Should I be writing the way I speak? Or the way I think?
I had lunch at the neighbourhood hawker centre in the heartland of Marsiling. A common ritual among the fellowship would be gather collectively and proceed to the place to have lunch together and banter about the passing week. This time was different, with few of the members I knew at service, and with me waking late to attend another mid-morning service, I felt more inclined to have lunch alone.
The order was made for fishball noodles with soup, with a mix of yellow noodles (with eggs in the dough) and flat vermicelli. The mix is popular because it gave an interesting texture to the dish, an oriental el dente complimented with the savoury soup base, a sort of elasticity which could only be described with what the Taiwanese call “Q q”, to accent the springiness of the dough of different sorts. Fishballs were the favoured Asian dish of the wife of an middle eastern friend, who happened to be visiting the Island the same week. That thought came to mind as I ordered myself a bowl with soup, a conscious choice as I was nursing a persistent cough. He commented that his wife would be doubly jealous of the hospitality shown to him, particularly so since she was in the throes of summer school, having delayed her education for him as he pursued his studies with the rest of us in the US.
There was an old lady sitting next to me, much closer to the noodle stall. Her withered hands trembled and her head demonstrated an uneven cock that indicated that she had the signs of early Parkinsons. She did not look neglected, however, and seemed perfectly fine in getting her lunch of Mee Pok Dry in front of her, paying the gentleman of the stall and proceeding to flip through the flat strands of yellow noodles to cool them to her palate’s liking.
For a moment, a sense of feebleness came over me. It was not the sense of mortality that was shown by the old lady that overcame me, nor was it the silent sense of strength that was demonstrated in her display of independence in the hawker centre. Rather, it was a sense of feebleness that could arise out of insignificant comparison. I had choose to sit alone that rainy afternoon although I had no need too – it was a personal choice. Similarly the old lady was alone, leather bag and all, fine except of the tremors and awkward moments of losing control of the strands of the noodle that would slip from the grasp of her chopsticks.
Singapore is a city of 4.5 million people. We will probably meet a couple of hundred people face to face in the course of our lifetimes. What of the rest?
Instead of waxing wishful rhetoric, I would prefer to delve into the stories they would have to tell. Who knows what insights we might be able to garner out of the life experiences of the millions who live? What living consciousness can we turn to for these before they end their lives. That role perhaps, is fulfilled in the beating hearts of our children and friends.
A colleague once berated me of my insular nature, in all good concern for my personal well being. He said, “You carry on the way you do, and don’t be surprised that on the day of your funeral, no body shows up. I’ve seen it. It’s a depressing sight.”
Not that he was being rude in any way. He had a point. It is a unfortunate product of progressing in life that we lose contact with the people we know and grow up with, that these relationships be down played and cast aside without any consequence. It takes effort to maintain these relationships, and even then, there may even be a preference not to maintain such relationships, for fear of revisiting a past one might be inclined to discard.
And what of this and my sudden feebleness?
I had made a conscious decision to be more approachable, more friendly, knowing that it was a trait that was long discard as a child. It dawned upon me that I had caught myself lapsing into the habit of isolating myself that moment at lunch.
At yet, I found a solace in the fact, that like the old lady, I would be able to get on with life, even if I eventually became a “Wandering Jew” in my twilight years. Perhaps I find it comforting that one can proceed to live with dignity even in our later years, and continue to take consolation in the fact that our own personal stories will keep our heads up high.
Thoughts for the End of 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Clinic
September 09.
I sat outside the clinic waiting for my turn to see the doctor.
Number 13 was written on the card that was presented to me by the clinic secretary; she asked me if I had fever and cough and I said yes. While seated along the walkway, I stared blankly at the evening crowd that was passing along the walkway of the Family Clinic. Some glanced at me, a uniformed stranger with a surgical mask, hidden in camoflage with an equally hidden face. I was greeted with stares and glances and people passed the common thouroughfare of the shops.
Some took longer than the casual glance to look at me while I scribbled down on a leaflet from the Asthma Association - without my notepad, I was bereft of a surface to write upon. A middle aged lady came and sat on the periphery of seats inside the clinic, as if to make hereself visible to common walkway. Her posture closed, she appeared to suggest that she did not fancy being stared at. It then dawned on me that I was looking directly at her. I shifted my seat.
And as I continued to sit there, I wondered if I could get any sicker. Just then, a man appeared and approached the middle aged lady. The husband.
I sat outside the clinic waiting for my turn to see the doctor.
Number 13 was written on the card that was presented to me by the clinic secretary; she asked me if I had fever and cough and I said yes. While seated along the walkway, I stared blankly at the evening crowd that was passing along the walkway of the Family Clinic. Some glanced at me, a uniformed stranger with a surgical mask, hidden in camoflage with an equally hidden face. I was greeted with stares and glances and people passed the common thouroughfare of the shops.
Some took longer than the casual glance to look at me while I scribbled down on a leaflet from the Asthma Association - without my notepad, I was bereft of a surface to write upon. A middle aged lady came and sat on the periphery of seats inside the clinic, as if to make hereself visible to common walkway. Her posture closed, she appeared to suggest that she did not fancy being stared at. It then dawned on me that I was looking directly at her. I shifted my seat.
And as I continued to sit there, I wondered if I could get any sicker. Just then, a man appeared and approached the middle aged lady. The husband.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Everything tastes clearer with a pinch of salt....
I wondered why she would avoid me.
That was the thought that I woke up to a 6 o'clock on a Sunday morning, lying in bed. The smell of incense lingered in the air as if a medicinal balm for the spiritual soul. I closed my eyes, drank a glass of water and shifted in my bed to try to get back to sleep, but the only thing I could do was to think about her and why she was being elusive.
I suppose the story has to be re-told again. The writer, (or blogger rather) types his thoughts, puts them up, half expecting the whole rest of the world to read them on the internet, and then despairs over the lack of interest. Dejected and half fearing that she would also read the rabble, the writer would delete all the blogs to purge the blog and be reborn again, unhindered by the incoherance affecting him. He moves on, only to repeat the same process as a therapeautic outlet, because it is the only aveneue of expression he has, hiding behind the veil of anonymity that protects his ego.
It is altogether possible that the only reason why I would ever be concerned about this is because I do not know where I stand in her heart. The man, eager to prove his worth and devotion, launches head-first into the relationship, and gets his heart kicked in. The woman, unwilling to appear equally eager, decides to appear appreciative but not fully accepting. She delays, play games, and misinforms to redirect the attention of the man. She has other agendas to fulfil, or she may simply be unwilling to say no, uncomfortable with the idea that she should be the rejector because to do so would be to tarnish her image, make her come out as a the 'bad' person (if ever there was such thing), or invoke the wrath and fury of the rejected individual. She compensates by reasoning and logic, a brand known to her and select friends that she keep in her inner circle. And she goes about her business as usual - her life, her rules, her own choices.
***
Everything seems to taste clearer with a pinch of salt. Not necessarily better, but clearer.
I chanced upon this rhetoric while in the Wala as I noticed grains of sea salt lining the rim of the bottle top of my beer where the squat twist of lime sat. The lime seemed to give the beer a refreshing tingling taste, but it was the salt that made the flavour of the brew come out, which may not necessarily be what might be desired (after all, why the extras for the drink?) It turns out that most mexican brews served outside mexico is usually served with a twist of lime and a dash of salt.
I have recently rediscovered the weekend drinking culture as an anti-thesis to my stay at home mad-writing nights. It is a new and interesting dimension, reinvigorating the explorer that has been reneged to the inner depths of my mind, in place of the peon that occupies the personality on a more regular basis.
A dating guru once told me, "I never liked bars. Women are always on guard, and there are too many happily married men to compete with". I couldn't have said it better myself, but then again, I was no guru.
While sitting in the Wala just the other day, I noticed two rather attractive working-class ladies binging and talking to each other. They would talk for a stretch, then pause, lose interest, then continue again as the drinks came on by. An empty chair seemed to invite the curious mind who would chance his eyes upon the two when they were done with their meals, and slumped over once their drinks were done. There was nothing wrong with their presentation - both has short shoulder length hair that was the in-thing at the point of time. They were seated in a perpendicular manner, suggesting a closeness and ease in the relationship. The first one (whom I shall call the brunette, as this was the colour of the highlights in her hair) had a fuller face, large eyes and dressed in a violet floral top with a pair of rather flattering white slacks. Her companion had black hair, fair and wore a black sun dress. Her pixie like features made her look younger than she possibly was, and there was a momentary pause in their discussion where she pulled out her organiser, flipped through the pages and commented on something as if to plan for their next meeting. She was not a smiler - despite her elegant complexion and girlish features, she projected a sense of aggression, a business face. This was not so with the burnette, who chanced a glance at me, while I sat between my friends, overlooking their table. As I sat there observing, I pointed out my observations to Rude and asked if he could ever appreciate why two women would sit there and while away the hours, expecting something to happen.
Rude simply shrugged. "Maybe they're not expecting anything to happen."
That was the thought that I woke up to a 6 o'clock on a Sunday morning, lying in bed. The smell of incense lingered in the air as if a medicinal balm for the spiritual soul. I closed my eyes, drank a glass of water and shifted in my bed to try to get back to sleep, but the only thing I could do was to think about her and why she was being elusive.
I suppose the story has to be re-told again. The writer, (or blogger rather) types his thoughts, puts them up, half expecting the whole rest of the world to read them on the internet, and then despairs over the lack of interest. Dejected and half fearing that she would also read the rabble, the writer would delete all the blogs to purge the blog and be reborn again, unhindered by the incoherance affecting him. He moves on, only to repeat the same process as a therapeautic outlet, because it is the only aveneue of expression he has, hiding behind the veil of anonymity that protects his ego.
It is altogether possible that the only reason why I would ever be concerned about this is because I do not know where I stand in her heart. The man, eager to prove his worth and devotion, launches head-first into the relationship, and gets his heart kicked in. The woman, unwilling to appear equally eager, decides to appear appreciative but not fully accepting. She delays, play games, and misinforms to redirect the attention of the man. She has other agendas to fulfil, or she may simply be unwilling to say no, uncomfortable with the idea that she should be the rejector because to do so would be to tarnish her image, make her come out as a the 'bad' person (if ever there was such thing), or invoke the wrath and fury of the rejected individual. She compensates by reasoning and logic, a brand known to her and select friends that she keep in her inner circle. And she goes about her business as usual - her life, her rules, her own choices.
***
Everything seems to taste clearer with a pinch of salt. Not necessarily better, but clearer.
I chanced upon this rhetoric while in the Wala as I noticed grains of sea salt lining the rim of the bottle top of my beer where the squat twist of lime sat. The lime seemed to give the beer a refreshing tingling taste, but it was the salt that made the flavour of the brew come out, which may not necessarily be what might be desired (after all, why the extras for the drink?) It turns out that most mexican brews served outside mexico is usually served with a twist of lime and a dash of salt.
I have recently rediscovered the weekend drinking culture as an anti-thesis to my stay at home mad-writing nights. It is a new and interesting dimension, reinvigorating the explorer that has been reneged to the inner depths of my mind, in place of the peon that occupies the personality on a more regular basis.
A dating guru once told me, "I never liked bars. Women are always on guard, and there are too many happily married men to compete with". I couldn't have said it better myself, but then again, I was no guru.
While sitting in the Wala just the other day, I noticed two rather attractive working-class ladies binging and talking to each other. They would talk for a stretch, then pause, lose interest, then continue again as the drinks came on by. An empty chair seemed to invite the curious mind who would chance his eyes upon the two when they were done with their meals, and slumped over once their drinks were done. There was nothing wrong with their presentation - both has short shoulder length hair that was the in-thing at the point of time. They were seated in a perpendicular manner, suggesting a closeness and ease in the relationship. The first one (whom I shall call the brunette, as this was the colour of the highlights in her hair) had a fuller face, large eyes and dressed in a violet floral top with a pair of rather flattering white slacks. Her companion had black hair, fair and wore a black sun dress. Her pixie like features made her look younger than she possibly was, and there was a momentary pause in their discussion where she pulled out her organiser, flipped through the pages and commented on something as if to plan for their next meeting. She was not a smiler - despite her elegant complexion and girlish features, she projected a sense of aggression, a business face. This was not so with the burnette, who chanced a glance at me, while I sat between my friends, overlooking their table. As I sat there observing, I pointed out my observations to Rude and asked if he could ever appreciate why two women would sit there and while away the hours, expecting something to happen.
Rude simply shrugged. "Maybe they're not expecting anything to happen."
Sunday, September 27, 2009
CLASS
Class never runs scared. It is sure-footed and confident in the knowledge that you can meet life head on and handle whatever comes along.
Jacob had it. Esau didn't. Symbolically, we can look to Jacob's wrestling match with the angel. Those who have class have wrestled with their own personal angel and won a victory that marks them thereafter.
Class never makes excuses. It takes its lumps and learns from past mistakes.
Class is considerate of others. It knows that good manners are nothing more than a series of small sacrifices.
Class bespeaks an aristocracy that has nothing to do with ancestors or money. The most affluent blueblood can be totally without class while the descendant of a Welsh miner may ooze class from every pore.
Class never tries to build itself up by tearing others down. Class is already up and need not strive to look better by making others look worse.
Class can "walk with kings and keep its virtue and talk with crowds and keep the common touch." Everyone is comfortable with the person who has class because he is comfortable with himself.
If you have class you don't need much of anything else. If you don't have it, no matter what else you have, it doesn't make much difference.
Ann Landers Encyclopedia
Jacob had it. Esau didn't. Symbolically, we can look to Jacob's wrestling match with the angel. Those who have class have wrestled with their own personal angel and won a victory that marks them thereafter.
Class never makes excuses. It takes its lumps and learns from past mistakes.
Class is considerate of others. It knows that good manners are nothing more than a series of small sacrifices.
Class bespeaks an aristocracy that has nothing to do with ancestors or money. The most affluent blueblood can be totally without class while the descendant of a Welsh miner may ooze class from every pore.
Class never tries to build itself up by tearing others down. Class is already up and need not strive to look better by making others look worse.
Class can "walk with kings and keep its virtue and talk with crowds and keep the common touch." Everyone is comfortable with the person who has class because he is comfortable with himself.
If you have class you don't need much of anything else. If you don't have it, no matter what else you have, it doesn't make much difference.
Ann Landers Encyclopedia
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