RAISED IN TEKKA

JAPAN ICHIBAN

2006-12-22T21:00:00.000-08:00

Mt. Fuji in winter (Dec 2006)

It takes just a short holiday in Japan to find out that she is truly number one in Asia and sits among the world's best. And I don't think it is just by luck....there truly must be some reason why after suffering the humiliation of defeat in WWII and the atomic bombs and their effects, Japan is able to bounce back and conquer the world this time not by military might but by technology and innovation. All over Japan, from the Toyota showroom (Tokyo) which houses the vintages and the futuristic to the intelligent bidet in the hotel toilets, from the traditional tatami and the hot water spring baths to the break-neck speed of the inter-city bullet trains, Japan leads the way in cultural preservation going hand-in-hand with modern advancements.

MAKING SENSE

2006-11-01T23:00:00.000-08:00

Of what? sometimes I ask....why of things: of why something happens this way and not that way, of why someone is not born as handsome as Brad Pitt or as beautiful as Angelina Jolie, of why some people are born with IQ so low that they need special education while others are born so intelligent they are in gifted classes....why the inequality and where does the blame lie? With God or with man? And invariably it all ends with trying to make sense of life and living.

Doubtless, I'm not the first to try and make sense.....it was there at the beginning of time....and I can imagine Adam and Eve asking why...if you happen to believe in Adam and Eve....why can't we eat of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil?.....what's wrong with that kind of knowledge?.....and theologians and apologetists, especially fundamental ones would gasp in horror that anyone would even think ask it.....Faith, they say, pure and innocent faith of a child - that's what we need to see the kingdom of God......how convenient.....

I laughed when I heard George's father in A Room with a View say that "beside the eternal Y, there is a 'yes' and a 'yes' and a 'yes'. And suddently I realised that people still ask 'why' through the ages.

And of course everyone's unspoken mission in life is to find the answer. Some find it in the pursuit of wealth, others in the pursuit of knowledge, yet others love........but perhaps after all is said and done......like Solomon we say, "vanity of vanities, all is vanity". Even love, for a man or a woman, for parents, for the world...........in the end, what's it all about? It's all as hollow as those beauty contestants or those arty-farty new-agers who spew 'world peace' in as pretentious a way as they themselves really are.

But I fall victim to empty ramblings of a pseudo-philosopher or a disgruntle old man who has seen more than he ought to.

MAKING MEANING

2006-10-17T00:13:00.000-07:00

I've thought a lot about the meaning of life recently. Odd that I should do it only after half a century of earthly existence. But all these years my meaning was others-centred; yes, it was always either what others wanted or "what would others think of me"...not that it was wrong (it is totally altruistic as many will argue) but after so many years I began to realise that when life takes a meaning from others, then who am I? Sounds like I've become a self-centred old chap, huh? And everyone thought that self-centredness is the prerogative of spoilt children and angsty teens. But I've decided that meaning should not come from others because it makes happiness so uncertain, as uncertain as the whims and fancies of every self-centred person around me which is almost like everyone. And I've decided that when happiness comes from making meaning from within me, then I have more control over myself..

2ND PIC (DREAM PLACE)

2006-09-06T08:20:00.000-07:00

Three sisters in the Blue Mountains, Sydney. Nice place for a holiday. Cool, fresh mountain air, wide spaces, magnificent views, laid-back countryside ambience....just the place I need right now....far from the madding crowd.

MY FIRST PIC

2006-09-04T03:55:00.000-07:00

Hope this works....the first pic that I've uploaded. I'm actually quite proud of this pic of waterfront living I took while on holiday. Slipped away from the family on one of my by-now famous disappearing acts while on holiday with them....I'm one of those beings that need space alone....so one day very early in the morning (the sun rises at 4 or 5 on a summer's day), I left them sleeping at the hotel and ventured forth by myself like a spirit freed momentarily from the cage of human congestion and there they were - waterfront properties, testimony of a way of life beyond my means of possession but not beyond my means of appreciation.

HOW NOW? BROWNED COW!?!

2006-07-13T23:15:00.000-07:00

A furore this past week over the column by Mr Brown in Today and suddenly 'brown' becomes a suspicious colour. Today found itself being rapped by MICA and promptly dropped Mr Brown's column like a hot brown potato. And immediately Bloggerland is alive with views and opinions hurled quicker than you can say 'brown cow'. Immediately the issue of the freedom of speech becomes hotly debated.

Overnight the column becomes hot reading material...those who have not thrown Today away yet re-read the article while those who do not have it rushed into cyberland for a read. And like all normal inquisitive human beings, I too wanted to read the piece and did so in cyberland. The best way to get people to do something is to create an uproar against it.....talk about the ironies of life.

It is a cleverly written piece....even the title is meant to tease..."People are fed, Up with progress". It teaches students of English that a comma strategically placed can make a world of difference. Evidently, Mr Brown, is a master manipulator of the language......maybe instead of employing native speakers of English as proposed by the powers that be, schools should employ Mr Brown and the likes of him....they could really spice up the English standards of our students but then the likes of Mr Brown may be deemed too dangerous.....If all our students started to write like Mr Brown, it would be enough to wake a whole nation of lotus eaters.

Maybe it's less frightening to have a downsliding of language standards than to have students who can threateningly wield it like a sword.

OLDER AND MORE CYNICAL: MUSINGS ON HOTEL POOLS AND WEDDINGS AND ICE CREAM

2006-06-19T18:00:00.000-07:00

Just came back from a hotel stay - real Singaporean abnormality like going for a one-night stay at a local hotel...I mean why even bother? Think about packing an overnight bag, driving all the way to the hotel, checking in...then going out for meals at familiar places where we have always been going to except that those times we were going from home and still stuck on this tiny island of human congestion....I mean really why bother?

And there was of course swimming at the hotel pool....another oddity because I don't even bother to swim in the pool which is just downstairs....

But then that day I got to witness a wedding ceremony at the poolside...third idiosyncrasy...having a wedding ceremony by the hotel pool where other hotel guests who were total strangers to the couple and their parents were frolicking in and out of the water in various stages of nudity.

And I started thinking about weddings...not the one going on seen through my misted swimming goggles but weddings in general.

I remember how my pastor had criticised from the pulpit the way weddings have become in the West....they don't take weddings and I suspect he meant marriages as well seriously. Why couples can get married and then invite guests over for ice cream at their homes as celebration. I guess he was used to the pomp and pageantry of local Chinese weddings.

And my eyes span the horizon above water level and see the bride looking resplendent in white and the groom in coat and tie. And I wonder whether this will be the first and last time they will look like that.....of when the honeymoon is over....will she look matronly with a big pregnant tummy while holding and scolding two boisterous kids by her side and would he look like a tired overworked civil servant sucked dry of every ounce of his blood by his employers? And will they be attending a friend's wedding by the pool trying to look as pleased as if they had just caught the most prized fish in the sea of humanity.

And I see the wedding guests all dressed up to the nines some more successfully, others more disastrously depending on whose taste we use as the fashion barometer. And I wonder whether they know each other or they are trying their best to look relaxed and interested when in their hearts they are actually saying damn it, why is the Master of Ceremony going on and on....come on hurry up so that I don't have to pretend I'm enjoying making small talk with some bloke I don't even know. Or maybe they are saying...hey there's Sally, is there a way I can push her into the pool?....she looks like she needs it for badmouthing me to Sandra who told Sylvia who told Selena who told me....

And I see old women who most probably only get to see their relatives and friends now at funerals and weddings all decked out in jewellery that had become either yellow with age or that glittered a bit too much against their shrunken withered necks sagging with age and excess skin. And I wonder when it will be their turn.....no, no, no....not to get married but to become the other reason why people they know gather.

But all is happy now....everyone is trying to be happy for the happy couple thinking about their happy future.

And none of them noticing this cynical old chap feeling a sudden gust of wind sweep across the surface of the water and having a sudden appetite for ice cream.

EVERYONE THINKS THEY HAVE TO KEY TO SUCCESSFUL LANGUAGE TEACHING - SO DO I...

2006-06-12T07:05:00.000-07:00

The past week has seen a renewed emphasis on the teaching of the English language by MOE. It renews once again a whole cacophony of voices stating how the language should be taught. And everyone thinks he or she has the right formula...everyone ranging from English Language teachers (professionals) to parents (concerned non-professionals) to the general public (non-professionals with sometimes little or no immediate concerns over the matter). But if language teaching so formulaic as all of them would claim, why then is language learning so elusive (especially among countries which are non-native users of the language)?

TEACH THEM GRAMMAR
One of the approaches put forward by many of those who believe that they have the key to language teaching is that grammar must be taught to second-language learners. This is especially popular among the older set of professionals and non-professionals. Only one or two days after Mr Tharman's announcement that emphasis will be given to the teaching of English in schools, these people have written in to the press. They tend to reminisce the good old days when language teaching was carried out by nuns and missionaries from Western countires who thought the only and best way of teaching the language was by learning the rules of grammar and use.

I support this grammar based emphasis but I have always seen the limitations of this method when used alone. If this method were so effective, why would countries like China, Taiwan, Korea and Japan still have a massive population of people who surprise many of us by their knowledge of language rules yet remain unable to string a sentence together? Why then do I support the teaching of grammar? It is really for self-correction in the case of second or third language users of the language. We need to know when and where we are wrong and more importantly we need to know how to self-correct. Grammar teaching is, therefore I believe, not for its own ends but for a greater purpose.

I wouldn't even dare, however, have extensive grammar lessons, for the students today, less patient and tolerant than students of the past, would refuse to learn citing boredom or they already know it all as justifiable reason for mental, emotional or even physical rebellion in the classroom. So in my opinion, it is the 'adhoc' lessons aimed at specific rules which have possibly been broken that would be most appropriate.

HAVE PLENTY OF WRITTEN WORK AND WORKSHEETS
Of course these work. I can attest to their effectiveness: I have been using them for years both in the classroom as well as in tuition. And I have had great success. Success in what? Examinations, of course, need it be asked? Any success beyond that? Not really. For the students outside of the examination still can't use the language without mistakes and still cannot claim standard International English to be their first language.

Is there a reason for this interesting phenonmenon? I'm really not surprised by the success at the examinations and failure in real life...this approach is basically just aimed at the examinations, as is the case of most areas of education in Singapore. Little surprise too that the teacher who taught me this method used it with no loftier end than the examinations. She gave her graduating classes one composition and one comprehension exercise (full O' paper) every week so that adds up to 20 pieces of written work per 10 week term. Staggering by professional standards but of course, her classes achieved 50 percent or more distinctions at the 'O' levels. I followed her example subsequently and achieved 40% distinctions. In tuition, I did the same thing and also achieved magnificent results.

But I felt myopic and unfulfilled.

I don't think the students and the parents felt the same way for their sole aim (and I presume happiness) in life was to achieve success at the examinations, so what if they are still bad at the language, no one really bothers anyway.

Really? No one bothers?

Employers do. Especially those who somehow came out of the system mastering the language. They complain of graduates who supposedly had scored well at the language examinations, who still wrote reports, letters and other documents full of language errors. Am I surprised? Not in the least, really.

Am I criticising this approach to language teaching? Not in the least....if your aim is basically the examinations or the tests. But anything beyond, this approach is sadly inadequate.

LANGUAGE ENVIRONMENT
I think that language is really quite a simple thing. If not, why would native users of the language learn their mother tongue (be in Chinese, French, Japanese or English) so easily without formal education? It is because language teaching is a misleading term. Language is not a content subject and never should have been. So the idea of teaching and learning are inaccurate. Language is acquired and caught, through exposure, through use...this explains why some Asian countries while doing very well in their knowledge of the rules of the English language, far better I feel that in Singapore, really lag behind in the use of the language in comparison. It doesn't take an expert to realise this....go to any of these countries and it will be obvious that there is no language environment for the use of the English language there. Give a chance for their students to go to a predominantly English environment like America, Britain or Australia and if they are forced to survive there with the locals, we will see how their language would improve in leaps and bounds.

It is the education system that has made language learning academic.

Singapore used to be a melting pot of languages. People of my generation spoke in dialects (Hokkien, Teochew, Cantonese and many minority dialects) and the lingua franca which was Malay. We were not schooled in them...but the environment encouraged it and even made it essential. We caught the language naturally and often without even our knowing it ourselves. Our generation today do not have this language variety and I fear that in language, what's lost can never come back but that's another issue.

LANGUAGE ACQUISITION IS BY IMITATION
If it hasn't become obvious to many of us by now, it is about time it does. Language is by imitation. Babies and children imitate language patterns of their immediate adults (albeit verbal) - this is the reason why if the parents use a non-standard language variety, the children will exhibit a similar language variety. Adults find it more difficult to imitate because of grown-up inhibitions but given the right environment where they have no choice they will too, to varying degrees of success.

Does formal language teaching play a role? Yes, it does. It enhances the process of acquisition. Does grammar teaching and the teaching of language rules have a place? Yes, it does too. They give second language and even first language users a better, firmer and more confident control of the use of the language by giving them the key to self-monitoring.

Extensive reading is the most immediate key to better written language and radio and TV to better oral language. But it has got to be standard English and there must be a whole lot of them because a language environment cannot be created with just a small number. That's the reason why Singlish has no place for students still struggling with the language; it is a luxury only those who have mastered the English language and who can code-switch effortlessly can afford. If our whole language environment consists of nothing but pidgin English, there is no way our people are going to be able to acquire standard international English.

SPEED READING
Many parents claim that their children are avid readers but yet they have not been able to master the language. While I do not agree that their reading has had absolutely no impact on their language acquisition, I am aware of a growing problem. Yes, some students do read extensively, but they tend to speed read for content, too fast for them to become aware of the language patterns and characteristics much less to imitate style.

Furthermore, if language could be learnt overnight like information in content subjects, then all we need is some overnight mugging and last minute studying would be very effective which is not the case for language.

FINALLY
So when all's said and done, a few ideas stick out.

(1) Depending on what the aim is, the most effective approach can be used i.e., if it is examination results that we're looking for, teaching and learning for the examination would be in place.

(2) If we are looking at language acquisition for a real life mastery of the language, exposure and use are the answer.

(3) For second language learners who haven't achieved basic competence in the language, a multi-pronged approach would be most effective - teaching grammar and language use rules as well as exposure and use and any other approaches which may be found suitable and effective.

(4) Speed reading for content doesn't help that much in language development. Reading at the right pace for language to sink in does.

(5) A lot of language acquisition is by imitation. That's why exposure to good stuff is important. Of course, the language learner doesn't have to stop at imitation; he or she can always go beyond.

So there we have it...some ideas on the pursuit of language which by the way is so dynamic the even the term standard international English becomes a misnomer.

CONFESSIONS OF A DEMENTED SOUL

2006-06-04T19:15:00.000-07:00

School holidays are here again. I spent 1 whole week putting together a play on dementia...and as I wrote and rewrote the script I kept asking myself why, why, why.....why is the world so full of troubles? The religion I trusted in for so many decades tells me that it is because of sin...so there we have it, we are being punished for being human. Then it tells me that good comes from evil....so there we have it, all the tears and suffering are for a good that I am now quite unable to see. I think that of all beings in the universe, man is the most pitiful.

So I decided that the play would be a happy one....not a melodrama which sets out to bring on those tears but a celebration of life and the memory of days gone by so that in spite of the tragedy of dementia, what the heck, there is plenty in life that we should be grateful for...

An irony that my play has not found solace in the religion of my youth, the one of a fire and brimstone God which my church and many of my church friends still hold to vehemently and callously but my play has found the simple joy of just being human and humane.

It is a greater irony that it is only at my age that I've finally achieved the serenity and calmness of being at peace with myself and the imperfections of my human-ness.

A HANGING (GEORGE ORWELL)

2006-02-19T22:10:00.000-08:00

Read the passage below and do a spECs and SLIM:

A Hanging (Extracted)
George Orwell (1931)

It was in Burma, a sodden morning of the rains. A sickly light, like yellow tinfoil, was slanting over the high walls into the jail yard. We were waiting outside the condemned cells, a row of sheds fronted with double bars, like small animal cages. Each cell measured about ten feet by ten and was quite bare within except for a plank bed and a pot of drinking water. In some of them brown silent men were squatting at the inner bars, with their blankets draped round them. These were the condemned men, due to be hanged within the next week or two.

One prisoner had been brought out of his cell. He was a Hindu, a puny wisp of a man, with a shaven head and vague liquid eyes. He had a thick, sprouting moustache, absurdly too big for his body, rather like the moustache of a comic man on the films. Six tall Indian warders were guarding him and getting him ready for the gallows. Two of them stood by with rifles and fixed bayonets, while the others handcuffed him, passed a chain through his handcuffs and fixed it to their belts, and lashed his arms tight to his sides. They crowded very close about him, with their hands always on him in a careful, caressing grip, as though all the while feeling him to make sure he was there. It was like men handling a fish which is still alive and may jump back into the water. But he stood quite unresisting, yielding his arms limply to the ropes, as though he hardly noticed what was happening.

Eight o'clock struck and a bugle call, desolately thin in the wet air, floated from the distant barracks. The superintendent of the jail, who was standing apart from the rest of us, moodily prodding the gravel with his stick, raised his head at the sound. He was an army doctor, with a grey toothbrush moustache and a gruff voice. ‘For God's sake hurry up, Francis,’ he said irritably. ‘The man ought to have been dead by this time. Aren't you ready yet?’

Francis, the head jailer, a fat man in a white drill suit and gold spectacles, waved his black hand. ‘Yes sir, yes sir,’ he bubbled. ‘All is satisfactorily prepared. The hangman is waiting. We shall proceed.’
‘Well, quick march, then. The prisoners can't get their breakfast till this job's over.’

We set out for the gallows. Two warders marched on either side of the prisoner, with their rifles at the slope; two others marched close against him, gripping him by arm and shoulder, as though at once pushing and supporting him. The rest of us, magistrates and the like, followed behind.

It was about forty yards to the gallows. I watched the bare brown back of the prisoner marching in front of me. He walked clumsily with his bound arms, but quite steadily, with that bobbing gait of the Indian who never straightens his knees. At each step his muscles slid neatly into place, the lock of hair on his scalp danced up and down, his feet printed themselves on the wet gravel. And once, in spite of the men who gripped him by each shoulder, he stepped slightly aside to avoid a puddle on the path.

It is curious, but till that moment I had never realized what it means to destroy a healthy, conscious man. When I saw the prisoner step aside to avoid the puddle, I saw the mystery, the unspeakable wrongness, of cutting a life short when it is in full tide. This man was not dying, he was alive just as we were alive. All the organs of his body were working — bowels digesting food, skin renewing itself, nails growing, tissues forming — all toiling away in solemn foolery. His nails would still be growing when he stood on the drop, when he was falling through the air with a tenth of a second to live. His eyes saw the yellow gravel and the grey walls, and his brain still remembered, foresaw, reasoned — reasoned even about puddles. He and we were a party of men walking together, seeing, hearing, feeling, understanding the same world; and in two minutes, with a sudden snap, one of us would be gone — one mind less, one world less.

The gallows stood in a small yard, separate from the main grounds of the prison, and overgrown with tall prickly weeds. It was a brick erection like three sides of a shed, with planking on top, and above that two beams and a crossbar with the rope dangling. The hangman, a grey-haired convict in the white uniform of the prison, was waiting beside his machine. He greeted us with a servile crouch as we entered. At a word from Francis the two warders, gripping the prisoner more closely than ever, half led, half pushed him to the gallows and helped him clumsily up the ladder. Then the hangman climbed up and fixed the rope round the prisoner's neck.

We stood waiting, five yards away. The warders had formed in a rough circle round the gallows. And then, when the noose was fixed, the prisoner began crying out on his god. It was a high, reiterated cry of ‘Ram! Ram! Ram! Ram!’, not urgent and fearful like a prayer or a cry for help, but steady, rhythmical, almost like the tolling of a bell. The dog answered the sound with a whine. The hangman, still standing on the gallows, produced a small cotton bag like a flour bag and drew it down over the prisoner's face. But the sound, muffled by the cloth, still persisted, over and over again: ‘Ram! Ram! Ram! Ram! Ram!’
The hangman climbed down and stood ready, holding the lever. Minutes seemed to pass. The steady, muffled crying from the prisoner went on and on, ‘Ram! Ram! Ram!’ never faltering for an instant. The superintendent, his head on his chest, was slowly poking the ground with his stick; perhaps he was counting the cries, allowing the prisoner a fixed number — fifty, perhaps, or a hundred. Everyone had changed colour. The Indians had gone grey like bad coffee, and one or two of the bayonets were wavering. We looked at the lashed, hooded man on the drop, and listened to his cries — each cry another second of life; the same thought was in all our minds: oh, kill him quickly, get it over, stop that abominable noise!

Suddenly the superintendent made up his mind. Throwing up his head he made a swift motion with his stick. ‘Chalo!’ he shouted almost fiercely.

There was a clanking noise, and then dead silence. The prisoner had vanished...

mindyourbody (The Straits Times February 15, 2006

2006-02-15T23:10:00.000-08:00

Is there a cure for motor tics?

Q: My 21-year-old son had a habit of nodding his head during his secondary school days.

Recently, he developed a problem of blinking and face-twitching. My wife and I have told him to try and stop this bad habit.

However, he has told us that he is not aware of it, and gets the urge to do it when he gets angry and depressed.

We suspected that it could have something to do with the nervous system and referred him to a neurosurgeon at Singapore General Hospital in October. The neurosurgeon told us that he would outgrow it and dispensed some Clonazepam tablets.

After taking it, my son feels very sleepy and has since discontinued the medicine. The problem still exists and we are very worried. Please advise if there is any cure.

A: The head-nodding and eye-blinking that were described are suggestive of motor tics, which form part of a spectrum of a disorder called Tourette's Syndrome.

These movements are not due to habit spasms and the sufferer cannot totally suppress these movements for long. Often, he will feel a sense of discomfort when he is required to control these spasms for any length of time.

Vocal tics can also occur with motor tics and they take the form of throat-clearing, grunting noises or quick snorts.

Tics wax and wane, meaning that there are periods when they appear less frequently and at times, they are worse. During times of stress and agitation, the movements are often enhanced. Parents or family members should not chastise the tic sufferer for having these movements as this will make them more stressed.

As the sufferer grows older, the tics can become less frequent or are incorporated into some part of a normal movement.

If the tics are mild, medication to suppress them may not be needed.

Medication does not cure this condition - it merely helps to suppress it. Sometimes, it has side effects.

Clonazepam is one of the medication used to control tics.

One side effect is sleepiness. Many other medications that are used to treat tics can similarly cause sleepiness, dizziness, restlessness, dry mouth, constipation and stiffness, among others. Long-term use of certain medications can also cause an abnormal movement disorder called Tardive Dyskinesia.

I took the effort to type this whole letter and answer because I believe I have suffered from motor and vocal tics from a young age. Like what the answer suggested, a lot of the uncontrollable twitching and throat clearing disappeared with age though not totally. When nervous or agitated, they would surface or sometimes even remembering it would bring back the movements. But the situation has improved tremendous, thank God.

Of course, it causes embarrassment to the parents and family of the sufferer. But just imagine the humiliation the sufferer has to go through especially during the 'dark ages' when medical science had no name for the syndrome and it was put down to the sufferer's bad habit or weakness of character.

I have been called a 'pig' by a primary school teacher when I had the sudden uncontrollable urge to snort to clear my throat during her lesson. A relative who was doctor chastised me for picking up bad habits so quickly. At that time, I was beginning to attend church and the teasing and ugly looks from the people around didn't endear me to church. But the girls, especially those in church, were the most merciless lot for they sneered and giggled at me. All these contributed to my lack of self-worth and self-confidence.

It was only when I grew up and the uncontrollable movements became more controllable that the teasing and taunting became less. At the same time, I managed to gain self-worth and self-confidence in other ways...and there came a day when I simply told myself to ignore people around me.

There are lessons in here somewhere: firstly, don't let the hard words and actions of others hurt you and secondly be kind to people who may seem strange to you because they too have a place under the sun and on the earth, same as you. It's a sin to ruin someone else's self-worth whether your church teaches it or not.

ARE YOU NOOSE HAPPY?

2006-02-13T05:40:00.000-08:00

Yesterday's Sunday Times reported on a survey which found that 96% of Singaporeans support the death penalty. According to the report, "almost everyone...young and old...every race and education level....supports the death penalty for heinous crimes." 'Heinous crimes' include murder, drug trafficking and use of firearms. A large group of respondents to the survey also felt that the death sentence should be introducted as maximum penalty for terrorism, sex with minors under the age of 12 and rape.

Are we a nation of extremists who think that the answer to offences is to get rid of the offenders, well especially in the case of serious crimes. Are we trigger happy and vengeful beings? Or maybe that's what makes Singapore great...our ability to get tough when faced with serious problems. And this is often in the face of opposition especially pressure from countries that plead on behalf of their citizens who get caught like in the case of Nguyen.....

So, my friends, what do you think?

WHAT STUDENTS DON'T WANT

2006-01-29T21:30:00.000-08:00

I read with interest today's newspaper report on the adverse reactions of some students in AJC against their sexuality education talk about sex. Evidently, they were upset with the guest speakers who were invited by the college to talk about sex and how to careful: the usual yada-yada. Such talks conducted by external agencies are common since schools have begun to admit that most of their teachers were not comfortable talking about the issue and have begun inviting external organisations...social and religious ones to conduct such sessions.

While it is a move in the right direction (getting the 'professionals' to do the job), many schools would have risked the possibility of these speakers with their own religious and moral beliefs becoming didactic and resorting to the 'Thou shalt not' approach which would positively put students off. In the past, when students were less vocal because the education system here rewarded silent submission, at present, because of what the ministry had said, whether schools in actuality are carrying it out or not, students have become bolder and more vocal, becoming increasingly articulate of their opinions. It is little wonder that the students of AJC reacted in that way and some even dared to show their objections.

Teenagers would like to think for themselves and if in the end, they choose the right way, then good for them and kudos to those who have imparted the right values to them (I say impart not teach....schools have tried to their own detriment to teach moral values). If they choose the wrong way, perhaps in falling, they would learn to rise up again.

Morals, especially sexual ones have always been a controversial issue. It had been controversial thousands of years ago, it still is and I firmly believe it will continue to be. Let's just hope that with Singapore and Singaporeans becoming more mature and tolerant of differing views, instead of throwing the baby out with the bath water (there is a tendency for us to do this....remember chewing gum and speak Mandarin vs dialect campaign), we would learn how not to see the world in black and white.

DOGGIE NEW YEAR

2006-01-28T22:10:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow's New Year's Day. It's rather unusual this year because usually at this time - 10 pm, I would still be cleaning the house for the new year....but this year, I'm already done at this time....I even had time for an after-lunch nap. And I managed to fry a fish very well....nian nian you yu....first time I managed to do it so well...without stripping the fish of its skin like all the other times before.

Hope it will be a good new year: bow wow....

THE HOMECOMING

2006-01-22T05:11:00.000-08:00

As he stepped out of the Singapore Airlines plane, he was overwhelmed by a strong feeling which he could not control. It was a mix of happiness to be home and anxiety about what was going to happen to him. He had not set foot on Singapore soil these thirty-five years but even in faraway New York which he had made home, he had kept up with news about Singapore whenever there was any. He read the newspapers with pride when they reported about Singapore being the best airport, the busiest port and everything they were saying about the economic miracle of the island state. He should have been part of it, he knew but he gave it all up in pursuit of his dream of becoming an international pianist.

That was so many years ago. Bryan was just twelve when he was identified by his music teacher as being talented in the piano beyond his years. She recommended him to her own music teacher who was a professor in New York's world class music conservatory. His parents were willing to pay for his studies and the scholarship which was granted would take care of the lodgings and the tuition fees.

And so the young boy who had never left home before in his life was sent off at the Paya Lebar airport with just his mother accompanying him to the Big Apple so that she could help him settle down.

As Bryan entered the arrival lounge of the Singapore International Airport, he couldn't help but wonder at how grand it looked. The Paya Lebar airport from which he had left Singapore so many years ago was so basic in its facilities and structure. At that time, he had felt that it was so grand....but now, he was amazed at the beautiful airport he was entering.

He knew that his brother would be waiting for him at the arrival lounge. His mother's passing had been a shock to all of them. Yes, she was eighty-one...."Such a long life already," Auntie May was consoling him over the phone. But it had nevertheless been a shock to them all: one moment she was eating her usual porridge fed to her by her Filipina maid, the next she was turning purple, choking over it.

Bryan had wanted to return to Singapore to perform his national service obligations just like all the boys in Singapore. He had not expected it but he had been offered a scholarship to continue to study for his Masters and after that his professor had promised him an introduction into the New York Philharmonic Orchestra as resident pianist. But if he did not return to Singapore, he knew that they would treat him as having committed the punishable crime of not serving his national service. He knew he would never be able to return to his homeland again without facing the law.

He called his parents who after finding out his interest in a music career told him to follow his heart and not to worry about them. And so for the next thirty-five years, he was a Singapore boy in exile. He became an American and his parents went every year to visit him in New York. However, the inevitable happened: they became too old to travel. Then the phone call from Auntie May...Mum had passed away.

So on a cold spring morning, he boarded the plane at the JFK International Airport and headed home.

He had contacted the Singapore Embassy in New York of his decision to return home. As expected, he was met by a representative from the immigration department at the customs. The officer told him very kindly that he would have to go the next day to the immigration department for instructions on what to do.

From the airport, his brother drove directly to the Singapore Casket where his mother's wake was being held. And as he looked at the youthful photograph of his mother taken when she was just fifty, he felt a mistiness clouding his eyes. It was sadness at her passing but it was a rejoicing that come what may, the prodigal son had returned.

SHAKESPEARE, SHAKESPEARE, WHEREFORE ART THOU, SHAKESPEARE?

2006-01-04T18:50:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle,
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

Extracted from MACBETH by W Shakespeare

Today I once again came across the line "...full of sound and fury/Signifying nothing." I have so often in times past used this line to ridicule those people I know who talk so much but when you think about what they have said, there is very little worthy of attention. And yes, I have no right to ridicule, I know.....the flesh is weak but the spirit is weaker.....(sorry, they say that the Devil can quote scriptures and often misquotes it.....they are so right)

But today, as I look once again at the context of the line, I realised that it is not talking about empty vessels but about life....I am reminded of the ambitions of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth which led them to murder the king. And I am reminded of Lady Macbeth's mental collapse as she is plagued by the conscience which will not let her go.....the horror of the cry as she screams "out, out damned spot" while trying to clean in vain her hands of the imagined blood in her fit of madness.

So what is life...even with fulfilled ambitions? It is but a "brief candle" and a "walking shadow" and at the end of it all, we realise that it is but an extended play on stage, unreal and fleeting.

Just an extended thought:

At the end of it all, I guess, everyone is simply trying to MAKE SENSE of life, to make sense in the senseless dimension of existence. Aren't philosophy, education, and in an even greater sense religion, trying to do this very thing?

MELVYN, MELVYN

2005-12-04T20:40:00.000-08:00

The Straits Times newspaper report on Sat, December 31, 2005 read, "PIANIST FACES MUSIC OVER NS EVASION". It reported how Mevyln Tan who 'gained acclaim overseas' had left Singapore to study music in London when he was still a teenager and didn't return to Singapore but instead became a British citizen, was fined for evasion of national service when he returned to visit his aging parents this year. He was fined $3,000

Actually, I was pleased to read about Melvyn coming home at last. I haven't seen him since Sec 1 when he left way before the year was up. I can't even remember him saying goodbye. Maybe he never did....one day he was around and the next we hear that he had gone to London because of his God-given talent. My reactions at that time was envy. Yes, envy...not the sort that gets one all riled up because of the unfairness of inborn talent: I was too young to react in that way. It was envy because I had wished it had been me instead of him.

Then when all of us classmates went for NS...that was the first time I felt the unfairness of the situation....especially when we all hated NS...that's right, the truth is 90% of young men hate NS and the remaining 10% are fantastic liars. Once in a while, when we classmates got together, we remember Melvyn and how he had escaped it all. But two and a half years passed quickly and whatever sentiments we had of Melvyn soon disappeared.

Once in a while, we are reminded of him when we see the classical albums he had cut in the music shops. But we remember him more as a long lost classmate rather than a someone who had gone AWOL.

So now this big uproar about him. Frankly, I can totally understand the sentiments of the guys who are either unhappily in NS or unhappily waiting to be enlisted. I would be feeling the same way too if I were in their shoes. But time has healed whatever feelings I have of him as someone who has evaded NS. He is now a classmate, he may not even remember me, who has come home.

Pity that he should have decided to back out of his concert and being a judge. It would have been a wonderful homecoming.

THINGS FALL APART: THE CENTRE CANNOT HOLD

2005-11-15T21:40:00.000-08:00

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart: the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand,
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight; somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

THE SECOND COMING
by W B Yeats

The name of my blog comes from the idea of "things fall apart; the centre cannot hold" in the poem by Irishman Yeats. 'Implosive' suggests a caving in of the centre and 'impulse' shows a tendency for it to happen - a very real possibility because it is driven by the latent force present in every human being.

What is the horror of the 2nd coming? Is it the triumphant return of Christ in the clouds. In the poem, it is marked by 'the rough beast' that "slouches towards Bethlehem to be born..." Or is it the anarchy of the whole world going out control?

STORY TELLING AND STORY LOVING

2005-11-11T18:55:00.000-08:00

Just came back from a 2-day course in story-telling - there were some high points but some low. Hope I can use the things I've learnt.

Something happened to me at the course today. I just said hello to an angmoh delegate from US and asked him how he had slept last night - trying to be friendly really. To my surprise, he told me that he had watched A River Runs Through Here and asked whether I am familiar with the movie. I told him that I had watched it about 6 or 7 times and in fact I have a DVD of it. In his opinion,he said, it is Brad Pitt's only good movie. While I hadn't watched Brad Pitt enough to be able to contribute much to his opinion, I told him that A River Runs Through Here is one of my favourite movies - its slow moving images of the river of time, the trials of growing up in a small town in Montana, the ceaseless futile search for happiness and all that .....I have been moved over and over again by Tom Skerritt (the preacher father)'s final words when he said that he didn't understand Brad Pitt his son who got killed by hoodlums because he had a gambling habit - he said in his final sermon on the pulpit that one didn't need to understand to love. In all the 6 or 7 times that I have watched the movie, that line when it came never failed to hit me in my inner soul. I don't know why but it always does.

I told the angmoh that Tom Skerritt's understated performance as a strict but loving father and preacher was sheer acting genius. If he had resorted to melodrama, I would have despised the movie. He didn't and the result is a moving story that went beyond fly fishing and the rhythm of the seasons in Montana. It was about life..... Kudos to Robert Redford (director).

The angmoh and I went into more friendly chat about the beauty of American national parks - Rockies, Yosemite, Yellowstone, Grand Canyon.....and he told me that he had gone on the unbeaten track and trekked on foot for 3 - 4 days with just 2 potatoes and some a little bit of food. This is so as to clear his mind and leave civilisation and people behind. Wow, I wish I had the guts to do that.

To Mr Murray, I don't even remember his first name, thanks for the memories of A River Runs Through Here.

THE STRENGTH OF THE SOUL

2005-11-07T16:15:00.000-08:00

I'm not talking about the soul as in that put forth by religion. The soul to me is the innermost part of a person. It combines the intellect, the emotions, the identity and everything that the person is. All human beings have souls but some are more aware of it, some less. Some choose to suppress it, some can't.

Is it good not to be able to suppress it? Yes and no. It's good because a person who doesn't suppress himself is true to himself. It takes general acceptance - intellectual, psychological and emotional - of himself. It is bad because when there is too much introspection, like the journey into the heart of darkness, all the person may see is THE HORROR, THE HORROR and it is a one-way trip.

OF SEA AND WAVE

2005-11-05T20:55:00.000-08:00

I wonder why I'm so fascinated by the sea. This morning, I was at Changi Beach at 7.30 am. Alone. Thinking about stuff, I guess. I hate the crowd of civilisation where there are people, people everywhere - some I know, others I don't. I am not alone but I'm terribly lonely in the city. It's the loneliness borne of isolation and alienation. Have I become such a misanthrope that I need to shun people to find my real self?

I don't feel that I'm the only one feeling this way. Singapore has a way of making people feel like this. That is why I feel that behind all the glitter and gold that is Singapore, it is a very sick place. People here survive by being sold to the common ideals of the Lotus Eaters. Those who are not lotus eaters try to numb their pain in other ways.

I choose to numb mine by going to Changi Beach early in the morning when there is no one around. No, it is not a religious experience; it is not for God that I'm there. In fact, God and organised religion are what I'm avoiding. I know too much of them to rely anymore on them like I did when I was younger and more dependent on the hereafter.

I am here, because I want to be here; to be with myself. With the sea and its smell; with the waves and their sounds. With me and my echo.

So I will come here again. And again. And again.

Hollow. Reverberating inside.

C'EST LA VIE

2005-11-02T15:55:00.000-08:00

I've never had it so bad: 2 weeks and 2 visits to the doctors later and I've still not recovered. I've slept until I have a headache. Watching TV is frustrating because I can't see very well through a filmy blur in my eyes. Even typing this, I have to rely on my familiarity with the keyboard. Wetting my eyes with vials of artificial tears helps clear them for about 30 seconds, after which it is back to the visual haze.

Oh God, when is it going to clear?

*****

Going to Chiangmai for CIP on Sunday. Did very little of the preparation work. I'm grateful for the colleagues who are going with me. They have been covering for me while I am on MC and did most of the work. I feel so sorry about it. The more understanding people are, the worse I feel.

OF BLOGGING AND FOS

2005-10-30T05:45:00.000-08:00

Recent cyberpolice-ing had hit 3 racist blogs and 2 gay sites. It's bound to cause a stir among bloggers and cyberites who have, heretofore, thought that blogging was a private affair. In my humble opinion, it is a "yes" and "no". It is a private affair as far as my present writing (typing) in the air-con comfort of my room at 5.15 am is concerned. But the minute I click "publish", I know in my heart of hearts that it is no longer private.

Blogging is something like bathroom singing. Bloggers have the same mentality and psyche. You sing because the four walls of the bathroom give you the illusion that since they hide your nakedness, they also hide your voice...it is the illusion that you are all alone in the privacy of your own world...you have the confidence which you do not have when you feel that there are others watching you and you are being judged. The private world of the blogger is similarly illusory because as in bathroom singing, the whole world outside the walls can hear you (it's only a matter of whether they pay attention or not, of whether they choose to respond or not)...you are being judged whether you feel it or not, whether you like it or not. The experience of being judged and criticised is never pleasant - I've had my share of it as a blogger from a rather polite commentor...I could've had it worse. But it would be naive to think that all responses to what we think and what we say would always be positive. Everything in life, no matter how noble, how right, will have its detractors. So I guess when I click "publish" a little later, I should expect that somewhere, someone will feel that I'm writing rubbish. As they say, everyone's entitled to their own opinions. Right now, I'm just glad that I've quite a lot of privacy because other than 1 or 2 readers and they are basically people I know, no one else has come into my world. I'm going to cherish this.

Censorship and freedom of speech is another matter altogether. Singapore has always believed in freedom with responsibility. The greater good is always balanced with individual rights, although the feeling is that the 'greater good' whatever that is, is more important to the authorities. And so we all support the premise that racism will destroy the cohesion of society just as gay sites that win young vulnerable minds over will destroy the moral fibre of society.

But it doesn't take away the fact that thousands will continue to read blogs and sites like the highly irreverant Talking Cock (I sometimes wonder why the authorities have not acted against it) not because they take it seriously but because it is very funny and highly entertaining, much more entertaining than what local TV has to offer most of the time.

THE HORROR, THE HORROR

2005-10-30T04:45:00.000-08:00

Just woke up. Enough of sleeping already. When they were away at Elaine Paige, I was sleeping at home. Damn. I would have enjoyed watching her. But I couldn't have gone, not with my sore eyes not totally gone. Damn the sore eyes.

Woke up to the strains of Tian Tian Xian Ni (Thinking of you everyday) by Chang Yu Sheng. At four thirty in the morning? Well, it's another marathon night when she watches TV the whole night and refuses to sleep. I wonder how she does it. It's been so many years and the lyrics and tune of the song still haunts me. Of course May Day re-sang it. Theirs was more upbeat, younger but not as haunting as the original..."Thinking of you everyday, asking myself everyday, when I can tell you. Thinking of you everyday, keeping heart everyday, To give my truest love to you."

Watched Apocalyse Now, the other day...before my eyes became like this. Damn the bad censoring...half the time I couldn't follow because of the gaps...sometimes I'm really frustrated with how the country has assumed the role of moral nanny...come on, we're adults here...!? But I know, somewhere in my mind anyway, that totally freedom is an illusion, even undesirable. Anyway I caught enough of it to stir up memories of Heart of Darkness. Although I've not been an avid fan of Joseph Conrad, as I grow older, I've begun to see and feel more and more of the Conradian world and psyche. THE HORROR, THE HORROR...I've seen flashes of Kurtz's heart of darkness...and yes, I've murmured the same words in my own heart...I can now comprehend why someone would commit suicide as in Lord Jim for no apparent reason - is there no reason or is the reason inexplicable but no less real and there in the heart of darkness? Compared to the very centre, the images that Coppola tried so hard to depict of human degeneration (damn it...censored beyond recognition) pale. In the centre there are no images: it is more abstract but a degenerate force so potent, so lethal that it eludes words and images. THE HORROR, THE HORROR.....

NANQUAN MAMA

2005-10-28T20:05:00.000-07:00

Somehow the most recent album of Nanquan Mama came into the family. I've thought of the pop group as rather silly Taiwanese fluff with a silly name since they came to my notice sometime ago. But with this new album, I've changed my idea of them.

I was in my car, playing the CD because it was newly in our possession and I was giving it a chance to do something for me. The song that caught my attention was Mu Dan Jiang (Peony River); I was told it is a place in China. I found the tune rather unusual: a mix of Chinese folk and western easy listening pop. While waiting in the car for my passenger, I decided to read the lyrics and upon reading them, I was immediately won over as a fan. The lyrics by Alex Fong is haunting and touching..."A place which you can't reach is called far; a place which you can't return to is called home." The overwhelming feeling of homesickness is so poignantly penned that even though I was still in my homeland, I felt the kind of homesick loneliness which the song brought.

I'm now a fan of Nanquan Mama and definitely of Alex Fong.

SORE EYES

2005-10-28T12:11:00.000-07:00

I've got conjunctivitis. Why? Because someone went for a camp when he was down with it and a family member who attended the same camp brought it back home. Now everyone at home has it and why should I then be spared?

It started with irritation in the left eye - an ominous foreboding? But I could have guessed- sandy, sleepy sensation in the eye that doesn't go away with water or eye wash. Then the pain sets in - it feels like someone has hit my eye with a blunt object.

Sleeping didn't help. A visit to the doctor's would be the best thing and I did just that. Yes, it was confirmed to be conjunctivitis..."You'll recover in about a week," the doctor said..."but," he added, "you'll get worse before you get better." Worse? What could be worse? I tried to dig up memory bits from the recesses of my mind of experiences with sore eyes in the past.

After a night of sleep, I could hardly open my eyes the next morning. They had been glued shut by yellow pus that had appeared overnight on my eyelids. They had hardened through the night and it was painful to remove them immediately.

I felt my way to the bathroom. Now I know what blind people must experience all the time - right angle turns, sharp corners, furniture, doors and even objects left around waiting to be put away, all become obstacles leading to accidents. Fortunately, the bathroom is not too far away. So it was when I was there that I used cotton facial wipes dipped in warm water to soften the pus and clean it away. On opening my eyes, I realised that the world had become surreal through a blur watery film. I suddenly realised that sight is something so important but taken for granted for so long.

So if there's nothing learnt through sore eyes, it is how precious the gift of sight is.

About the present predicament that I'm in. I'm really upset with the school and the CCA teacher who was in charge of the camp. The student with the infected eyes was allowed to remain for the total length of the camp - a whole 3 days - Fri to Sun. The teacher did nothing and now the whole group of students except 2 have been infected. This is not counting the number of family members the infected ones subsequently spread it to.

GLIMPSES OF TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD IN SINGAPORE

2005-09-02T06:30:00.000-07:00

The other day Straits Times reported the verdict on Took who was found guilty of murdering Huang Na, the China girl.

I see the trial from To Kill a Mockingbird in the Took trial, although in the case of Mockingbird, Tom Robinson was not guilty. There was the crowd from Maycomb who attended the trial like it was a picnic. In Singapore, the ah peks and ah ums attended the trial of Took, some trying to get a better view like it was some scene from a melodrama. After the trial in Mockingbird, respectable citizens made comments about the blacks especially about Helen, Tom's wife. In Singapore, comments were hurled at Took's family as reported by ST.

Is this fiction becoming real life?

THE DRAGON AWAKES: SOME PERSONAL THOUGHTS

2005-08-08T22:30:00.000-07:00

In recent weeks, China nationals overseas got a hard whacking from Singaporeans and people from other countries which they have begun visiting in droves, the result of their new found wealth.

Their kind of behaviour described by those interviewed bordered on the boorish, a kind of boorishness attributed to the nouveau riche - a phenomenon commonly found among people whose sudden wealth has overtaken acceptable ideas of good breeding. While the criticisms from those whose livelihood and subsequent financial well-being depend on them remained understandably subdued, the outcry from others were harsh and scathing.

While the behaviour like staging a sit-in when they felt aggrieved and jumping queues may seem downright crass to Singaporeans, those who have been to China would have tales to tell of how it is a familiar occurrence back home especially at railway stations during peak periods. Tales of how locals push others with great force to get onto the trains and how whole families including the women folk and children get into brawls over such matters with the supposedly gentler sex using bags and luggages to swing violently at the other party, are plentiful.

The question is always whether this type of behaviour is the result of the decades of having to fight for survival through aggression during the Cultural Revolution. The behaviour continues today when many Chinese nationals have left their homeland to study and work in foreign countries where language barrier and the differences in culture force them to continue using their familiar well-tested way of aggressive tactics to survive. It is, perhaps, the same drive which many interpret to be aggressiveness among Chinese students studying here. And it is this drive which has posed a threat to many local students who are less driven and definitely less confrontational.

Having worked with Chinese nationals for some time now, I believe this drive in them will help them succeed in a big way. The Dragon has indeed awakened.

Chinese people, jia you.
Singaporeans, jia you.

THE DRAGON

Red, blue, green, yellow
But mostly red,
With scales as big as plates
And claws like hooks.

Do not anger the Monster
For half a century she lies asleep
The restless sleep of one who dreams
Nightmares within.

Bloody red.

Then when nightmares cease
And the sun rises in the East,
And she yawns like an awakening mighty river,
Yellow with the souls of dynasties
And warriors of terracotta.

Released upon the world.

A CANAL RUNS THROUGH IT (ROCHORE CANAL, 1960S) PART 2

2005-08-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

Perhaps its life comes from the hills;
Like milk that flows from
The breasts
Along Bukit Timah Road

Life begins as a river
And then the hands of man
And civilisation
Created embankments later on

It flows like life blood through
A place called Rochor
Carry its load of dead wastes
And foul smelling remnants of the living.

The floating carcasses of pests
Reminders that life and death
Are all indistinguishable in
The sordid existence of a third-worldliness.

On both banks, now and again
Loud cymbals and drums
Resound to throaty singing
Of heroes and beauties with caked faces.

As offering to the gods and ghouls
Who happen to be passing through
When Life, Death and Immortality
Have all lost their distinct meaningfulness

And all have merged into
A single existence
Of the Living and the Dead
Like the canal that runs through it.

A CANAL FLOWS THROUGH IT (ROCHORE CANAL, 1960S) PART 1

2005-07-28T22:15:00.000-07:00

How many months since last updating? Many, many...kinda lost count. Some people asked me to be up and about and update but I didn't feel like it then...but feel like it now so here it is. I've changed the blog title to "Raised in Tekka" because well, I was - sorta like a Tekka Kid.

Tekka was one cool place before it became Zhujiao - "pig's trotters", a monstrous linguistic mutation created by hanyupinying. So scary to us who lived in the days when dialect was still legit.

You can say, "A canal ran through it" - that's what it was - Rochor Canal in its pre-cleanedup days...it bore the stench of humanity.

The market was across the road from where it stands today - right where the mall is now. It was a single level of humid, wet and fishy smelling shoppers' paradise for Ah Sohs and Ah Ums in the pre-Auntie calling days. Just outside the market were backlanes of abattoirs and slaughter houses franked by the best hawkers selling food like prawn noodles. Those were the days when strong stomachs were needed to eat out. Inevitably, remnants of animal parts and unfinished food would end up floating down the canal into the Kallang delta. Oh yes, did I forget to mention friendly neighbourhood rats and roaches?

Those were days when money was not plentiful and going to pasar malams was still considered a fashionable outing. But those carefree days were also pre-ability-driven, pre-meritocracy as well - so there was no crap of working until you die of burnout.

The canal led into the Hinghwa enclave of Queen Street where many bicycle shop thrived in those days. My family home also started there in a twin shop house that smelt of metal, oil and dust, gathered through the years of bicycle trade. By the time I was born, we had moved away into the extended area that fanned out into the Race Course Road and the Tekka areas. I would still go back on Chinese New Year day to pay respect to my grandparents. Or when there were wayangs put up for the entertainment of gods and ghosts alike on the two banks of the canal - I loved the garish colours of the costumes, the cacophony of shrill singing in Teochew operas and the husky low singing of the Hokkien operas with the Cantonese operas somewhere in-between. As a young boy, the operas with their stories of gods and mortals, of love and hate, of war and peace, of families and enemies fascinated me no end. Those were the days when culture was free and out there in the streets- not taught in school as some bi-cultural studies, not watched politely and dressed up to the nines in some venue that has the upper class furnishings of the rich West within an exterior that resembled a durian or worse a pair of eyes belonging to a housefly.

THAT'S HOW I FEEL

2005-01-20T02:46:00.000-08:00

The Man in the Bowler Hat

I am the unnoticed, the unnoticeable man:
The man who sat on your right in the morning train:
The man you looked through like a windowpane:
The man who was the colour of the carriage, the colour of
the mounting
Morning pipe smoke.

I am the man too busy with a living to live,
Too hurried and worried to see and smell and touch:
That man who is patient too long and obeys too much
And wishes too softly and seldom.

I am the man they call the nation's backbone,
Who am boneless - playable catgut, pliable clay:
The Man they label Little lest one day
I dare to grow.

I am the rails on which the moment passes,
The megaphone for many words and voices:
I am graph, diagram,
Composite face.

I am the led, the easily-fed,
The tool, the not-quite-fool,
The would-be-safe-and-sound,
The uncomplaining bound,
The dust fine-ground,
Stone-for-a-statue waveworn pebble-round.

by A S J Tessimond
from Poems Deep and Dangerous

The first time I read this poem was when I was looking through the collection of poems in PDD. It struck me as being so similar to "Mister Cellophane", the song from "Chicago" which I caught on cable not too long ago. The invisibility of the modern man in modern society, the loss of individuality and the death of identity which becomes swallowed up by the gaping hungry mouth of organised living and the resultant alienation of the soul and spirit are things I feel in my bones in the daily mundaneness of life in Singapore.