The Malleability of Time

The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali

Shuffling noises could still be heard through my semi-conscious state - some of feet, and perhaps running water. The light streaming in had me move a little right-ward, hoping to avoid the sun for just that little longer, knowing that my time was almost up; the final moments I had to catch a few more winks before the dreadful vibration would be felt in my pocket, telling me that: "It's time."

That was then, and that was when I was subjected to the hours of an OPC (off-peak car), which translates to having your car stationary from 7am to 7pm on weekdays. Being the semi-snob that I am and refusing to take the hour-long bus-ride and potentially letting my would-be students make inane jokes about my drooling state, I opted to go through a routine that required me to wake up at 5.30am everyday so that I can get to the carpark before 7am, with enough time to catch a few winks before my class at 9. Conversely, I had to  tarry on after class till at least 7pm before I could start on my way home.

Case in point: The malleability of Time. In Salvador Dali's The Persistence of Time, Dali paints a surrealistic painting of melting clocks. While common interpretations have come to describe the meaning of the painting on the meaninglessness and relativity of Time, my first impression when I saw the painting was how "soft" and "flexible" time is to a person.

In the case of waking up early to make it to school before 7am is simply a matter of adjusting my body clock (and maybe a bit of the lifestyle) in exchange for saving a couple of hundred bucks a month, which on a more abstract level, comes down to re-shuffling the time schedules, allocating time meant for sleep to travelling instead, and then time meant for travelling to sleep.

A minute and common point in basic altering of one's lifestyle or rescheduling one's time perhaps, but the bigger point is how malleable can be. Ironically, time is so fixed - to the number of hours we each get a day - and yet so malleable, in which we can entirely decide how we want to spend it - use it to put in the hours in an office for a paycheck, dedicate it to honing a skill in music or sports (or games), letting it tick by in the comfort of a loved one, or simply just kill it by staring into space and letting it disappear in the void.

It is quite ironic really, when I see the youth of my students who are so desparate to find ways to kill their time, lamenting about their life and just finding ways to fast-forward it to grow up faster; and yet, as I grow older, I've grown a lot more cautious about how my time is spent, becoming increasingly particular about efficiency, and wishing I had more time in my hands, especially from that which I wasted in my youth.

In the end, Time is perhaps the only resource a person can be said to possess entirely, and one has the total freedom of how he or she would want to spend it - but the bigger dilemma is making the time count. Often, people forget just how malleable time is, allocating a "proper time" to certain things, like when it is to sleep, or to eat, or work, and are too willing to let their time and their life run on rails.

Especially true in the natural order when running too long in the rat race, where most are content to sink into a Work-Eat-Relax-Sleep routine for 5 out of 7 days of their lives, and often put everything else that can be done to a simple rhetorical question of "where to find the time?" And in the blink of an eye, days, months or even years pass by, with you wondering where all the time went and how your life passed by without you really knowing - probably lost in the the sea of consumerism and meaningless indulgence.

For me personally, I need the occasional all-nighter or meaningful vacation to remind myself just exactly how long a night is, or just how much can be done in the span of a day - to realign my perspective of Time. But more than that, I think it is important to find Meaning - first in Life, and then naturally in Time.

I always tell people that I will probably only live till 40 due to my vampiric lifestyle and bad habits. Part of it is in jest perhaps, and maybe part of it has a ring of truth; but the larger part of it is often to remind myself to make my days and years count. Perhaps with the constant scarcity looming overhead, I will be more cautious of how I want to spend my time, how to get the most out of it, drive me towards thinking a bit harder about realising what I want in life, and I want to achieve by the end of it - especially if it could be just 10 years or so away.

So, if you could only live till 40, how would you spend your Time?


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The Myth of Sisyphus

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was a king punished for cheating the gods and escaping death. When he was eventually caught, he was being compelled to roll an immense boulder up a hill, bearing its full weight; and when it got to the top of the hill, the Sisyphus had to watch the rock roll back down the hill, and start the process all over - and this was to go on for all eternity. 

The maddening nature of the punishment was reserved for Sisyphus due to his belief that his cleverness surpassed that of Zeus. As a result when Sisyphus was condemned to his punishment, Zeus displayed his own cleverness by binding Sisyphus to an eternity of frustration with the boulder rolling away from Sisyphus when he neared the top of the hill.

Metaphorically, the Myth of Sisyphus has been used to talk about many things - the ceaseless and endless toil of the Sisyphus as a parallel to the things that we do or work on on a daily basis - nothing more than rather meaningless and menial tasks that amount to nothing much at the end of our lives, leading to the greater points of the absurdity of life in general - the full knowledge of this meaninglessness, and yet the continual push to pursue it.

More than this though, the main question that occured to me in this tale are the thoughts and motivations that run through Sisyphus' mind each time he sees the boulder roll down the slope, as he pursues it, only to start the process again, knowing the full extent of where it is heading and how it is going to turn out...

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As the news came to me that I would be required to fill the nominal role and go outfield for this round's annual reservist, after a (too) good 10-year span, my mind ran amok as something in me just snapped, or perhaps, kick-started; a feeling of helpless and hopeless desperation, as my mind ran wild with every possible possibility I could conjure to escape this fate; constantly generating, analysing and dissecting each idea that popped into my head - a feeling that I hadn't felt for the longest time, perhaps as long as when I finally left the gloom of the army behind, and went on to lead a much happier life.

At the same time though, it seemed to have revive a certain kind of drive in me, one fuelled by aggression and determination, that runs on the mantra of "no matter the cost", in getting things done or getting my way in things.  A sharp contrast to 10-years of relative comfort, and perhaps in retrospect, complacency - one that only comes from safety and comfort from a good life, one you don't fully realise how good it is until it is starkly juxtaposed against having to endure the grime, the dirt, the discomfort, the sweat, the heat, the hunger, the fatigue, or perhaps above all - as with Sisyphus, the meaninglessness of the entire task.

10 years is a long time, but not long enough to even come close to remotely forgetting how dreadful an outfield experience is, and how disruptive it is to life as I've come to know it. 10 years is a long time when it comes to trying to muster the mental and physical fortitude that one was able to conjure at will when one was required to flex it and just bite the bullet - perhaps too many teeth have dropped over the decade to make for a pretty weak bite these days. And yet, 10 years is a long time for someone to grow mentally and emotionally.

What was knee-jerk reaction to think like the Escapist that I was from many years back, slowly faded into a more calm spirit of Acceptance; one that only comes with a certain degree of maturity, I believe. It is not one that is made out of back-pressed-against-the-wall circumstances - as there were still some desperate measures that lingered at the back of my mind throughout the whole mental thought process that I contemplated till days before - but rather, one that was consciously made from weighing all the options and considering all the circumstances carefully; one that I can proudly say was not a selfish one, as perhaps, unlike those that were made when I was much younger; when the repercussions didn't matter, and the ends self-convincingly justified the means.

Someone once said that "God does not give you a burden more than you are able to bear", and in that light, I think that I've been shown mercy in this respect. The entire experience was eased in quite progressively, as the time spent outfield was approximately 24-hours on the first week, and doubling to 48-hours on the final mission - with an additional blessing of the exemption from some of the worst that I have mentally psyched myself up for, through some sort of mysterious benevolence and unique circumstances.

Upon reflection, though I still hate the outfield experience with every fibre in my being, I think suddenly being displaced and disrupted from life as one knows it does something to one's way of seeing things. An attained and validated sense of maturity comes to mind, but perhaps more importantly, is the revival of a certain drive and aggression that has been lost from me for the longest time, one perhaps I have a better channel for at this stage of life than I did in my youth. However, the underlying lesson from all of this is one of mind rather than matter.

As the French philosopher, Albert Camus argues, in the case of Sisyphus, acknowledging the truth will conquer it; Sisyphus, just like the absurd man, keeps pushing. Camus claims that when Sisyphus acknowledges the futility of his task and the certainty of his fate, he is freed to realize the absurdity of his situation and to reach a state of contented acceptance. Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well.

The bottomline: It is all a matter of Perspective. The very (absurd) act of contemplating and thereby fully acknowledging the meaningless or dreadful tasks presented to one, is probably the first step one must take towards eventually overcoming it, if not physically or circumstantially, then at least, mentally. With that, a state of Acceptance should naturally follow, and eventually, "all will be well".

Note: 

Some parts of this post were taken from Wikipedia.org and http://www.nyu.edu/classes/keefer/hell/camus.html

The Death of Verse and Prose

Verse is dead and our grasp of Prose as we know it is probably slipping through our fingers at a rapidly-accelerating rate.

 

With the introduction of the sms-language, L33T speak, and fuelled by the mother-of-all-literary-evils, Twitter, the place for Verse and Prose grows increasingly sparse in our everyday lives. A hyperbole perhaps, but even in the best case scenario, Verse might not be dead, but probably still dying a a cancerous death, and Prose is undergoing a vile mutation; mutating into something almost undistinguishable from what it used to be prior to the Internet-generation.  

My opinion is that the underlying problem very much lies in the general lack of patience in the youths of today. Spoilt by the instant gratification of regular status updates through Facebook or Twitter - in this case, Twitter being the bigger sinner of the two, simply due to the 160 character limit that forces liberties to be taken with the language - the thought of sitting down to read something remotely close to being labelled as "properly written" becomes more and more remote; bringing to light the bigger point of the mind-set that the very act of "reading", as in actually reading as opposed to browsing or skimming through,  feels more and more deterring to seeds of the future.

More and more bloggers have abandoned ship over the last few months or years, and jumped on the "Instant Update" bandwagon, especially to those who used to blog as a means to updating their friends and keeping them in the loop. After all, why bother to blog an entire paragraph, one day at a time, reporting on your lunch, dinner and mood of the day, when you can now bombard your friends with the same information as and when it happens, right?

But perhaps the bottom-line is, they might have been missing the point all this while anyway. I mean, yes, the blog is a means to the end of informing your friends about your life, and keeping them in the loop and all, but more so than reporting your daily activities, a blog could (and probably should) be something beyond a blow-by-blow account of your battles with your bowl of Bak Chor Mee. It is a soapbox, an expression if you will, of oneself - involving one's thoughts and opinions.

A place for your friends, people who not only care about what you do, but also about what you think, to hear from and in the process, better understand you. To quote Descartes as and when I have the chance to, simply to make myself look more intellectual, "[we] think therefore [we are]", and a blog can be an avenue for people to know your inner workings, beyond your outer engagements; but in the best case scenario, to show a keen interest in both.

Whatever the case however, whether there will be a sudden realisation of the time and place for Verse and Prose following the maturity of the Internet-generation - the need to keep our literary skills honed and in a larger sense, to continued to be worthy of the term of being classified as "literate", amidst all the abbrevations, emoticons, shorthands and whatnot - still remains very much up in the air (though the cynic in me has a bag-and-a-half full of reservations).

In the meantime, for an old soul like myself, who still believes in the "olden tongue", I can only continue to write my "walls of text" as the rest of the generation passes me by. Oh, and just for the record, I still don't have a Twitter account.

And on the First Day there was Silence...

20th April 2009

I reclined deeply into my chair as I let out a huge sigh; an almost instinctive reaction that stemmed partially from exhaustion, relief, and oddly, satisfaction. A piercing silence rang throughout the room, as I stared blankly at the empty room white-washed by the accompanying furniture.

Silence is an odd thing, always has been. Sometimes inducing a gap of awkwardness, sometimes creating the boxes for thought, and at other times, simply representing "nothingness." But oddly, it is within this "nothingness" that causes one to find "something" - something to occupy your mind with; almost as if a natural instinct to not let one sink into said "nothingness". Perhaps "I think therefore I am" and the implications of its contrary are truer than most of us would like to believe.

For that moment, the silence that filled the room pierced my soul, and dawned the realization upon me that it was over - a day of charades, anxiety, expectation and uncertainty had finally come to an end. And all I was left with sitting in that room alone was the memories of the day.

The memories of the slight discomfort and awkwardness that always came with introductions in the first hour, the need to take the first step and extend the first hand, the speaking of the first words, and the writing of the first sentences. Self-induced pressure perhaps, but the saying cannot be utterly false; first impressions do count - but the problem was, I was not exactly very sure what I wanted to project in the first place, so I was groping around in the dark for the most part of it.

Fortunately, things warmed up as the day went by, as the structure might have it that I had time to spare for individual groups on a smaller scale during the second session. No matter how many times I do it, speaking to a smaller audience will always be easier than addressing a larger one, and perhaps this really shone through during the group discussions as I felt more approachable, and more importantly, personal through mid-day.

The proteges took the reins in the third session as I started to get a better grasp of their personalities and styles as they took the stage one at a time. The tables were turned, and instead, this was their chance to leave their first impressions on me.

As my backbone took to the shape of my chair at the end of the day, exhaustion occupied the better part of me, no thanks to the malfunction of the body-clock and the preluding insomnia. Strains of relief flowed through my mind sporadically, each representing a different blessing that I was counting - reality was a bit better than anticipation in this case. But deep within the trenches of my soul, was an odd sense of satisfaction; something that I didn't expect myself to gain from the experience.

In all it's ironic glory, oddly for me, teaching actually was gratifying in itself. In a rather inexplicable manner, I was actually somewhat... satisfied, even though I was not exactly sure from what. Never to be regarded as the patient or nurturing type, the experience was still somewhat fulfilling nonetheless, and for the first time in my life, I started to get a glimpse of the satisfaction and fulfillment that one can gain through this in the long-run.

But perhaps for me, this in itself, was the most scary thing. Being oddly gratifying in itself probably meant that it would become increasingly difficult to draw the line. I believe that it is very much human nature to be cognitively dissonant about your circumstances, and somewhat convince / hypnotize oneself to believe that what one has is what one truly wants.

And oftentimes, when one doesn't have a clear idea of what one truly wants, it is easy for him / her to account to himself / herself that what he / she has been given is indeed what he / she truly wants. And naturally, this only becomes easier to believe if one can find derivable, tangible and verifiable pleasure from what one has.

As if beckoning me into her deadly jaws of comfort and stability, the world of academia suddenly started to look a little rosier than it has ever been; and perhaps if I was any less of an idealist, I would probably fall to the wayside a lot more easily. They say: Beggars can't be choosers - true, but being spoiled for choice is lesser and more of a dilemma at the same time.

Fortunately or unfortunately for me, I still very clearly know where I want to go down my path of life, and perhaps now, more consciously than ever, I have to will myself more to not rest on the laurels of my circumstances, but continue up the ladder of dreams. Desperation, anger and indignance will slowly depart from me as my muses, and I will have to seek strength from different sources, but of course, that's in the time to come.

For now, I can only open my legs wider as I continue walking down the now-forked path of my life. Where this will lead eventually is something that I will probably have to wait until 'eventually' to find out. But one thing that I believe to know now is something that I mentioned to the class early in the day....

"The good news is: it can only get better."

~Wake

The Lake

"See, I told you it wasn't that hard, right?" he said to me in a somewhat-congratulatory-yet-unassuming tone.

As unbelievable as it was, I had to admit that he was right, all that I really needed was a to take that little (big) step of faith off the rock.

Feeling proud of myself, I took a deep breath to enjoy the view of the vast lake that laid before my eyes; sweeping my gaze slowly across the entire breadth of the lake, seeing the serene mountains standing in silence, setting the backdrop for the few of us that were littered across the different areas of the lake; each given more than enough room to learn the ropes of this magical form of movement.

As if able to read my thoughts, he said with a slight sigh of resignation in his voice, "Sadly, this lake is not big enough for all of us."

Slightly perplexed at what he meant, I hesitated in questioning; so as not to spoil the mood of that glorious moment - I wanted to savour my accomplishment for just that little bit longer...

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The Deep Calleth onto the Deep

I looked down at my feet, seeing them resting gently atop the water's surface, in an almost weightless fashion. Staring deeper into the semi-transparent emerald waters, I saw what seemed to be fishes; hundreds upon hundreds of them swimming under my feet.

Like Koi to bread, they were seemed to trying to swim atop one another, seemingly trying to best one another to get to the water's surface, each one violently struggling and trying to shake and nudge its way to the top; totaling to what seemed like an interlocked web of colours constantly bobbing under my feet.

I tracked the progress of one particular fish, marked with patches of black and orange atop its otherwise golden-white scaly body; seeing it besting one fish after another, climbing higher and higher up the "web", until it neared the water surface where my feet were. As it looked up, and its eyes meeting mine, I was utterly shocked to see the facial features of a middle-aged, thick-browed man looking straight into my eyes, its lips mouthing something that I couldn't quite make out.

As I stared harder and harder at its lips, trying to make out what it was trying to say; I felt myself getting closer and closer to the strange-looking hybrid of a beast, just as I caught hold of a whisper of what it was saying, I felt a hard upward-tug on my left arm.

"Be careful not to get too close to the Creatures of the Deep, they have a strange manner of bringing you down," he said to me with a slightly stern tone that masked the best of intentions, as I stared at him in a momentary state of shock, with my pants dripping wet well-above my knees.

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To Stand but not Walk

"Go on, take a step," he beckoned me, with a slight gesture of his hand following his words.

Obviously, I hesitated. Afterall, I had just learned how to muster up enough Faith in order to stand atop the water's surface, and I was not mentally prepared to take the next step.

Seeing the signs of my hesitation, he went on to say, "It's not everyone that can master how to walk atop the lake's surface; but it's more of a waste for someone who is able to learn how to stand yet not be able to walk, than someone who doesn't even have the gift of being able to stand in the first place."

I stood in my spot, staring at my feet, memories of my face hitting the water from the numerous past failures rushing into my head; a bone-chilling shudder ran through my spine.

"Go on," he said, looking at me with a gentle gaze that was quietly beckoning me.

I faced the mountains, closed my eyes, and lifted one foot off the surface of the water. Without a moment's delay, I quickly put it down and did the same with the other foot. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that I was slightly further away from the rock that I once stood upon.

Feeling a rush of confidence, I took another step, and another and another; each step bigger and bolder than the last. Not much later, I was already hopping, jumping and running circles across the lake's surface, bursting with an innocent, child-like laughter of pure bliss as I skillfully manoeuvred myself across the lake's surface.

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Nobody's Fault

"Look at me," I exclaimed to my lone spectator who was actually already doing what I asked; caught up in the overwhelming magic of the moment.

A string of tricks played out in my mind, as I decided to perform a triple jump, followed by a turn-about 180 one-footed landing. I ran to pick up some momentum, and I lifted my feet off the water's surface. A small hop was met with the feeling my feet sinking slightly under the water's surface, before springing up into the air again, a change of footing, followed by a large leap. I turned counter-clockwise in the air and braced myself for the finishing touch.

I felt the the tip of my toes making contact with the water, as I tried to reach my equilibrium; but just as I thought that I almost got it, I felt something moving beneath my feet - a small uneven hump that passed under my toes, causing me to lose my balance.

My arms flailed desperately in an attempt to stabilise myself, but to no avail. I was falling, fast; and there was nothing I could do to stop the all-too-familiar dreadful feeling of the face making contact with the water's surface - and with a vengeance at that. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, preparing for the worst.

But the worst never came. I opened my eyes to see myself staring eye to eye with a group of the strange-looking Creatures, inches away from the water's surface, as I heard them repeatedly whispering the words, "Help me... Help me...".

"I've got you," he said reassuringly, from behind me.

With a strong tug on my two arms, he pulled me back upright. Still slightly shaken from the near-misfortune, my dwindling Faith almost caused my wobbly legs to give way and had me plunging leg-first into the deep; if not for another timely save.

Finally, able to stand on my own two feet again, something suddenly occurred to me. "That's weird, of all the times, why is it only this time that you saved me from falling?" I asked my companion.

"Well, for all the times before, you fell because of the fault in your faith; but this time around, it was nobody's fault."

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Wake

Puzzled at his comment, I stared at him blankly. "I don't get it," I said.

"You see that girl over there," he pointed to a short, rather cute-looking girl with long, dark hair not too far off.

"Yeah, she's learning to walk too. What about her?" I asked, still equally puzzled, as I saw her taking a big jump and making a somewhat wobbly landing.

He said nothing.

"Yeah, so what about... whoa! What was that?" I exclaimed in shock, feeling another sweeping sensation, running under my feet, almost causing me to lose my balance.

"That was what we call a 'wake'," he said. "Basically, it follows the general principle, 'For every action, a consequence', and what you just felt was merely an instance of it."

"Take a step, and see what happens," he continued.

Doing as I was told, I lifted my feet gently off the surface of the water and placed it back on the surface, causing circular ripples to spread outwards from the point of contact.

"As you can see, for every step that you take, there will be ripples, no matter how lightly you attempt to tread," he explained. "The thing is, these ripples - or your 'wake', going by our terms - will spread further and further across the lake, gradually building in magnitude as they spread further across the lake's surface."

"There are times that your 'wake' meets and resonates with another person's 'wake'; but there are also times that your 'wake' will not, and will thus produce some kind of discord when two wakes clash, or worse, a direct disruption to others, just like how that girl's 'wake' almost caused you great misfortune," he continued, with a glint of wisdom hidden under his comprehending gaze.

"So I guess it's nobody's fault for my near-fall because that girl didn't actually mean to let her 'wake' affect me?" I asked, starting to understand the meaning behind his words.

"Indeed, but that is the way of The Lake, isn't it?" he answered. "Whether it was intentional or not, there will always be repercussions to whatever action you take."

"And what of her?" I asked, pointing to a short and pudgy, green-skinned, She-Troll repeatedly hopping atop the water's surface.

"Sadly, this magical art of Dream-Walking is not exclusive to the pure-hearted," he said, with a deep gaze into nothingness. "There are some who understand the effects of the 'wakes', and manipulate it to suit their own intentions; most of which involving the greed for power or sheer pettiness of the heart."

"Be careful where you tread my son, but more importantly, be careful how you tread," he concluded with a sternness in his deep voice, as he tilted his head downwards and looked up at me.

"This lake is not big enough for all of us it seems," I said, staring out at the vastness of the lake with a strong sense of irony filling my heart, watching as the sun hid behind the mountains in a distance.

"Indeed, my son, indeed."

Between the News

It is hard to deny that the excitement of festivities in general tend to fade with age. I know that Last Christmas almost passed as a Black Christmas if not for a last-ditch effort by the girlfriend to salvage it (and to a resounding success).

This same sense of lost child-like enthusiasm permeates into the Lunar New Year preparations as well, but yet, not all is lost, as this is replaced by a, perhaps more adult motivation, the motivation to dissect the "New" in the New Year to drive different purposes.

Being Chinese, its almost inevitable to be at least partially swept up by the entire Lunar New Year-craze, and perhaps the implications that come with it. With the New Year and the Lunar New Year almost bearing the same message of resolution, change and a fresh start, the period between the New Year and the Lunar New Year is a weird one of transition and reinforcement.

Set resolutions are doubly-enforced with the proximity of the mental markers for these resolutions bearing such close proximity, and yet, it is also the time for second chances, to start the Race to Change for those who missed out at the bang of the New Year, just by that little bit.

In a sense, to have two New Years almost always so closely occurring should result in us Chinese being more susceptible to the hustle and bustle that comes about with the mental markers for change that we set for ourselves with the turn of the year(s).

As I grow older, especially this year, this events that transpired during "transit" time between the New Years has been significantly more jarring...

....I stand at the counter, tired yet relieved from an entire day's work of hunting for what my heart truly desires, through the phone lines. I check the goods, I feel my hand across its body, as I feel a soothing rush of excitement coupled with satisfaction flowing through my body.

I draw out my wallet, sliding the card out from its slot; I pause, hesitating at the price tag and considering the financial liabilities that would come with the object of desire. I brush it off with my optimism of the promise of the New Year, reinforcing it with the desire to obtain it before the other New Year.... and I relent...

- The Excuse of Change -

... Sweat drips off my brow, as I let out a sigh of exhaustion. I stand at the door to observe the my labours over the last two days. Plastic bags upon plastic bags of things left from too long ago lie in the hall, as I stare into my room, appreciating the new sense of spaciousness. I knew that I had already fulfilled one of the things that I set out to do in the New Year, and glad that I got it done before the second marker....

- The Motivation of Change -

..... I sit in the seminar room, taking an awkward sitting position due to the position of my seat in relation to the screen which was display the slides. I stare at, or through rather, the speaker; getting lost in the sea of jargon that was continuously filling up by the second with each movement of her lips.

I stared at the slides, feeling baffled; I looked around at the other 20-odd faces, feeling isolated; I took in a bit of the environment, feeling disorientated; I considered my prospects, feeling uncertain.

Suddenly, my chain of thought was shattered, a bone-chilling feeling rushing through my spine as she uttered the words,

"Welcome to RP."

- The Circumstance of Change -

The Shackles of Ideals

I'm an Idealist, have always been.

And the thing about Idealist is that they strive for the optimum, no matter how unrealistic this said optimum is, and regardless of the costs.

Economically, Idealists always make a loss. The dynamics of economics is that there is price and there is value. To the Idealist, the value of an Ideal is almost infinite, and so, the price, or the willingness to pay for that ideal, would be almost infinite as well.

Psychologically, Idealists should be a lot less susceptible to Cognitive Dissonance than many other types of people. Idealist above all else, tend to have a more defined definition of "happiness" compared to most other people, and are less willing to self-justify any seconds in life.

Practically, Idealists are simply not. Idealists have a sort of belief within them to attempt to merge the treads of their dreams with the plane of reality, and to live a life of purpose, passion and meaning, despite how unrealistic and unsound this merger may sound on paper.

And this, in itself, is the end goal of every Idealist: To live a life that they fully and whole-heartedly believe in.

Yet, not everyone with fulfilled dreams is an Idealists.

In my opinion, there is the Idealist and the faux Idealist. The main difference lies not in the dreams that they strive for, but rather the costs at which they are willing to pay in order to obtain them.

Ideals being ideals, are supposedly impractical, unrealistic and visionary. And in a world shaped by conventions and circumstance, it is only natural that the achievement of such ideals come with a price: time, patience, effort, labour and most ironically, happiness.

Considering that "'happiness" is what the Idealist truly seeks at the end of the journey, being able to live a life of true happiness with the merger of dreams and reality, it is somewhat ironic that happiness is something that an Idealist would be required to sacrifice in exchange for the attainment of his / her ideals. Yet, the true Idealist is one who is willing to make such a costly sacrifice in exchange for an eventual fulfillment.

On the other hand, the faux Idealists are people who attain their dreams with little or no major sacrifices necessary. Some of which have it handed to them on a silver platter through a case of good fortune, to get a straight road to the fulfillment of an ideal.

Yet, to the faux Idealist, no matter how much they say that they "love" something, it will never be as justifiable or as convincing as that of a true Idealists, who has lived his / her life striving for, going through numerous pains and sacrifices, before finally attaining it.

Being an Idealist is extremely tiring, and sometimes the very happiness and fulfillment that you strive for, are the very same things that causes you so much heartache and misery. When you feel that circumstances do not allow you to make any progress towards your goal, when you see someone of lesser capability, experience and most importantly, desire, get something that you want so badly and have strived so hard towards getting it; it is extremely difficult not to feel indignant and frustrated over it. And it would be a lie to say that I have not felt such emotions and questioned the costs of my ideals every so often.

In all honesty, I've come closer to giving up on a 20-year passion and a 10-year ideal in these few months more than ever. Misunderstandings, politics, rejections and of course, circumstances (what else is new?) has left me with a whirlwind inside my head and a shadow of doubt in my heart, as I struggle to justify my sacrifices and quench the unhappiness that my ironic strive for happiness has brought me over the last 1.5 years.

Yet, despite all these, at the brink of giving up, I can't help but still feel Shackled to my Ideals, wanting to hold out a little more, wanting to try something else, wanting to give it one more shot; knowing that I would deeply regret it if I were to walk away from it now.

At the end of the day, I somehow still manage to muster out this to myself: Not everyone can afford to be an Idealist; many others are forced to become otherwise in the wake of circumstances and obligations. The very fact that I can afford to even strive for my ideals, is probably already a privilege in itself.

I dare not believe that I will be able to fulfill my dreams eventually, with my pessimistic mind these days, but I do know that sacrifice is an essential part to the fulfillment to these ideals.

Sigh. Perhaps I'm meant to be an Idealist my whole life, perhaps...

Was it Nothing more than Noise Inside my Head...

24...

23rd May 2008

Putting the finishing touch to this year's biggest game, Grand Theft Auto IV, at 6.a.m. in the morning; after an(other one of those) all-night game sessions and a clocked playtime of 40 hours; only to look back and realize that "biggest" was a more-than-fitting term, yet hardly as flawless as touted by critics worldwide.

Reeling in shock of watching David Cook unexpectedly, but much deservingly, being crowned the all-new American Idol with the rest of the world at 10.a.m., after a 2-hour simulcast from the US.

Catching 8-hours of *ahem* ample rest from 11.a.m. to 7.p.m. as an excuse of escaping the daylight and the heat that it brings, further reinforcing my much heralded ""Vampire" moniker.

Taking a slow drive down to her humble abode in time for some company over a TV-dinner of the re-run of the morning's results show.

Speeding down to town for the 1.a.m. slot to discover that the latest Indiana Jones flick very much lived up to its legendary legacy.

Taking a slow walk down the uncharacteristically-deserted streets of Orchard Road to the sound of chirping nocturnal birds and the occasional sound of a passing motor; only to arrive at a familiar midnight-refuge in the name of satisfying a particular sweet-tooth craving over 5 scoops of Ice-cream at 4.a.m..

Chatting about the childhood memories of the all-too-familiar Big Breakfast and Sausage McMuffins until it materializes itself into an extremely-early breakfast at the neighbourhood McDonald's at 5.a.m.

Lying on the bed at 6.a.m. with arms entangled, and eyes staring at the ceiling, as thoughts of the day drift further and further away.......

It's simply amazing what one can accomplish in a matter of 24-hours, given the right motivation, the best company, a little cash and a little car.

It's even more amazing how much one can do on a mere Thursday, when the whole world is still running circles around the clock to put in their 8-hours worth whilst narrowing down the count towards the weekend.

It's simply amazing how much freedom one can have when released from the shackles of obligations, contracts and formalities.

The freedom to resume the Ways of the Vampire, to savour the tranquility and the serenity of the night, while the whole world lies in preparation for the next sunrise.

The freedom to shy away from the daylight, and sleep through the hustle and bustle of the world passing by around you.

The freedom to march at the beat of your own drum and ignore the "days" and the "ends" in the "week," making time an irrelvant factor and opening up dimensions of familiar places or activities.

The freedom to go where the wind, your stomach and your heart take you; to be able to gratify the wimps and the fancies almost instantaneously.

Such a freedom has been, and still is, too scare a luxury since I started being officially tied to the term commonly known as "work." No matter how fulfilling and rewarding it is, or used to be, at least; there are /were times when I simply longed for a life without shackles, one in which I can be entertained to death the night before, rest in peace with an exhausted smile on my face, and arise to the lyrics in my head that tells me that the following day is going to be the same old song and dance all over again.

Too long, I've yearned for this freedom, and after too long, I've finally gotten it. Perhaps "unemployment" in this sense isn't as "scary" as people make it out to be.


Yet, Time can only stand still for so long before Reality kicks in, playing her cruel hand to have me spinning along with the rest of the world again. Afterall, Reality demands that we all need to earn our keep as a right to feed ourselves, and I am no exception to this rule.

Regardless, an occasional oasis of escapism is always much-needed (and appreciated) from time to time in order to catch a breather in the spaces between the ever-advancing wheels of Reality. Afterall, as the old saying goes, "More haste, less speed."

..........Anyway the Wind Blows, Doesn't really matter to me.

My Fare Lady

Mr. Snyde: You know what date it is today, the all-knowing Dr. Jerkyll?

Dr. Jerkyll: Of course. Its the 29th of Febuary, a rare occurance every 4 years, a leap year. Is there a point you would like to make in regard to this, Mr. Snyde?

Mr. Snyde: Well, nothing except the bugging question of why the hell are you reading Sunday's Lifestyle section 5 days late?

Dr. Jerkyll: Oh, that. Well, that is because there is this particular article that really caught my eye. One titled, "Do Singapore women expect too much?"

Mr. Snyde: Sounds interesting, rather unexpected of such an article to catch your attention, but still, hit me with what you've got.

Dr. Jerkyll: Certainly. The highlight of the article was a survey conducted on some Singaporean women. And the results are as follows.

[Flips open the newspaper]

Dr. Jerkyll: Ah here we go.... it says that 80 percent of Singaporean women expect their boyfriends to pay on dates and 92 percent of men will do so.

Mr. Snyde: Well, you can count me into the 92 percent of obliging gentlemen. Most of the time, at least.

Dr. Jerkyll: Ahem. 50 percent of the women expect men to open the doors to cars and restaurants and 88 percent of the men will do so.

Mr. Snyde: Hmm, this is a tough one. I do the doors to restaurants and all, but cars, well... not so much. But I guess more so than not, so you can count me into the 88 percent of well-mannered gentlemen.

Dr. Jerkyll: I didn't really ask for your involvement in this statistics, but well, no matter. 90 percent of the women expect men to send their girlfriends home after a date and 94 percent of men will do so.

My. Snyde: Oh, for this case, I'm in the 94 percent of thoughtful gentlemen who would ensure the lady's safety. Well... again, most of the time, at least.

Dr. Jerkyll: And "most" being the times which happen to be convenient for you I would suppose?

Mr. Snyde: Tsk, tsk. Details, details.

Dr. Jerkyll: Of course, just some selective omission of some rather "minor" details. Carrying on, 96 percent of women expect their boyfriends to initiate the celebration of special occasions such as anniversaries and birthdays and 92 percent of men will do so.

Mr. Snyde: Hah. This I can say for a fact that I am very much in league of extraordinary gentlemen that make up the 92 percent, considering my repeated emphasis on the meanings behind such occasions.

Dr. Jerkyll: Of course, not to mention the exorbitant amount you spend at each of these "culturally and metaphorically significant" events, to the extent that the annual amount of celebrations you end up paying for in 1 year, outweigh your partner by 14:1. The 1 being your birthday.

Mr. Snyde: Hah. But money is but material, my overly practical Dr. Jerkyll; the meaning behind such memories stretch far beyond the dollar. But still, its not like someone as out-of-the-field as yourself would be able to understand.

[Looks down at the newspaper and reads out in a louder tone than normal.]

Dr. Jerkyll: 88 percent of women expect their boyfriends to dress up for special occasions such as Valentine's Day and birthdays while 79 percent of men will do so.

Mr. Snyde: Hah. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I am in that 79 percent of well-groomed gentlemen, always dressed-to-the-nines with my hair almost always in perfect form, I'm sure even YOU cannot rebutt that fact, right?

Dr. Jerkyll: ....................24 percent of women expect their boyfriends to carry their handbags and 70 percent of men will do so.

Mr. Snyde: What? 70 percent of men are willing to be such idiots? I'm glad that I'm not one of these idiotic fools and I sure as hell am glad that ONLY 24 percent of bimbotic women have such expectations of their boyfriends.

Dr. Jerkyll: Amusing. So why are you not in the league of these 70 percent of extraordinary gentlemen then, my dear Mr. Snyde?

Mr. Snyde: Hah. The reason is simple, because I don't want to look like a stupid mofo carrying a gal's handbag and utterly ruining my previously mentioned always-dressed-to-the-nines image. There is a reason why I myself don't carry a bag, you know.

Dr. Jerkyll: So its all about the image then?

Mr. Snyde: Well, mostly. But a little bit because of the philosophy of "To each his own burden." And since I take it upon myself to minimize the things in my hands, why should I be covering the asses of gals who can't do the same, despite how pretty their asses might be? In turn, letting them enjoy the privilege that I spoil myself with my planned-minimalism at my expense.

Dr. Jerkyll: Unexpectedly convincing Mr. Snyde. You never fail to surprise me. But there is a greater point of worry here.

Mr. Snyde: What? What could be more important than looking like a stupid mofo?

Dr. Jerkyll: Well, if you would take a moment to step out of your over-indulgence yourself, then you would realise that the bigger issue at hand is actually the exorbitant expectation of Singapore women.

Mr. Snyde: So what bugs you so much then?

Dr. Jerkyll: Well, I'm a distinguished man of science and logic, and I admit that I have hardly any idea what goes behind the clockwork of romance, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to see the flaws the in concept of "equality" and "equilibrium" here.

Mr. Snyde: What does equality and equilibrium have to do with this?

Dr. Jerkyll: Well, in equality, there is a measurement of fairness; both sides of the scale have to weigh out to be worth the same amount of salt. Considering the mantras preached by these women state that they are worth the same amount of social salt as their male counterparts, it is bitterly ironic that their expectations of treatment from their counterparts stretch well beyond the boundaries of Equality, transcending very much into the realm of being the higher beings, thus deserving of such positively-discriminatory privileges. And what drives you to succumb to bestowing such privileges on the ladies then, Mr. Snyde? If you would please indulge me.

Mr. Snyde: Well, for me, as much as I do see a gal as an equal on a mental and emotional level, I am still more than willing to go the extra mile to give my dates such privileged treatment; not not because they want and expect me to do so, but purely due to the fact that I think that they deserve to feel special.

Dr. Jerkyll: So you are saying that such privileged treatment from you is more like a gift, one on a more emotionally-resounding level, perhaps?

Mr. Snyde: Well, you can put it that way I guess.

Dr. Jerkyll: If that is the case, and if it is entirely out of free-will as you so say, then would it be perfectly fine for you to stop the emotional-generosity and decide to stop handing out such privileges, am I right? After all, if it is a gift, then the power is entirely upon the giver to decide when to give or to not give the gift, isn't it?

Mr. Snyde: Well, yes. Theoretically, that would be the case. BUT, I wouldn't be getting any skirts if I decided to do that.

Dr. Jerkyll: And why so?

Mr. Snyde: Because I would fall way be totally ungentlemanly and probably turn them off big-time.

Dr. Jerkyll: Hah. but the point is, Mr. Snyde, that if it is the ladies are merely receivers of such "gifts" and privileges, then as the respective words suggest, they were entitlements given by the other party, and not anything that even came close to belonging to the ladies in the first place, is it not? Thus, it is wrong for them to form such "expectations" of receiving these gifts without having done anything to have earned them, is it not?

Mr. Snyde: I hate to say this, but in a way you are right Dr. Jerkyll. But still, no matter how logical it may sound when you put it on paper, the reality of the situation is that these "expectaions" have somewhat established themselves as the unsaid rules and invisible price tags in the Dating Game, rules that men have to adhere to.

Dr. Jerkyll: So the situation is that of a very twisted "equilibrium" then, is it not? 1 that exists without the notion of equality. With the unfair expectations developed by women, men have come to terms with forgoing the notion of attempting to achieve true equality and succumb to this unproportionate "norm", and furthering fueling the poisoning words of "should" or "only natural" or "I deserve" in the minds of women, allowing them to continue down this path of warped equality.

Mr. Snyde: Sigh. Sad but true, Dr. Jerkyll. But sader is the fact that this trend is probably not going to change anytime soon, at lesat not in Singapore. Everything on the island comes with a price, and fulfilling such expectations and probably seen as a sort of "fare" that men are willing to pay to even standing a remote chance of getting into skirts.

Dr. Jerkyll: Sadly, such are the circumstances that the thoughts of one man, no matter how distinguished cannot change.

Mr. Snyde: Why thank you Dr. Jerkyll, I think so too.

Dr. Jerkyll: ............................. Well, let's turn the tables around and talk about what you, as a man in the field, expect out of the women that you date then.

Mr. Snyde: Oh, that's easy. I'm a simple man, the gal just has to satisfy any single 1 of my 5 criteria to justify my dating her.

Dr. Jerkyll: Oh? And what might those criteria be, may I ask?

Mr. Snyde: Oh, nothing too tough. The gal has to be either:

#1 Classy and Sophisticated

#2 Sweet and Simple

#3 Hot and Sexy

#4 Cute and Friendly

#5 Cool and Character

Its a case of "or", not a case of "and"; nothing too hard to fulfill. Of course, the more fulfilled, the merrier, but still. See I told you I was a simple man.

Dr. Jerkyll:...................................................

Sex in the Box

Mr. Snyde: Can I ask you a question Dr. Jerkyll?

Dr. Jerkyll: Only if you stop dealing with rhetoric.

Mr. Snyde: Huh?

Dr. Jerkyll: Nevermind. So what can I do you for today, Mr. Snyde?

Mr. Snyde: Well, its about your recent tagline, you know, the "Sex in the Box" one, what in the blue hell does that mean?

Dr. Jerkyll: Well, take a guess. You've got nothing to lose.

Mr. Snyde: Well, if I didn't know you any better, I would guess that it is one of your supposedly witty puns, perhaps of a certain child's toy, the Jack-in-the-Box, perhaps?

Dr. Jerkyll: Partially correct Mr. Snyde, but not entirely. There is a reason for the missing dashes and a meaning far beyond the meaning of the 4 words taken alone.

Mr. Snyde: Hmm, indulge me then, the oh-so-wise-Dr. Jerkyll.

Dr. Jerkyll: Indeed I shall. The key word lies in the word "Sex," a physical drive that is held in regard as the ultimate emotional expression, call it what you like, "making love" and whatnot, but Sex is essentially, well, Sex, no matter how you slice it. And it is commonly believed to be one of the biggest outbursts of emotion that one can express.

Mr. Snyde: Now you got me listening.

Dr. Jerkyll: Ahem, anyway, as I was saying. So when you put Sex, an "expression," a supposedly "free" and "natural" thing, within the confines of the other 3 words, perhaps you will start to see what I am getting at.

Mr. Snyde: ...................

Dr. Jerkyll: Still don't get it? Hardly surprised. Not everyone has the same penchant for irony, I would figure.

Mr. Snyde: Who needs wit and irony when you have killer good looks and overwhelming charisma?

Dr. Jerkyll: Yes yes, who could resist? But as I was saying, so imagine, if even your strongest expression of emotion, through "Sex" in confined "in the box," what more any of your lesser emotions, like laughter, joy and sorrow?

Mr. Snyde: Wait a minute, that sounds awfully familiar, isn't this from a song?

Dr. Jerkyll: Perhaps you are more attuned than I had anticipated. But yes, it indeed is from a song. And as the rest of the song goes:

dream in the box, person in the box

vibe in the box, time in the box

Mr. Snyde: Ok, I'm starting to get it, so what you are trying to say is that all this; all we think, we hold true, we experience, we perceive; are all being confined within a supposed "box" right?

Dr. Jerkyll: Indeed. And no prizes for correct guesses on what that "box" is.

Mr. Snyde: Of course, its freakin' obvious its the walls of "society" and "societal norms."

Dr. Jerkyll: Perhaps there is SOME hope for you afterall.

Mr. Snyde: What did you say?

Dr. Jerkyll: Nevermind, I digress. The point is, everything we do, we think and we feel, are largely contained within this large box; our expression of emotions, our perception of time, our expectations of what it is to be a "person," even many of our dreams are still very much "in the box," no matter how you think that it is totally left to the freedom of your will to determine these things.

Mr. Snyde: Somewhat true I believe, depressing but true.

Dr. Jerkyll: So it begs the question then, what would it mean to be "out of the box"? Any ideas, Mr. Snyde?

Mr. Snyde: Hmm, "out of the box" is such an overused terms, especially from the mouths of educators today. I remember there was this one time, during this Physics class that I attended, and we were discussing the solution to this question that no one in the class could do.

Dr. Jerkyll: You in Physics lesson, this is new, hah. But yes, continue.

Mr. Synde: Ahem. So the tutor was presenting the solution, and after which he said the words, 'for this question, you have to think out of the box to be able to do it,' before he went on to scribble something on the whiteboard and turned around with a smuck look on his face obviously very proud of the work that he had done. Kinda looks a little like how you look all the time.

Dr. Jerkyll: ..............................

Mr. Synde: But the point is, as much as he touted his solution as "out of the box," honestly, I found nothing very out-of-the-box-esque about it. It was just a bloody common case of educators using it as part of their lingo and jargon to make students think that that was what it meant to think "out of the box", which was obviously not.

Dr. Jerkyll: Yes, I have met too many of these delusional cases and have heard the words thrown around too casually. It would seem that for every minute innovative thought that just happens to bend the rules by that little bit, the Hoi Polloi would love to think that they are thinking "out of the box."

Mr. Snyde: A casualty of the lack of introspection and extremely low self-evaluation standards, I guess.

Dr. Jerkyll: Surprisingly true coming from you Mr. Snyde, such resounding and accurate words.

Mr. Snyde: Only a tip of the iceberg my dear Dr. Jerkyll. I mean take it from me, being in the creative line, I come up with new dosage of ideas on a daily basis - good ideas. But still, even with all these new and innovative ideas I churn out ever-so-often, I would hardly dare call myself or my ideas "out of the box;" pushing the boundaries of the box perhaps, but hardly "out of the box".

Dr. Jerkyll: Indeed. For something to be regarded as "out of the box," I would figure that it has to be something radically innovative and utterly revolutionary, rather than evolutionary.

Mr. Snyde: For me, it has to be something, an idea or a concept that tethers on the edge of madness, and yet, it all comes together to make sense in its own very twisted manner. Since I'm a gaming man, I would name Super Mario for example. Plumbers who go down pipes, eat mushrooms to grow bigger, and battles all manner of turtles? Before 1985, if you pitched this to someone, he or she would probably think that it was some manner of extreme virtual insanity. Yet, 23 years later, this said "madness" is widely accepted as an icon. Now, that is truly "out of the box".

Dr. Jerkyll: Yes, even though I am not a gaming man myself, but I can see where you are coming from.

Mr. Snyde: Or how about the idea of using a small sticky ball to start rolling up stuff, accumulating in size, and being able to roll up increasingly large objects; from mice, to humans, to cows, to buildings and eventually, even the moon? Raving madness on paper perhaps, but in the gaming circle, this "out of the box" concept drove a little budget game, known as Katamari Damacy to become a cult classic.

Dr. Jerkyll: Well, enough of the examples. For my academic, prying mind, the burning question is: whether this capacity to think "out of the box" is an innate, in-born ability, or is it a skill that can be honed over the years if you were to sharpen it consistently?

Mr. Snyde: Well, to that, I am no idea at all. But I sure hope its the latter more than the former. Especially, since my livelihood depends on it. Then again, doesn't matter, since I believe I am already "out of the box" no matter which way you slice it.

Dr. Jerkyll: .......................

Stench of the Rat Race

My glance slid across the walls of the interior of the evening commute, as I took brief glances of the passengers cladded in office-wear surrounding me. Their faces told it all; visible signs of fatigue, carved by the cruel daily cycle that they had succumbed to in the name of "making a living." The Rat Race, a cruel climb up the corporate ladder, a slow and treacherous process that leaves a daily count of weary feet and wrinkled faces, hung blatantly over and entirely overshadowing the supposedly-sharp shirts and blouses of the numerous men and women that lie victim to this painful dedication.

The train reached the interchange station, as the door opened and a new flood of victims turned into canned sardines, all forcing themselves to believe that they are the "one more person" that can squeeze into the already over-crowded commute, all in hope of getting home a little earlier to shake off the chains of the Rat Race.

He believed himself to be that "one" as well, as he insistently pushed his way in, ending up right in front of me. Dressed formally but hardly sharply, he was donned in a light blue long sleeve shirt that was probably from a forgettable departmental-store brand, his pants were black and tapered, and his shoes were black leather, but hardly shine-polished. Slightly over-weight and with a face that was instantly forgettable, he was probably the most archetypical example of the victim of the Rat Race. But the most telling sign that gave it all away was the haversack that he carried on his back over the entire office get-up, a sure-sign of the typical "office-loser;" one who probably worked really hard, but doesn't step too much out of his comfort zone, and would probably not ascend very much higher in his treacherous climb.

As the train accelerated, he lost balance and instinctively reached out for the nearest handlebar, which was just beside me. As he grabbed the vertical bar, I was fully exposed to the view of his armpit area, and immediately, I noticed a little damp patch at the crevice that was his armpit. Little beads of sweat dripped slowly down his forehead, as I noticed the expression of discomfort clearly written across his face.

Instinctively, I held my breath. The proximity between us and the sure-signs ominously hinted at a ravaging of my olfactory senses if I were to do otherwise.

One stop down, the doors opened as some sad faces alighted while a new throng of weary eyes boarded, maintaining the status-quo. He turned, facing his back towards me, to suit the new crowd configuration and also perhaps to seek a greater sense of comfort, even if it only meant a mere rotation.

I had a full frontal view of his back, as I noticed, in the areas not covered by the criss-crosses of his maroon haversack, was a total discolouration of the light blue hue of his shirt, a discolouration that hinted at exposure to something more liquid.

My eyes gawked in horror, as I could feel the capacity of my lungs being stretched and strained from the lack of air intake. I held it in, but the seconds ticked by slowly, too slowly. Finally, at its limit, my lungs bursts open, along with my nostrils. The stench, a sourish, and yet slightly bitter smell of a whole day's staleness utterly ravaged the better half of my more-than-keen olfactory senses, choking me with its pungent nature while I bit the bullet to try to hold my coughing in as to not create too much of a socially ill-fitting scene on the evening commute.

Yep, this was the stench of the Rat Race alright, in every sense of the word. Perhaps I will never figure out why is it that in a climate as tropical and humid as ours, where perspiration is a more than natural bodily reaction to the forces of the climate, the people still refuse to make perfume or cologne or even some form of deodorant a greater part of everyday life.

It would seem that perhaps I am 1 of the minority that was actually exposed to the use of such fragrances being a completely unsaid code of social etiquette, one where to not be offensive-smelling is a personal responsibility and is a personal reflection of one's personal hygiene and grooming.

Indeed, it shocked me that even in my University years, at the not-so-tender age of 19 (for the females) and 21 (for the males), I still discovered (by the worst of accidental means) that some supposed future-leaders of society are perfectly fine with leading the pack by their personal distinct scent (read: odour) more so than anything else.

Obviously, the trend doesn't really change even upon climbing a social level higher from academia into the Rat Race. As the formality of office wear still does nothing to some in their want of need to present themselves in a better light (or scent), being perfectly fine with spreading their joy with the rest of the evening commute, if their joy came in the form of little beads of sweat, that is.

The train reached halfway to my destination as a huge pack of sardines were unloaded, finally leaving me the comfort of a seat and more importantly a relief for my nostrils. I took the seat next to a middle-aged office lady, again, formally dressed but nothing near elegant or chic, probably enough to get by and more likely than not holding the position of a senior staff, but not a managerial one.

Her eyes were staring blankly in front, as a bout of expected fatigue came over her and she drew a long, deep yawn. Through the bad manners and the uncovered yawn, my overly-keen olfactory senses once again got more than it bargained for, as I inhaled the stench of soured-milk, mixed with the concentrated and yet hardly refreshing smell of hours upon hours of stale coffee-breath, perhaps an accumulation of the entire day's bulk of caffeine intake.

Again, it would seem that a large bulk of the bottom of the barrel of the Rat Race is perfectly fine with letting the entire world (or at least the people next to them on the evening commute), know the full entirety of the solid and fluids partaken throughout the entire course of the day, from the overbearing smell of the chilli-sauce in their carrot cake during lunch time, to the 12 cups of coffee needed to perk their smelly rat-asses up during the 8-hours And throughout all this, a simple thing like a breath-mint or the like perhaps doesn't even occur as a distant thought at the back of their minds.

When I finally arrived at my destination, exiting from the pipe-like structure of the train, a thought came upon me. While I have personally managed to evict myself from the constraints of the Rat Race proper, I cannot help but have to be flushed down the same pipes with the rest of the rats that is the evening commute. And with each flush of the daily evening commute, 1 poor Vampire peers through the manhole of society deep into the sewers of the Rat Race, cursing at the Stench that follows.

Hush, Isolation

"Ticket for one, please." I said to the cashier.

I made my way into the cinema, with my hands full with a box of popcorn, a large coke and a promotional packet of Twisties tucked under my armpit. I located my (usually-preferred) aisle-seat and snuggled up in the chair to obtain a position comfortable enough to last me through the next 2 hours or so.

I am no stranger to this form of solitude and isolation, especially not in film-watching. I remember that some of the best films that I've watched were under these solitary conditions... as my memory takes me back through the scenes of The Departed, The Prestige and now this.

The movie opened to a deliberately slow start, setting the mood and ambience for the context of 1960s Shanghai, as the main characters are introduced one at a time, without much explanation. The classical plot layout of starting in the middle of the plot's timeframe and filling in the pieces before and after.

The rational behind catching films alone is a rather simple one, which is simply taking the perspective of putting the appreciation of the film over the company that comes with it. While I do believe that movies are a great way to spend time with some form of company, circumstances occasionally hinder the availability of company within the confines of a movie's scheduled run-time. So between the lack of company and the slipping of the cinematic-experience of an under my radar, the movie-buff in me would choose to go with the former.

Newcomer Tang Wei's presence in the movie grew on me over the course of the film. While initially spending more time analyzing her physical attributes, including the colour and shape of her nipples; as the plot continued to play out, I found her easier to connect to. Wang Lee Hom on the other hand, delivered a rather safe and one-dimensional performance. As for Tony Leung, his performance was spectacular as usual, only further cementing his position as the best actor this side of Asia; handling his role of charismatic cruelty with great conviction.

Even though company in film-watching can play a part as important as the supporting cast in a movie, like having others spread the infectiousness of laughter when watching a comedy, or having sharing the "Hoos" and "Has" in a mind-blowing action film, thought-provoking deep films are actually perfectly suited to be watched in solitude, leaving you to swim in your own thoughts as the plot unfolds, and to harvest the the nested subtleties sown by the director.

The fabled sex-scenes in the movie were rather artistically done, unsurprising considering having Lee Ang at the helm of the film. While serving as an erotic display on the visceral level (there were times that I was really asking myself if they were REALLY having sex); on a functional level, the sex scenes depict the connection and vulnerability of the characters. Going a step further into the symbolic layer, the placement, progress and portrayals of the sex scenes lie in parallel to how the characters' relationships develop; representing the shift in power and emotional leverage of the characters.

On a socially symbolic level, the act of catching a movie alone is often unspokenly frowned upon and somewhat a social taboo in our mostly Asian society. Somehow, seeing someone watching a film alone almost immediately causes the relation to terms such as "loner," "loser" or "weirdo" (I'm sure I could easily be branded that if I wasn't as well-groomed as I am), rather than more positive terms such as "movie-buff" or "film-critic."

For some reason, in our society, seeing someone do certain activities alone, such as dining or watching a movie, will lead to the assumption of the person being social inept more so than to the conclusion that the person is confident and perfectly comfortable with himself / herself to relish these experiences entirely based on their own merits. It is also interesting to note that these assumptions are more easily branded upon fellow Asians than it is with Caucasians; for some odd reason, its perfectly fine for Caucasians to walk into a cinema alone without garnering raised eyebrows, but not so much for Asians on Asians. Perhaps, it boils down to te socially innate assumption that Caucasians are more confident in general, or at least enough to remain unphazed by the raised eyebrows.

Speaking of which, my eyebrows were raised in doubt and question by the time the camera panned on Tony Leung's tearful eyes as the credits rolled. While the backbone concept driving the entire plot was not exceptionally original or intriguing, and the pacing of the plot development was a little uneven; the overall execution of the story devices and the character development was immaculately done and enough to be entirely believable and relatable to. As mentioned in media, Lee Ang's masterpiece is a work of art that will leave the viewer with a deep impression and still pondering about the choices made by the characters long after the credits have rolled.

And to this, I am glad that I chose to catch the movie in solitude. On a personal note, I feel that there is something rather soothing about watching a movie alone; without the need to take occasional glimpses of your company to check if he/she/they are falling asleep, without the need of having to consider passing the popcorn out of courtesy, without the distraction of wise-cracks from the company. Leaving one in the Hush of the Isolation, battling with one's own thoughts in sync with the screen events, to be able to fully digest all the little nuances, and to be able to entirely immerse oneself into the director's vision and direction.

Al Dante Trattoria: Love for the Lighter Taste of Love

12th October 2007

"Hmm, thanks. Give me a moment, while I go pick up my girlfriend," I told the captain, after browsing through the menu at the front of the restaurant. In actual fact, "girlfriend" might not have really been the right word here, since she and I had agreed on more *ahem* flippant terms.

"Hey darling," I greeted her, as I took her hand and naturally guided her to the restaurant I was at just minutes ago. The captain gave me a look of (obvious) recognition, as he directed us up the stairs. The waitress on the second floor seated us at our table, with a clear view of the city skyline in a distance. Romance was in the air indeed, a semi-breezy night of alfresco dining under the stars, and the skyline made the perfect backdrop for picture *err* perfect, *err* pictures *ahem*.

We took a little longer than necessary browsing through the menu trying to decide what to order for the night, as we were probably a little too preoccupied with absorbing the essence of the ambiance. But after a little deliberation, we finally decided on one appetizer and two main courses.

As we were waiting for the food to arrive, we recounted the past month of our "relationship." Again, "relationship" here was an extremely vague term due to a rather complicated ruling . For starters, we were meant to be "flings" more than anything official, not bounded by the exclusivity of dating, and it was meant to be something somewhat light and somewhat casual, but yet, not really at the same time.

And indeed, light was the order of the day as transcended through the taste of the Garlic Bread that was promptly served shortly after our orders were placed. I am a self-confessed Garlic Bread lover, and for the oddest reason, I tend to use something as simple as Garlic Bread as a benchmark to get a rough footing of an Italian Restaurant's culinary standard. Tonight's Garlic Bread was softly-toasted, with the Garlic Essence deeply and subtly set into the bread, picked up only by the more delicate portions of the taste buds and played more to the olfactory senses than those of the tongue. But yes, there was a beauty in such subtlety, and I was definitely a beholder.

But experience has taught me that subtlety can be a deadly thing as well, and perhaps that was the driving force behind me wanting to shy away from the terms of "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" for us, in the first place. All the subtle and unsaid obligations and expectations, the "supposed tos" and "shoulds" ("should pay," "should fetch," "should send," "should serve," "should spoil") are more than enough to send shivers down my commitment-phobic spine at the very thought of them. I believe in Free Will, where everything in a relationship is done out of one's own willingness rather than the need to meet another's expectations, the things that the other person would want out of you; a belief that Age and Experience have played their roles in sculpting over the years.

But Age has not only proven to sculpt my beliefs, apparently it has a part in shaping my taste-buds as well. The Mudcrab Lasagna served was drenched with a thick and brown gravy, with a richess akin to that found in Lobster Bisques. While I had used to appreciate this particular kind of richness in my food, this time around, my taste-buds and I were left a little disorientated. Perhaps Age is shaping my taste buds to bear a stronger resemblance to that of my father's, with preferences for lighter and more subtle flavours.

But when it comes to flavours, still nothing beats the importance of balance in flavours. The Rucola Pizza, described by the menu to be topped with ham and dressed-salad proved to be the biggest surprise of the night. I thought my "girlfriend" madly experimental when she chose to order the seemingly odd pizza (I mean, a dressed salad on top of a pizza?!), but yet, when it was served, the unlikely combination actually turned out surprisingly well. The thin bread-like crust and base of the pizza splendidly complimented the salad made on top of it (as to how bread crumbs compliment a well-dressed salad), and the well-made ham was icing on the cake. The freshness of the greens with its appropriate dressing, complimented by the subtle taste of the dough in the make of the crust, topped with the saltiness of the ham, totaled into a splendid, well-balanced potpourri of flavours -- hands-down the best dish of the night for me. A point reinforced by my repeated picking of triangular-slice after triangular-slice off the platter.

And perhaps triangles are the best way to explain the somewhat complicated "relationship" that she and I share.

The Triangular Theory of Love factorises love into 3 components:

• Intimacy - which encompasses the feelings of closeness, connectedness, and bondedness.

• Passion - which encompasses the drives that lead to romance, physical attraction, and sexual consummation.

• Commitment - which encompasses, in the short term, the decision that one loves another, and in the long term, the commitment to maintain that love.

Which permutate to form 8 different kinds of love.

1. Nonlove, the absence of all three components of love.

2. Liking, in this case characterizes true friendships, in which a person feels a bondedness, a warmth, and a closeness with another but not intense passion or long-term commitment.

3. Infatuated love is often what is felt as "love at first sight". But without the intimacy and the commitment components of love, infatuated love may disappear suddenly.

4. Empty love: Sometimes, a stronger love deteriorates into empty love, in which the commitment remains, but the intimacy and passion have died (e.g. arranged marriages).

5. Romantic love: Romantic lovers are bonded emotionally and physically through passionate arousal.

6. Companionate love is often found in marriages in which the passion has gone out of the relationship, but a deep affection and commitment remain.

7. Fatuous love can be exemplified by a whirlwind courtship and marriage in which a commitment is motivated largely by passion, without the stabilizing influence of intimacy.

8. Consummate love is the complete form of love, representing the ideal relationship toward which many people strive.

Of course, the “Perfect Love” is the perfectly balanced Consummate Love, but then again, I was never really looking for this brand of “perfection”. Over the years, I've learned to believe in the ephemeral and become an Experiential, living-in and fully relishing the flavour of the moment. So while the rest of society reaches out for the perfect complete Love; as I am right now, Commitment is too rich and heavy flavour for me to bear, and indeed, the lighter flavours of Romantic Love and everything else in-between the axes of Passion and Intimacy are more akin to my tastes.

And the best part is... I don't have to dine alone in my beliefs, for she would gladly indulge in the flavours that I so relish.

Holding Happiness

.... to a month of Wining and Dining to the Lighter Flavours of Love