that's what gays are told to do, and have to live with. And that is wrong.

This is why, while I may agree with MOE's stand that the inculcating of moral values are ultimately the responsibility of parents, the onus is then precisely on schools to inculcate other values, values that parents don't necessarily practise, let alone teach: values of tolerance, diversity and open dialogue. More often than not, parents' ignorance and prejudices and bad habits are passed on to their children that schools would then have to correct. Sometimes it would have been too late. 

Hopefully, professional lessons and advice that are provided through schools' sex education programmes can help nurture the next generation of Singaporeans who would be less ill-informed, prejudiced, and bigoted, and who would be more welcoming of differences and diversity. Not just regardless of race, language or religion, but also of sexual orientation too. This is what the AWARE sex education programme sets out to do. 

If parents object to it simply because of their own conservatism or mis-informed views, then it is their own children who shall be the worse for it. Because like it or not, their kids will still be curious about sex, will still be sexual beings, and will be wont to experiment with sex - with themselves or with other people, whether they are boys or girls, straight or gay. Because, as I've tried to emphasise, this make-believe world of asexual parents and virginal students and where everyone is straight and happy simply does not exist.

AWAREness

I think yesterday's AWARE meeting is a historic moment in Singapore [more weblinks here]. And reading the 'live' updates on twitter and the various blogs, and then watching the video clips on Youtube afterwards, for once I wished I were in Singapore, in Suntec witnessing that great occasion. 

It was an occasion where Singaporeans came together and objected to deeds that had been carried out according to the law, but were not not necessarily legitimate, not necessarily right. Because sometimes, the means don't justify the ends. Because the law can bring about injustice too. Especially when the law is being exploited for sinister ends, something the PAP government has perfected into an art. So it was no wonder the grand mastermind 'Feminist Mentor' thought she and her minions could get away with it. But alas, she lacked the brilliance of that other Great Mentor, Lee Kuan Yew. 

It was an occasion where Singaporeans came together and denounced religious zeal - in this instance, a certain Christian fundamentalism - that had been misused, that is misguided, and can do more harm than good. This is on a personal note: I've read the bible from cover to cover (King James' version), and occasionally dip into it, always for its beautiful prose and calming poetry. I think the bible is one of the greatest piece of English literature there is around. I respect its teachings as a non-believer, just as I respect the myriad interpretations individual believers, disparate priests, denominations, and theologians can have - and that they ought to have. This is why I am suspicious of anyone who proclaims to tell the 'truth' about the bible. I respect the fact that you believe in God and that you put immense faith in Him as much as I expect you to respect me as a non-believer. Respect being the key here.

The AWARE saga somewhat turned into that tired gay/anti-gay debate, and if anyone of you is unconvinced that Christianity is not against homosexuality, email me and I'll attempt a sweet and precise deconstruction of the scripture, relevant verse by verse (King James' version) to tell you once and for all that homosexuality is not a Sin. (Or read Winterson). To those who say they cannot 'accept' gays and lesbians: other than because of their own ignorance, prejudice, and bigotry - Why? Gay people are just like everyone else - they live, they breathe, they fall in love. They wish for the little mercies that everyone receives daily, they too struggle for their breath of fresh air - perhaps more than any other people. 

Love is love wherever you find it, in whomever you find. As long as it is true. Why should one's love be predicated on hate? 

I can go on and on about this, about religion, gender/racial/sexual discrimination. 

But the Aware saga was an occasion where Singaporeans came together and demonstrated just how wonderful, and precious it is, to be inclusive by celebrating diversity - in ethnicity, culture, religion, gender, and sexual orientation. It was an occasion where I witnessed true fortitude and maturity in a people, not those stage-shows of patriotism on NDP. And because of all these, it was one rare occasion I was proud to be a Singaporean. 

life in melbourne

You know a place is inspiring when you start browsing in bookstores again, buying books, thinking about books, getting a large bookshelf, and you write to a dear friend who has in possession all your books to ship over the treasure. And that there is always a cafe round the corner a stroll away, in where you shall sit, finished coffee with unfinished book from afternoon till sundown. You're even inspired enough to walk a little further to the open market every weekend to get your groceries, and to cook your own meals, and actually enjoy them all, the buying, the cooking, and the eating. And you know you're inspired when you are in love with this life and never want it to end.

Kan Seng can sing or cannot sing?

Minister Wong Kan Seng warned that he would be 'very firm' in dealing with those who engage in violence or cause law and order problems during the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation (Apec) Summit to be held in Singapore later this year. 

He says:

'As many important heads of state and government will be here for the Apec Summit, we have to anticipate that it may attract terrorist interest. This is why we have to be very firm with protesters and anarchists who may engage in acts of violence, or deliberately cause law and order problems,' 

Sometimes I'm simply stupefied by the kind of things coming out of my million-dollar ministers' mouths. Put the two sentences together and he actually means: 

1) protesters ARE terrorists; or 

2) because of the terrorist threat, protesters will be firmly dealt with in order to protect them. 

WTF?!? 

Can someone kindly send this millionaire politician for logical reasoning classes? Or better still, VOTE THESE IDIOTS OUT! Friggin hell! 

And while you're at it, kindly ask him where Mr Mas Selamat is, because:

1) he said Mas Selamat is a terrorist: therefore he detained Mas without trial.

2) Mas Selamat escaped under his charge. Therefore:

3) he who let danger escape is the biggest danger of all! 

4) (therefore detain Wong Kan Seng!)

How's that for logical reasoning. HAH.

___

And a fantastic clip:

Heil Hitler! Heil PAP!

Revision for letter-writing

There is another excellent letter in the Straits Times Forum today!

More than 40-min wait for bus

I WAS going to church for Good Friday service at 3pm. The church was a 20-minute bus ride away.

When I was about 150m from the bus stop, I saw bus service 14 whizz by. It was 2.17pm. I didn't expect to wait long for the next bus. At 3pm, I sent an SMS to Iris (Intelligent Route Information System).

I got a reply saying that the next bus was due to arrive in three minutes.

The bus arrived on time at 3.03pm, but it was unusually crowded because of the delay. I was late for the service by more than 25 minutes despite leaving home before 2.15pm. Waiting time: 40 minutes. Total waiting plus journey time: Slightly more than an hour. Is this an acceptable standard?

Corry Sutandi

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Students should learn from Mr Corry about the finer points of elaboration. Many times, students don't elaborate enough when writing their compositions (or when attempting polite conversation), often causing them to be marked down.

Mr Corry's point is a very simple one: He does not know whether or not waiting 40 minutes for a bus is an acceptable standard. In attempting to seek an answer, however, Mr Corry, being the concerned and diligent citizen that he is, managed to put his talent for elaboration to good use, and, along the way offered us a glimpse of 1) his religion, 2) his programme for Good Friday, 3) his ability to use IRIS [and 4) his ability to receive a reply from IRIS], right down to 5) the time and distance he saw bus number 14 'whizz' by. It is all very useful, informative, even enlightening!

If only students can elaborate like Mr Corry, they might also get to see their utterly insignificant queries published in the prestigious Straits Times, and achieve national fame! Not sure if waiting for 15 minutes for a cab/boyfriend/plate of char kway teow is acceptable standard? Write to the Straits Times! Is Economics or Literature a better choice? No idea? Write to the Straits Times! Should you continue to read crap like the Straits Times? I bet you don't know, so write to the Straits Times! If a delayed bus is such a serious matter that evidently threatens the survival of Singapore, it seems everything can potentially be a matter of grave importance! Just don't forget to include as many details, and elaborate as much as you can!

*whizz!!!*

moved to Melbourne

-- journal, April 09

It's been almost a month since I moved to Melbourne. Packed everything into a rented car and drove across, staying overnight at the coastal towns, had a little whirl around Canberra, and then savouring that long-awaited moment of seeing the Melbourne skyline rising in front of my eyes, beneath its rusted southern sky.

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.

Never quite the same again indeed, that time then has now gone. But it's still Melbourne, the laneways, the cafes. The coffee, the bookshops. The university, the trams, St. Kilda, the Melburnian air. I cannot even begin to describe how much I love this city, and how absolutely happy I am to be back. Everyday I walk the streets I collect myself with this city before me and that I am walking these streets that I've always dreamt about since I first left it, since then.

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the cold and grey of this morning were unexpected, this being april. it reminded me very much of those shivering and wet melbourne mornings i used to trot through to get to class, snug in my trusty levis and woollen jumper, invigorated by the wintry air. i had lived behind lygon street, the italian alcove famous for its cafes and restaurants. very few things change at lygon, though the crass and the vulgar (e.g. starbucks) have lately begun their invasion. but most of the cafes that had sprouted along it after the war still stands, run by the same quibbling italian families dashing around with pasta and pizza and shots of expresso. and then of course, there are the students and artists - keeping alive the spirits of generations of impoverished melbourne university students, ex-students, faux-students, angry-students, refuse-to-graduate students, struggling writers, dishevelled poets, apprentice philosophers. all who have, over the decades, indelibly left their artistic and intellectual marks - along the sidewalks, by the shopwindows, in the coffee cups. one could almost still hear echoes of their debates, conversations, commiserations. echoes, because like the invasion of fastfood and fastcoffee, so too the harlequin yuppies have begun their intrusions. but it is of course, always easy to pick out these philistine poseurs. the genuine lygon intelligentsia and literati are somehow invariably unkempt and beggared - there they would sit, swigging strong coffee, scribbling into unintelligible notebooks, peering furrowed brows into tattered copies of camus, kerouac and kafka, exhaling cigarette smoke and discarded thoughts, cogitating with the auburn evening as it tanned into the night.

-- journal, April 06

Jin

It was a dream, but like all dreams, it was real while it lasted. And what a long absence it had been, not having seen her all these while. From a distance, the vantage point of something ridiculous that only happens in dreams like an escalator passing by an open-air classroom, her pin-drop face. From that distance I thought how pretty she was. She hadn't grown older at all. 

Overdue photos

Salzburg

Vienna

Prague

J and F, who came down from Dresden to meet me :)

very dreamy...


Dresden

Berlin

L, who whirled me through Berlin in a day

The cafes in this city are UNBELIEVEABLE

Oslo

NY's Eve

Assorted UK

Haggis on Burns Night

fin. sigh. : )