Not Bringing Him Home, Don't Worry

Dhaka Calling.

I am exhausted.

I don't know what to say because I'm so tired.

The city comes to me differently the second time around. No wide-eyed wonder, no naive elation at the days to come. If I must be honest, I had dread in my stomach. I had it all through the journey, sulking to myself as if I hadn't done this out of my own free will.

But then we hit the highway, and the hot sticky air enveloped me and the fumes hit my face and all around me was life, bustling and as raw as I remembered it. I couldn't help but smile.

I'm all geared up.

The feeling of buying your own gear? Fantastalistic.

The feeling of buying your own gear with your own hard earned money? Priceless.

I swear I've had enough beer over the past few days to drown a small elephant.

And also, I'm running on a delightful 160GB 1GB ram thanks to a delightful bloke named Simon who operates out of a pub. Which may explain the beer intake. Which would change to sake if I were not leaving in a matter of days.

And without even meaning to, I've realised that there's just no changing the way I'm wired. Its not a case of old habits die hard, its a case of a leopard not changing its spots. Or a cat and her whiskers. Or some other animal-related analogy.

The point is there is just not enough concrete in all the world to block up my soft spots.

10 Days: The Art in the Lie

"The bigger the lie, the closer you are to the truth."

I had a chance to interview Zadok Ben-David yesterday. I don't usually like sculptures because I know squat about art but his stuff is.... well, go see for yourself.

And his statement is really killing my brain. My brain has been doing a million squats and the muscles can't take no more.

This is why I know squat about art. And why my perverse love for all things theory is ultimately going to kill myself because, let's face it, I use so many brain cells trying to understand long words and convulated sentences its almost mental suicide.

And plus I have a shitty memory. So it's all for nothing since I forget what I read almost instantly.



And I leave in 10 days, in case the title didn't already send off the proper implications.

Just call me 'cher!

As I listen to Johnny Hates Jazz I almost choked when I read that Marks and Sparks make cat food.

Interesting morning so far.

Idiosyncrasies

Cat 1: I will eat, but only after a 15-min exploratory walk round the neighbourhood (corridor).

Cat 2: I want to eat, but you must cajole and coax me repeatedly and sit next to me and stroke my back constantly or I will stop eating.

Cat 3: I'll have what they're having. No, no don't give me my own stuff I'll want their stuff.

This is why I now wake up one hour earlier to feed the fucking princesses. It was my own mistake not to have started them off on dry food and dry food alone, but I suppose in typical asian fashion, my mom and I feel a lot more affectionate when we engage in the act of feeding.

I have two puncture wounds on my calf, not unlike (i lurb double negs) a vampire's love bite. Only that it was inflicted by Cat 2, who was trying to get at Cat 3, who was unfortunately under the blankets next to Calf 1.

What a painful morning.

I have been attempting/doing an enormous amount of cooking since the folks left town. I constantly overestimate my appetite, and I think I always end up cooking enough for two.

And it exhausts me, entirely. Picking up after the three cats exhausts me as well. Cat 2 and Cat 3 are not getting along, and I've always been woken up by snarls.

Cat 1? Oh she's above it all.

I could never wake up on time for work, but I have absolutely no problems waking up at 6,7,8am to feed these idiots. Case in point, its a saturday, and i'm blogging at 930am AFTER breakfast and AFTER feeding them (which takes about half an hour or more cos they're fucking princesses).

But I am enjoying this, oh you bet I am.

Why Press Releases Can Sometimes Make Me Laugh

"Imagine a camera that triggers its shutter only when a smile is detected.

Or imagine shooting something that suspiciously looks like a head jutting out of the water while on holiday at Loch Ness via a 17X Smart Zoom-equipped camera."

I didn't hear my phone ring when a mysterious person called from the Shangri-la late at night.

Who on earth could it be? (Assuming it was not a wrong number, duh.)

Happy and bubbles and love and freedom and all that.

Impossibly cheery, despite the stuffed nose and sore throat (which seem to have miraculously cleared up in a matter of hours). I've always enjoyed moving desks. I loved the excitement in Pri/Sec school when we would switch desks every so often. I just loved the newness of it. And plus I work better because I happen to become very sucky when I fall into routines.

So we had a major internal moving day in office today, and although I'm now squeezed into a dark and cold and rather claustrophobic corner (since I'm leaving soon I get the lousy seat, and I'm ok with it), I had a helluva time rearranging my desk and creating symmetry on my very asymmetrical desk.

And also, the weather has been lovely. Ok, wet shoes are not lovely. But still! I like being made to wear jackets. Jackets and sweaters and coats and boots. Happy days.

And also, Parents and Brother are off to Shanghai. Do you have any idea how much I love having the house to myself? Do you? Do you know what kind of plans I have with DVDs and wine? DO YA????



And also, there are his photos.








I can't remember how I came across the Poloroid Kidd's beautiful, timeless photos on some obscure website which listed neither his name nor the context of the photographs. Some argued that the photos were from an American Apparel catalogue. Others thought it was Diesel. Most agreed it was likely to be a mix of "real" people and models.

It took me a while, but I finally unearthed the truth.

So now I'm infatuated with Mike Brodie aka The Poloroid Kidd, and I feel certain I've seen and heard about his work before, and I feel a bit silly that I haven't come across him before. I suppose if you've to spend time to search for details things are seared a little more clearly into your brain.

I don't think i'll be able to explain myself very well, but its got something to do with reverance and friendship, and the absence of voyeuristic gaze. And Respect. A whole lot of Respect in his photos and almost no exoticism.

Well, at least to me anyway.





And you know who has it best on these rainy days don't you? Our fur-covered friends.

881.

I thought I'd try, but I decided that no words would sufficiently describe how much I am in love with Roystan Tan's 881.



I just feel so goddamn proud, you know?

I wasn't particularly surprised to read that Roystan loved getai as a kid, or that he's Hokkien-speaking. I suppose this is what happens when you do something from the heart, something that comes from the very essence of who you are.

This is the one film that I would very, very proudly like to label as a Singaporean film.

Not too sure about the effectiveness, but I really the art work on this series. Anything that's not fluffy bunnies and fluffy kittens and fluffy cute fluffies.

American Lynchings

When murder becomes art - what are we to make of it?



Collector James Allen published a book titled "Without Sanctuary", featuring his collection of lynching photographs collected from all over the America.

There's a website as well, with about 80 photographs. They're about as explicit as you could possibly get. Thank god the quality's lousy.

I found it to be an interesting commentary because you see the same photos today emerging from other countries. Someone already drew parallels between the Fallujah incident in Iraq (concerning four US private military men) and some of the photos here.

Castration, mutiliation, decapitation, burning of dead bodies and dragging charred corpses through the streets. It's the same thing, repeated decades later with different people.

I'm constantly amazed at human beings' lust for blood. And not figuratively either.

Go tally up. I scored 19/60. My favourite is No. 11.

I'll be Outta here by October.

Too fast, too fast.





Forgive the insanely huge photo.

What am I going to do without them? I will go crazy, my god.

Consensus

People can really surprise you.

I am utterly exhausted at this point, having spent the last three hours talking to my parents about Bangladesh. I am impatient and stubborn and easily irritable - exactly like my father. So conversations between us tend to, erm, get slightly heated.

But really. You'd think that living with them for 23.5 years would mean that there's very little they can do to surprise you. Oh boy, was I wrong.

It turns out that there was just one niggling thing, one issue, one point of contention that he had which was the cause for his resistance.

Just one.

After hours and days of arguing, you can imagine my shock when that little nugget of truth finally wriggled out. He never wanted to say it.

All that talk, and it was really just about that???

I can't believe it. And I can't say it either, because its really not going to make him look good.

Well, all I can say is this - he's usually wrong about mw, but this time, he was spot on. His one and only worry turned out to be the only valid worry.

I apologise for all the cryptic-ness in the last couple of posts.


Nothing is confirmed, but after tonight's debacle, things are finally moving in the right direction.

On a Friday night

It's been quite a while, and I must say, my tequila is tasting extra special tonight.

It's a strange feeling to be drunk in your own home. I don't typically blog or write when I'm drunk because all that comes out is emotional and depressive rubbish, but I am thankfully neither emotional nor depressed, so there's no real danger.





I found myself wanting to attend the NDP, true blue kiasu Singaporean that I am, because I wanted to see for myself how they would do it in the new location.

I perversely enjoyed the defense display. I might not have if i hadn't already watched Transformers twice (the movie made me love metal), but I really thought it was quite bizarre when the machine guns mounted on the boats started to fire blanks.

Well at least this year they made it real clear - we can kill you if we have to.

I never really got into the mood, even though it was much more picturesque than the Stadium. It was just too different and foreign.

And I really really hated the fact that they renamed the Kallang Wave. And the hosts were screechy and very irritating.

What I do like is the location, ironically enough, because I could see how hundreds of other people thronged the coastline along the Esplanade, One Fullerton and even Marina/Raffles Place area. At least everyone had a great view of the fireworks.

I don't think I'll ever want to attend NDP again. Unless I'm shooting, of course.



Sat down at Dhoby Ghaut to take in the scene before going home. The two of them were already going at it, and by the time I noticed them, the girl was discreetly trying to wipe away some tears. I have no idea what they were arguing about, but it looked like a employee-employer argument. I did not envy the girl. That is no way to spend a Friday night.



And look, I understand loitering and loud laughter and cursing at the top of your voice. I understand! You're 15 and you want to be heard. I'm still doing the exact same thing.

But I really, really don't understand spitting. I don't get what is cool about it. As long as you're not 70 years old with a chronic phelgm problem, you really shouldn't be ejecting spit in public.

Dilemma

I used to know the answers to my own questions. Most of the time, anyway.

I don't think it has been particularly difficult in knowing what to do, it was just doing-it part that was tough.

So I switched jobs although I didn't really want to because I knew it was the right thing to do. I haven't regretted that decision yet, although I do pine and whine. I went to NTU and I did this and did that, went here and travelled there - and really, I don't think I've had to make any sort of difficult choices.

Because you run on instinct, and instinct usually gives you only one answer. It's just a matter of whether you want to take it up.

But there is always a first time for everything.

My instincts are all silent right now. For once, I think I really don't know what I should do.

I always talk about leaving this place. I knew it was just a matter of time, but I guess I never expected the opportunity to come so soon. I never expected having to tally the losses, what i would be leaving behind.

I always wanted to go back to Bangladesh. I kept my eyes and ears peeled for potential jobs. Who would've thought one would just fall in my lap?

And who would've thought that the day would come when I would finally have to actually think about money?

My father has already made it clear he would not support me on this choice. Who would've thought the day would come when I actually cared what my father thought?

A year ago, I would've made the choice easily. There was nothing to hold me back. I can't believe how much has changed, and how clueless I've become.

I don't know lah.

Wrote this last Monday. I'm posting it anyway.

Something's slightly different these days. I can't be explicit about it because it's personal, but if you think I look different (could be for the better, but more likely the worse), you're right. And I think I'm happier this way.

It took me five years to stop doing this, and I just did it all of a sudden, overnight. I think it isn't technically a big deal, but because I know why I started doing it in the first place... well it's a big deal.

Sorry to be so cryptic. I can't say! I am embarrrrrassssed (I decided a while back that I would give up trying to spell that word).

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The last time I wore the exact same attire was six years ago. Or, to be down with the details, it would mean six and a half years have passed since the last time I wore this and carried a shoebag. I can’t remember when was my last touch rugby training, but I think I got the date about right.

We had our second badminton office thingamahjig today, and I grabbed the only other shirt that I do sports in (rather unwilling to don the dri-fit sleeveless stuff for a rough-and-tumble event). I made the mistake of not bringing another, and that is how I found myself going home from Somerset on the MRT, wearing the PE attire from JC which I used to wear with such regularity six years ago.

I didn’t realise the faux pas until I left the center and faced the eyes of the public. I’m sure the majority didn’t really care or look, but I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them had no problems believing I was 18.

GQ said I was greedy, that I was asking for a hefty six-year discount.

The trip home was one of the most surreal experiences I have ever encountered. I had put on the most effective mask, the most complete costume I had at my disposal to fool public perception.

And I think I could’ve fooled myself.

How easy it was, to look at my own reflection, and imagine that I was 18 again. I almost didn’t have to pretend, I could feel it. It felt very real, it didn’t feel like a farce.

Of course, my hair is thrice the length now than it was back then. I have at least five extra kilograms on my frame, and a hell lot more scars on my legs to boot. I know I couldn’t fool myself to think my look hasn’t changed, but I could deceive myself into feeling the same – the way I felt when I was thinner, with shorter hair, nicer legs, and a helluva lot more energy.

I walked out of the station and waited at the bus stop. It was a combination of public perception (I believed what people believed about me), and pure emotive nostalgia. I can’t get anymore specific than that, but its just how you assume the role that you associate with that particular uniform/attire.

And just closing my eyes, I let myself believe it. I was on my way home after a long day at school. I would call Nick the moment I reached home and find out where he was and if he needed a morning call the next day. I would have to unpack my bags later, because I no longer kept proper notes on homework and I always ended up forgetting. I would sleep late again, ICQing no doubt, and the next day I would be late for school and have to stand at the side along with all the other punctuality-pariahs.

It felt good. It felt familiar. And then you open your eyes, and its as if someone hit the fast forward button, and all the things that have passed since then filters into your mind’s eye at breakneck speed. People and places, things and faces.

At this present moment, this very second, this is the furthest I could possibly be from that 18-year-old self. And I suppose, every minute that passes will make it more and more difficult for me to play pretend.

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Speaking of time. I met someone from my 12-year-old self.

I never latched onto Facebook because of how Friendster left a (very very) bad taste in my mouth. But hey.

Victoria Noreen Langton.

We were in the same class from Primary 3 to 6. I can't remember much anymore. My memory tells me that I believed she was one of my best friends, in the way that a 12 year old would classify friends, anyway.

I don't remember much about what we did. Well, at least not the details. I remember being prefects together, going to her house (to do what? I can't remember). I memorised her house phone number till i was about 16, and now I can't recall it any longer.

She was exotic because she was the first girl I knew who was eurasian. I remember she got into an argument with our teacher about homework because her parents didn't believe in her doing all those assessment books.

I remember we labelled her as the wild child. She had boyfriends before I was interested in boys. I remember a lot of judgements being passed.

I remember we had a lot of fun.

And I remember seeing her again about three years ago, standing in Orchard Library and watching a performance. I don't know if she had seen me, because if she did she sure did a good job of pretending she didn't. I didn't say hello. I had nothing to say to her.

Strange, because now, i really really want to talk to her.

I passed I passed I passed!!!!

Finally.

Ho Weng Hin’s excellent column in ST today:

“...the publicity and fanfare that has surrounded the
impending demolition of the stadium, makes me think of a
grand and protracted funeral staged for a person who is still alive and kicking.”

As quoted by Tym, Alfian Sa'at's play, Homesick:

"How can we build a national identity if we keep tearing down everything with the word 'national' in it?"

And as I said a year ago... well, read it here.

Pardon the angst

Been on an angst rampage of late, and although there is a long list of reasons, I'd much prefer to just not talk about it because hey, guess what, its better now.

The importance of maintaining status quo aside, there's just too much scattered-ness in my head to write anything thematic.

I do have to do a half-hearted shout out to ask if anyone is looking to adopt a kitten?

I sent out an SMS appeal about a week and a half back. A couple of interested ones, but none who could take it immediately.

I found her, as how I seem to find all my cats, on my way home and completely by accident. My mother received a phonecall from the resident cat lady who asked if we could go take a look because she wasn't free, and I had a small ball of dread in my stomach because i just knew what was going to happen.

And really, this one didn't leave us any choice either. Hiding in some corner under a table and trying to stay away from the claws of the resident cat (who's very cute and all but quite a monster).

I didn't know what to make of this one. Her ears are too big, her eyes are too "not cute" and after her bath and meal - she was too hyper and I now wake up in the middle of the morning because of her constant bouncing-here-and-there-and-everywhere and she usually lands up on my face during a couple of those leaps.

The two cats are now used to her, it's been almost two weeks after all, and I didn't make the mistake of SHOCK AND AWE like I did the last time (with very disastrous results).

The main problem now is I don't know how to talk about them because I don't have proper names for them. I can't use the Big Cat/Small Cat dichotomy anymore. Small Cat is now Fat Cat. So now we'll have Old Cat, Fat Cat and New Cat. They're all my bitches.

Fat Cat is still extremely wary, and prone to stupid hissing-then-running. Old Cat, no doubt learning from past experience that the young 'uns are not worth her energy, have been playing it quite cool. I love her.

So yeah, she's been with us too long and I think I just may be able to keep her without the parents kicking up a fuss.

But just in case, does anyone want her?



I had a camera phone pic of her that I used to try and "sell" her to my colleagues. They asked "do you have a nicer pic? Where she looks cuter?"

Ok, I'm not letting her go to anyone who adopts kittens based on how "cute" they are. I'll tie a fucking ribbon in her hair, how about that?



I love Fat Cat too, but I think she's a bit stupid. This is what I call the Blank Stare.



This one? Oh she's above criticism.



------------------------------------



Two days after Ishi's death, my Mom came home and started to tell us (again) about a colleague of hers. A year younger than me, incredibly fucked up life as far as fucked-up-lives as concerned. My mom's at her wit's end, and it seems no amount of talking is doing any good. Relationship problems, personal problems etc etc. I suppose my mom's just worried because no one should be able to live like this, and many people choose not to, after a while.

And I didn't know what to tell her. And I went to sleep.

I'm not thinking about Ishi because I don't know what to think. I don't know him well at all, and I guess I just didn't want to think about it. Mental resistance.

I went to work the next day and wanted to listen to a song that I had heard in bits and pieces elsewhere but didn't know what it was. I searched for it on youtube, and I just think it's fucking ironic how things turn out sometimes, because the song was this one.

And I listened to it and read the lyrics.

And then I went online and searched and searched. I wrote down a long list of hotline numbers and phone numbers and addresses of places that offered free counselling services, and I went home to give it to my mom.

Invisible

Do you know what it feels like to sit in a group of males and to ask a question three times only to be ignored on all three occasions?

Maybe I speak to softly and no one can hear me. Yeah that's it, I've a soft voice.

Of Mice and Men

Too many things to say, and I've already forgotten half of it.

It's late, I've bike lesson assessment tomorrow. Today I held the fuckin' clutch for so long my left hand started to go numb. It's ridiculous. I've held off going for this because I want to pass on the first try. So I keep going for circuit revision. All exams should be this way.

The blog title is slightly misleading, because there will be no mention of men in this post.

I've wanted to say something about this particular incident, but I couldn't think of a way to put it. I'll still end up sounding like a preachy, righteous bitch. So there, there's your disclaimer.

And anyway, my memory (and anger) have been somewhat diminished by the passing of time.


The issue has got something to do with male ego, and how I'm sick and tired of it. But that's just a small part. It's largely inconsequential. Many guys get away with their egos because it's harmless. I can tolerate displays of machoism simply because it's so common it's difficult not to get used to it. Like how my colleague puts it, "You want to know why? Because I'm a man."

But really, this is about stupidity and irresponsibility. It's about me feeling judgemental and self-righteous and losing respect for ccertain individuals.

We had a party of sorts earlier in the week, resulting in typical intoxication. There was one particular guy who had drunk more than his fair share, till the point whereby he was slurring and couldn't stand straight.

And he was driving home.


I'm hoping to be able to ride a bike. My father rides a bike to work everyday. I've countless other family and friends who drive or ride. So even if you discount the selfishness (of me not wanting to die), I have motivation because I really don't want anyone (strangers included) to die because some asshole was too macho/cheap to call a cab.

And so this is the point of this post. I just want to say, once and for all:

That all you fuckers who drink and drive, and all you fuckers who let your friends drink and drive - you are all unbelievably stupid and irresponsible.



So in this particular episode, after the drunk guy went to the bathroom, I asked his "friends" whether or not he was driving. And when they said yes, I asked if perhaps it was not such a good idea to let him do so.

This is what one of his "friends" said to me, irritably and loudly:

"I don't give a fuck! He's not going to bring in any money for us anyway!"


This asshole was drunk as well, although not as much as the other guy. The alcohol in his blood made him feel liberated, and he had no qualms about speaking his mind. Just as well, one less person to respect in office.

And just minutes ago, he was ranting on about how he did whatever he wanted to do, wife-be-damned. "Hey! A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do" were his exact words.


I went into the restaurant and asked the waitress for some help. She gave me a class of fizzy soda water, which was supposed to make Mr Drunk Driver feel better. I tried my best to force it on him (I don't know him at all) when he came out, but he got confused and thought I was making him drink more.

The tussle ended soon enough, and he took a tiny tiny sip before heading out to sit with his "friends". But this time, he could barely keep his eyes open.

I stood next to him, like a fucking moron, cajoling him to drink while all his "friends" - whom I didn't know either - pretended to ignore me. It wasn't really working, he couldn't even hold the glass for long.

The painfully awkward scene continued for a while more, till all of them left. I asked one last time, "Do you want a cab?" Drunk dude said he was fine. Sure, of course, aren't they always?

I can't remember when he left, but he did. And still, I tried again. I asked his 'friend', the one who (money=how concerned I should be), if we should try to get him a cab.

I can't remember what he ranted at me, more "i don't give a fuck"s and other things that I must've blocked out of my head because of the sheer stupidity.

I replied, that I didn't really care either if the guy died, but I don't want him to knock down someone like my father while on the road.

Then he said, "Look! I'm not a saint!"

I turned and walked away as he continued, only stopping after he realised I was no longer listening.




I don't know what to think about it. I'm disgusted and slightly upset, because I didn't know what to do. I hate the thought that the same scene if replaying every night at pubs and bars all over Singapore. I wish I didn't have to witness such behaviour, because as it is, I don't really think much of the male species, and this is not helping.

They should have a police hotline or something, to call when this kind thing happens. I couldn't have possibly manhandled his car keys away from him.

Are there really such people around? Was that friend of his talking nonsense because he was drunk? Did he really willingly let a guy go off to his potential death because he was not a potential money tree?

I just keep meeting assholes. I never knew there were so many of these kinda bastards around. What kind of world did I think existed? It's not good, it makes me cynical. And I just haven't learnt how to deal with them, how to put on a smile and pretend I don't feel that overwhelming sense of disgust that fills me when I look at you.

Of course, there are guys I know who would never drink and drive, and who would never allow their friends to do so. I am thankful to know such people.


I just hope no one died last night because I didn't have the guts to be a bigger bitch than I already was.

Funny quote today:

"All that they can do is to blow bombs and not really have the guts to confront us."
- Afghan President Hamid Karzai