Boston Homecoming

18th July - 5th August 2011 | Boston, Massachusetts, USA

The setting sun fell gently on the water's surface, as sail-boats glided serenely across the Charles River, with the familiar skyline forming the iconic Boston backdrop that I had grown so used to on my weekly weekend-walks. A cool evening breeze caressing my face gently grounded the reality of the situation - that I was back in Boston once again, and memories of all that I loved were a reality once again. Still one of my favourite cities in the world, and while some might argue that the city is not much for sight-seeing, no other place outside of Singapore feels as much like home - despite being away from her for a good three years.

In The Eagles words from their ballad "The Sad Cafe": Things in this life change very slowly, if they ever changed at all. And indeed, Boston was exactly the way I remembered it to be, where muscle memory instantly sank in within the first couple of days, and I was able to find my way around by foot to all the familiar haunts almost entirely based on some sort of intuition or a sense of subconsciousness. Regardless, there is / was still very much to love about the place...

The cool-summer climate set the tone and the backdrop for much that I loved to do in Boston - weekend walks across the river to the downtown area. Following the Freedom Trail from Downtown to Quincy market, to arrive at the all too familiar square and see identical performances by the same performers from 3 years ago. Hunting for the sweetest deals on pre-owned games, where often times the journey to the nearest Gamestop was as rewarding as the destination - as perhaps all I wanted was some sort of self-justification to validate a weekend walk when I could have been sleeping or gaming it away.

Ice-cream - lots of ice-cream - accentuated by a new Pinkberry yogurt fad in town provided the perfect partner for a mid-summer's night stroll back home; too cheesy cheesecake from Cheesecake Factory that has a level of sinfulness only found in American dining; and of course the seafood: where Clam Chowder and Lobster is the order of the day, and the freshness of the Lobsters and the creaminess of the Clam Chowder found in Boston still ranks at the top of my list for these choices, and warranted returning visits to the local seafood chains. 

But more than the physical or the gastronomical, Boston does something for me on an almost spiritual level as well. Thriving with creativity, Boston left me creatively inspired the last time after the 9-week duration, and this time around, it was hardly any different, but perhaps even more so invigorated. Perhaps the turbulent events after the last trip left me desolate and depressed enough that I hadn't been able to fully piece the pieces of that inspired-soul back together over the years; even though it has definitely been mended - but perhaps it was never complete (which might be a good or bad thing, since an incomplete soul probably has a better tendency towards introspection and reflection). Being back in Boston probably helped to put the finishing touches to that mending process, and the added insight and experience that I had gained over the years in between the visits probably allowed me to gain a bit of an even more deeply rooted wave of inspiration that fuels my soul and my mind with possibilties.

As nothing but the sound of my rhythmic footsteps rang through the evening air as I walked across the bridge, one step at a time, breathing in sync to the walking and eyes fixed towards the tall tower in a distance, I felt that I was taking one step onto familiarity, and another into the future, all at the same time. 

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The Road to Rome : The Joy of Nothingness

31st May 2011 | Piazza Navona, Rome, Italy

Waters of the fountain behind trickled slowly, from the sprout into the pool; as the sound of water on water provided the perfect background piece for the sunset-sky. A truly wondrous place, these plazas; with road-side artists peddling their wares and their works, alfresco cafes fringing the borders of the plazas, and an occasional horse-carriage going by - to give the plaza an icing-on-the-old-world-cake finish.

And yet, none of this mattered as much as the main ingredient: people - lots of people. While Europeans in general are probably quite fond of people-watching, Italians are noted to be at the top of the list, and judging from the number of people gathered around a 4pm weekday afternoon, I guess I had no choice but to agree.

Couples sharing intimate words staring deep into one another's eyes, as aged-pairs catch a breath and appreciate the years between them in the silent pants, as office-workers unwind over a cuppa at the bordering cafes after a days' worth of work, while wide-eyed tourists (like ourselves) try their best to fit in and pretend that we understood what the fuss was all about.

As I stared deep into space, my mind wandering, while the corner of my eye caught her in her bright yellow-dress wandering off towards the horse-carrige, I started to understand the lure of it all. More so than really watching people for comparison and inspiration, I think the whole thing fed a slightly more innate need for community, one that allows you to sit amongst the crowd, and yet not necessarily having to say a single word to anyone; an ironic sense of community-meeting-privacy - to just be amongst people for the very sake of it, and  yet keeping your own little private space in your own little world at wherever you chose to settle yourself into.

But more so than the sense of community, I was pleasantly surprised and probably enlightened on their perception of time. While sitting around watching people and watching the sunset on a normal weekday would probably be considered a waste of time in ever-so-efficient and fast-paced Singapore, where there is so much more to do,  places to go, and appointments to keep; where the days are packed with moving from activity to activity - I think we have probably lost sight of what it feels like to just sit and let time roll by, the feeling of owning time, rather than letting time own you - and perhaps, to enjoy the simpler things in life, the joy of nothingness and freedom, the little pockets of respite, the rest-stops along the day's journey.

I looked at my watch and signalled to her that we were moving on - to the Pantheon, to the Spanish Steps, to the Vatican, to the Coliseum, to the rest of Rome - and we were on a schedule. But I knew that as important as it was for us to make the time for these sights, it was equally important for a vacation to allow us to bake the time to savour the restful-perfection in between.

Facilitator 2.0

Deep breath, door slowly grasping the handle, a firm downward push, and a forward thrust.

A room full of eyes turned towards me, as I walked in confidently, making my way across the room, ignoring all of which, and brushing it aside with a casual "Good Morning".

A sureness in my stride, and a sense of command clenched within my fist along with the handles of my laptop bag, as I took my time to take my place, and proceeded to set up for class in my own time, as a presumably uneasy silence rang through the air; yet hardly rattling my disposition. 

They say that life comes full circle, and I was sorely reminded of this fact when two familiar faces stepped into the door with a sheepish grin, and a hardly-embarrassed and joyous "Hello." The irony of life – of having two students that I taught in my very first class in my very first semester stepping into my very first class for the new academic year.

It was great to have an anchor or two of familiar faces to latch on to in a totally alien class; but more than that, they served as two totems and one solid juxtaposition against my past - from a time that I had trouble digging up and virtually re-living - until the familiarity of sitting down in the same room with them jolted something probably now deeply swept into my subconscious.

I used to consider my words very carefully, and my actions even more so. The slightest hint of a tangential point that quickly and unexpectedly went south would cause an obvious flush, and have the class gushing at my shyness; my physical being unable to mask my mental thoughts - that was a different time. A time of self-consciousness and self-awareness; rooted by a deep sense of uncertainty - the uncertainty of the lack of the ability to anticipate, driven by a greater general lack of experience and knowledge of the approach towards the juggle between being an authority and being a friend. Awkward, perhaps; but cautious, even more so.

That was of a different time - one where interaction was a lot more of an effort, always conscious of what to say, how much I was saying, how much I was revealing; and yet always cautious of how much I shouldn't be saying, how far I was going, and what impression I was leaving...

"You've changed Jeremy", said one of the familiar faces, "I still remember the time when you..."  

I looked him in my eye and retorted calmly, "Two years is a long time."

And indeed it has been, with the clocking of one-year in full time, on top of the first year in part time, I believe that I have a much firmer grasp of the ropes in a classroom environment now - being able to see without looking, hearing words without focusing, and reading thoughts without asking; there is probably still much to learn, but at the same time, I have probably learnt much. Confident and in control, experience has taught me the basics of rapport, connection and communication. 

And yet, some things don't change at all. The persistent mantra of:  "9 to 4.30, I'm your Facilitator, after 4.30, we're friends," holds true to today even, and perhaps even more so, with the increased time spent with the students, and the greater involvement in their academic life. Talk becomes more casual, laughter flies all around, jokes dart in all directions, and the (ahem) occasional swear word comes to light, bringing to mind the second mantra of: "I'm simply here to impart my knowledge to you, not here to be your damn Role Model."

Re-visiting a question I had no simple answer for during my interview, I sordidly recall my stern interviewer's countenance when she asked, ""You look really young. Is respect important to you? How would you get your students to respect you?"

To be honest, I still haven't found the exact answer to this question, and I never might; but I probably never have to, as over the years, I think I've learnt to shift between the planes of a facilitator and a friend with ease, being able to transcend the planes in a split-second; and sometimes blending the two. Somehow, somewhat; I've learnt that respect doesn't necessarily come from knowledge or achievement, but sometimes, it is simply established with a tinge of connection.

A recent inside joke had me challenging my minions: "Wouldn't it be ironically funny if despite all the abuse and sarcasm I put you guys through, somehow I could still get an award this?"

Well... guess what happened?

- Welcome to Facilitator 2.0 -

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

Lights Brought the Future - Pieces of Japan Finale

1st January 2010
Disneysea, Tokyo, Japan

Staring across the mass of water that lay before, into the array of lights at the other end, imagining the footsteps of the shuffling exiting crowd, my breathing slowed; a stark contrast to the extended exhilaration of the day.

From the thrills of freefall in the Tower of Terror, to the constant ringing of "Compass of my Heart", to the screaming descent of Journey to the Centre of the Earth, to the tinge of Curry Popcorn still ringing atop my tongue - we had probably covered the quintessential rides in Disneysea with maximum efficiency and had gotten the  most bang for our Starlight-pass-buck, putting us in a more than apt position to cap off the amazing journey.

Disney is probably as close as to perfection that artificial beauty gets - the golden lights in the distance sparking amidst the dark winter sky, highlighting more than the silhouette of its Venice-inspired architecture; the Magical Kingdom's reach is far, sometimes even reaching into the inner chambers of one's soul, invoking a sense of almost subconscious reflection with its beauty.

I stood in place, in time, staring at the lights, thinking about the events of the day, and much beyond.

Atop the fort stood a man, peering out into the same direction, dressed in a surprisingly thin jacket for the cold winter night, the man stood still, admiring the sight that lay before him; even though it was mostly man-made lights, but queerly, amidst all that, the ill-equipped man failed to do the touristic act of whipping out a camera to capture the sight before him in eternity, while almost ironically, the shutter next to me was sounding non-stop. He stood there motionless, as if waiting for something, for someone - someone to meet up or catch up with him, just admiring the beauty.

Piqued with curiosity by his motionless gaze, I slowly crept up behind and beside him, hoping to gain his vantage point of the sights before. As I stood beside him, I subconsciously noticed that we were of rather similar height. After standing there for a few seconds, with nothing but silence between us, I couldn't help but do the instinctive but taboo act of turning to look at him.

In almost the same time, he turned and stared straight back at me, as our gazes met - when I noticed that his eyes looked exactly like mine, as my focus drew away from his eyes, I noticed that he looked just like me.

Shocked into silence, I stood there speechless and not knowing how to react.

"I know, I know," he said, with a voice that sounded exactly like mine, "I knew you would react this way. Your next question would be, 'who am I?' and knowing you, or me, the 'why' would naturally follow."

"In short," he continued, "my answer for you is.... Second Chances. And what better time for Second Chances than the turn of the New Year right?"

"Don't ask, just use your eyes to follow the lights of the buildings at the opposite end, c'mon!".

Still in semi-shock, my eyes followed the lights along the ups and downs of the rows of buildings, tracing their angular shapes further and further into the illuminated-horizon, as lights my eyes started to lose focus, blanking out into a blinding screen of white for a moment, before the warm-yellow tinge started to restore itself in my vision, as I tried hard to centre my vision of the row of lights that stood before me.

 

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Second Chance

 

Oddly, the lights yellow lights within my vision had mysteriously realigned themselves, and didn't take those angular shapes any longer, instead being neatly arranged into two neat rows.

 

I turned and looked around, and to my shock, I saw myself standing in the middle of an isolated street, dead quiet in the night save for the sound of some vehicles from a distance, surrounded by rustic traditional Japanese houses, as the gentle sound of flowing water trickled from a canal by my side.

 

Guessing from the architecture around me, I garnered that I was somehow still in Japan, but as my mind was about to make a logical guess on the exact location, I found that my index finger was used as a make-shift bookmark among the pages of a "Lonely Planet Japan" in my hand. Opening the book, I read the words:

Shirakawa Dori. Some claim it to be the most beautiful street in Asia, particularly during the Sakura Season. Looking around, I was entirely absorbed by the peace and tranquillity that surrounded me. My body hardly fatigued from the long hours of travelling via flight and bullet train, and all my initial apprehension of the initial thought of pack-and-jet subsided as I stood under the barren branches of approaching Spring.

It was February, and I was back in Japan again, except this time alone. And yet, while slightly disappointed by the lack of the company I had grown so fond and accustomed to, there was a different kind of emotion to the loneliness - one that left a lot of room for reflection, and soul-searching, especially amidst some of the most beautiful sights that the island had to offer.

Feet firmly planted on the ground, and giving it a good shuffle against the concrete pavement, the reality of the situation sank in, as the association with a Lone Wolf came into my mind - seeking, reflective and majestic.

Book in hand; I walked down the beautiful street, as the blinds got more blindingly bright the further I walked down, till I could no longer see what was in front of me...

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"Amazing, right?" a familiar voice rang through my head. "I know, this island does mysterious things to you, haha. Awe-inspiring sights, a little bit of pilgrimage, and a little bit of history; are just the perfect ingredients for a second chance, don't you think?"

"You feeling warm?" he asked me.

Still unable to answer, I shook my head at the obvious answer, my hand naturally clasping my jacket tighter to my body as I sensed the approach of a chilly wind. Puzzled at his question, I looked at him with bewilderment.

"Then why are you perspiring?" he asked me.

A sudden realisation of droplets rolling down my forehead dawned upon me, as I raised my hand to try to dab the beads of sweat off, but somehow, despite the cold winter's night, I just would not stop perspiring.

A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead and into my blind, causing a temporary irritation, as I tried my best to blink it off, only to have the situation aggravated by the dry, cold wind that was blowing across my face.

Unable to stand it any longer, I moved my hands to my eyes and tried to rub them through my gloves. A sense of relief came over me as the edges of my knuckles met the corner of my eye, but that's when I realised that my gloves were off...

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Space

In fact, so was all my winter wear, and my entire top.

I was now in an all-too-familiar space, surrounded by the four walls that have literally held me in since childhood, but yet, something was amiss, the usual furniture was missing, and all that was left was my bed and my wardrobe, both covered with a glossy, wet, black sheen of paint, with me looking down at them.

I found myself atop a ladder, with a paintbrush in hand, with its tip dipped in a dark-grey shade of paint. I tried to raise my arms to move the paintbrush, but the soreness and aches of the muscles gave a biting realization of reality.

Not having slept for almost a continuous period of 18 hours, the clock struck 7.30am as my arms continued to move up and down along the wall, while my mind yearned for something a lot less torturous and monotonous.

"Almost there, almost there. I just got to finish this for once and for all," the voices in my head willing my body to go on. Putting the final touches to the wall, I laid the instruments down and headed for a much-needed shower, one that signified the end of 3 weeks of hard, manual labour; I task I had yearned to do for over 10 years, and hope not to do for another 20 if possible.

But as I re-entered the refreshingly monochrome space after my much needed bathe, I stood at the doorstep, looking in and nodding to myself, seeing that it was good,; and more importantly, a space I was proud to call my own.

I laid down on my bed, with my hair still wet, my body automatically shutting down as I fell into a deep sleep, feeling my senses shutting down one at a time, when the last thing that I felt was a drop of water, slowly rolling down my forehead and onto my eyelids, my hand subconsciously raised to wipe it away...

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When my eyes open, blinding golden light was shining through all again. I was starting to get the idea of what this was all about, as I couldn't help by give a sly smile, upon knowing.

He knew that I had reached my realisation, and gave me a cheekier smile back - one that reminded me of when times and life was a tad simpler.

From the Fort, I looked down, and saw her, probably still oblivious to the fact that I was missing, finger still trigger-happy on the shutter, as the little Minnie Mouse ears atop her head dangled with each clumsy movement she made to get a better angle.

I looked at him, and slowly broke out into my sly smile...

"Oh, you want to know about that..." he said, hesitating briefly. "Yeah sure, why not?" he said, after 2 seconds of thought. "I can tell you though, the word is: Patience."

"Popcorn?" he said, stretching out a long box of popcorn at me.

With the tempting taste of Curry-flavoured Popcorn still etched in my mind, I reached into the box, but couldn't feel anything. Puzzled, I dug my hand a bit deeper in but still to no avail, when I lowered my head to peer into the darkness of the box, seeing something at the corner of the box, as I reached my fingers in to grab it....

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Patience

Feeling something solid between my fingertips, I inched it out of the box, only to find that a familiar golden brown French fry was in my grasp instead.

Chatter from all angles filled my auditory senses, as I picked up the familiar words of "Module, grades, and lectures". I looked around, to see myself surrounded by young faces, none of which looked familiar, while some of them stared back at me with a slight sense of wonder, as I stood out like a sore thumb amongst them in my chic office attire.

I was back at my Alma Mater, with my laptop on in front of me - fries in one hand and my other on the mouse in front of me, as trees on screen moved towards me against a black background. Dragging and Dropping, bugging and debugging, while my other hand continued to circulate the fries to my mouth.

My phone rang as I answered it, hearing her familiar voice on the other end. "I'm done, Vampy!" she said semi-excited.

"Ok," I responded, as I finished up and packed my stuff, heart full of anticipation as I walked down the stairs, ready to see her countenance again after nearly a week. Dance had come into her life in full swing, adding to an honours year of oddly-timed modules; our weekend schedule had been dramatically affected and compromised over the months.

As I walked towards her at the bus stop, I was all-smiles, having learnt to fully accommodate to the changes and learn to make the best of the time together, as I knew that we had probably entered a different phase of the relationship, one that was less wilful, and more assured; one that could was durable enough and yet malleable enough to withstand changes to lifestyle, and eventually life.

"Where do you want to go darling?" I asked her, as I reached out for her hand.

She responded with an answer and a shrug, reminding me of her rule of not showing ANY affection within campus.

Stupid perhaps, but I took little heart to it, as she walked on in front of me, her image getting blurrier and blurrier and she continued to step forward while I had seemingly become more stationary....

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"Yup, all's gonna go well in that aspect, man. Don't worry about it," he said, as I looked down at her still scurrying about, but suddenly turning around, and looking a bit lost.

"I probably need to go soon," I said to him, "but just one more thing that I really need to know."

"You mean about THAT thought?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"That's gonna be huge, you know.... but yeah, why not right?" he said, almost nonchalantly.

"Close your eyes, and reach out your hand," he told me.

Not questioning anymore, I did as I was told...

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Change

A cold metal surface touched my palm, as I grasped it within, feeling the familiar shape and texture of a metal door handle, and a white door that stood before me.

Somewhat forcefully, I pressed down on the door handle and stepped through the door, into an empty room and stood in the silence. But gradually, that silence was broken, as I heard a familiar voice uttering the words "Good Morning" and other familiar voices faintly in the background. The voices grew louder and louder, and more audible, but just before they were audible enough to decipher who they belonged to, they disappeared and silence filled the room again, where a mysterious white door just like the one before had appeared at the other end of the room.

Stepping towards it, I did the same thing again, and stepped through the next door, into the next room, and stood in the silence. Again, I heard the same words, and I heard the increase in volume, only this time the increase in volume seemed to be amplified. But still, before I could make out the identity of the people speaking, it stopped, and another door appear.

I did the same, and went to another room, where the same events occurred again. After going through the same thing for about 20 times or so, one room at a time, over and over again; I was finally able to make out the owner of those mysterious voices - they were the voices of some of the students.

The moment I had this figured out, another door appeared, but this time a golden one. As I opened the door that led to another room, a pot of gold and a mirror awaited me at the other end of the room. I first approached the pot of gold, which was hardly full, and went on to pick up a few gold coins from the pot. Realizing the authenticity of the gold, I grew excited and wanted pour all the gold out to count the number of coins.

Pouring them out onto the floor, I started counting them, and when I had tallied the final amount, I reached for the pot of gold to put the coins back in, when I realised that the pot was filled with gold coins again, roughly the same weight as before. I poured out the coins to start counting them again, and I realised that the coins were exactly as before. But while this never-ending pot of gold was strange, the even stranger thing was that I couldn't put any gold coins back.

Believing the mirror to be equally enchanted, I approached it cautiously, my mind wondering about the possible enchantments within. But as I stood in front of it, it seemed to be nothing more than an ordinary mirror. Making gestures in front of it just to make sure, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. But as I stopped to look at it for a while, I realised that the reflection within had taken on its own will, its own soul; doing as it pleases. But when I rose to perform an action again, it followed suit. A strange object indeed.

A little label was attached to the handle of the mirror, in which read the words: "Choose."

I placed the two objects on the floor, knowing fully well what each of them meant to the decision that I had to make soon, and after much contemplation, I reached out my hand to pick up the pot of gold. Stepping through the door that I came in from, and the 20 before that...

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"So, that's going to be your choice?" he said to me as I found myself back at the top of the Fort.

"I think so," I said, "I think it's time for a change; for a little bit more stability in my life you know, after the last couple of years."

Through a smile that hid a tinge of sadness, he said to me, "I guess you're ready for that. It's never going to be like it used to anymore you know? You're going to have to.... grow up... I guess..."

I paused for a moment, before I tapped him on the shoulder and said, "I know", assuringly.

"Then I guess you're all set for the New Year then?" he said, rhetorically.

"Yup, I guess this is where we have to part ways," I told him.

"Yeah, it's been one helluva ride," he said, with a forced chuckle. "One last question though."

"What?" I asked.

"Can I use your camera?" he asked. "You know I've always been dying to grab a photo with THAT camera for the longest time now, right?"

"Haha, I know." I said, as I tossed him the camera.

I slipped back down the Fort and behind her, only to find that she was not playing with her camera anymore, but instead, just staring out into the lights across the mass of water that lay before us. And I could only what the lights led her to see in her year ahead....

Piece of Japan: Day 9 - Time in a Coffee Cup

27th December 2009

Sapporo, Hokkaido, Japan

I looked down into the darkness within the uniquely-shaped Coffee Cup, swirling it gently while gripping it by its handle, and watching the chocolate drink within ripple with my gentle movements.

I raised the cup to my lips to sip the rich, chocolate drink within; bringing a sense of warmth physically and emotionally, as I imagined the endorphins within my mind to be released as an after-effect of the consumption of all things chocolate.

I placed the cup down slowly on the table - hearing the soft clattering against the saucer resonate through the foreign-chatter that surrounded us, save for a table not too far off with an accent too familiar for comfort.

I remained silent, peering out of the window at a large field of white snow, stretching to a range of snow-capped mountains not too far off into the distance. Snow fell gently down, as with the few days before, but that made the cosiness of the indoor cafe all-the-more inviting.

She was fiddling with her camera as usual at the corner of my eye, as I continued to peer out into the distance, reminiscing before I had even left.

Sapporo had been kind to us, with her navigate-able grid-like layout, comprehensible transport system and a good amount of English-speaking people all round; the population of one-million to her city size was definitely comfortable without being crowded; especially compared to the Tokyo that we had just came from before that.

The day had been left deliberately free-and-easy for us to explore the city at our own leisurely pace, based on some of the sort-listed locations that we had marked out - allowing us to adjust our schedule ad-hoc-ly to our liking; a sheer pleasure that something more restrictive like a tour package would probably not had been able to provide us.

This freedom landed us in a cafe on the higher floors of the rustic Ishiya Chocolate Factory, sitting by the window panes peering out into the winter landscape if for no other reason than it being cosy, and possibly romantic (if only she would have stopped fiddling around with the flash, hah).

With its rich trademark taste deeply-infused in the signature and somewhat pricey Chocolate Drink, its namesake was well lived up to and proved to be the perfect companion for a cold, winter afternoon. One that was sandwiched within a day well-spent hopping about town searching for the famed Ramen Yokocho, a small-street cramped with 16 or so different ramen stores, for the necessary Hokkaido Ramen fix; and one that would take us to much greater heights atop Mount Moiwa for a breath-taking night view of the city and beyond, with lights that would stretch on for miles into the sea, outlining the unique and rather angular shape of beautiful island of Hokkaido.

Of course, she hardly knew what was in store for her later that evening, as she continued to fiddle with her camera frivolously; unaware of the height that had to be scaled via an odd, snow-tracked bus-like vehicle, and the overwhelming fear of heights that would set in as she approached the ledge to peer out into the distance of the night view.

But that was for later... for now 0 a smile lit upon her face as she brought the cup down from her lips, eyes-widening at the rich taste, and perhaps also from the cosiness of the entire experience.

The clock tower outside of window bustled with activity, as toy soldiers, bears and all manner of cuddly-types made their hourly parade, ushering in the new hour... and the sunset at four - an adjustment that I still hadn't been able to really wrap my head around after so many days in the country.

Everything was two hours faster in Japan, ten felt like noon, sunset was at four, and eight in the evening resonated with the deadness of a typical 10pm vibe. But it always revealed that time was often a matter of perception, and existed in the minds of people more than anything else.

As I brought my coffee cup to my lips and took the time to take another sip of that heavenly taste, I was just glad that I had made time - and it was entirely in my hands for that day.

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Ramen Yokocho: 16-in-1

16 shops through that 1 Tiny Street

The Chef...

...And His Work

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Ishiya Chocolate Factory: Like Disneyland, but Edible

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Mt. Moiwa: The Colour and the Shape

Lights shaped the Island

Not picture: Tears in her Eyes

 Peering into the Past

Pieces of Japan: Day 8 - Rush

26th December 2009
Niseko, Hokkaido, Japan

The additional weight anchored on one of my feet was still something that I had hardly gotten used to. With the increased elevation, the pull of gravity grew more literal as the weight attached to the foot felt heavier and heavier.

Looking down, a scene of snow-covered pines flanked the lift from both ends. Not taking more of nature than necessary, the ski-lift was built through the centre of the pine-filled slope. In a distance, skillful skiers and boarders were sliding and slaloming down the steep slope, performing perfect turns and drawing perfect curves along the snow-filled slopes. 

Hardly being able to speaking the same vocabulary as those who made it look so easy and graceful, at the very least, the mastery that I had gained over the course of the day had allowed me to draw a bond with them on the level of the understanding of the rush - the adrenaline that came with the wind blowing at and through you; the fresh, white powder parting under one's feet from the speed and pressure of the board; the level of mental awareness required for that perfect balancing point to stay upright; and the satisfaction of conquering Nature's challenge through coordination and control of the human body - regardless of how relatively shallow the challenge was considering my level of mastery, or lack thereof.    

Looking up, it was just starting to snow again, as specks of snow slowly descended upon those who were making their ascent, firmly mounted onto the chairs and biding their time to make it to the top, prepping for the rush. Perhaps adding to the climax of the burst of adrenaline through the pacing of the quiet ride up,  the madness that was the ride down was tended to be a moment in itself.

Placing my fingers on my ribs, the painful sting still ran through my body upon the placing of pressure due to the debacle that had ensued earlier in the day...

Trying to board the same 2-seat ski-lift is a bad idea for first-time snowboarders, period. Requiring you to take an awkward sideways position when the lift came up from behind you, we thought that taking the same lift up would be an interesting and potentially romantic experience, in a rather remote sense.

The lift came up from behind us as we tried to find what we thought would be a good position to try to sit down on it. Perhaps it was the anxiety of trying to plant our butts firmly on a moving target - but more likely due to our inherent rawness to the entire scenario - in the chaos of the moment, I remember seeing her tripping over herself and falling to the ground, as I let out a huge gasp and my body locked up, unable to decide on trying to help her up or not.

The ski-lift swept me from behind my knees, toppling my unstable, sidewards-facing body over, as I felt myself trip over myself and moving increasingly fast towards the ground, my descent was rudely interrupted with a huge impact on my rib-area, from what felt like the side rail of the ski-lift chair. I vaguely remember  snow bouncing off my face and sensing something passing by overhead.

When I opened my eyes, the ski-lift had stopped as I lay there motionless for a few seconds, as I tried to get back on my feet. Those seconds felt like a  few hours' worth of humiliation, from receiving the collective stares of bemusement and shock from the snaking crowd that had formed behind us.

That particular first-ride up felt especially long, as a lingering sense of being pointed at by the people riding behind us marked the silence between us; extremely sensitive to any laughter heard believed to be at our expense - and it sure didn't help that I could hardly understand a single word they were saying.. Physically-wounded definitely; but more so psychologically, through the bruising of the ego. 

The lift was approaching the end as I lowered my feet, prepping to slide off the lift as previously instructed. The board met the smooth surface of the little snowy hump, as I tried to find my balancing point. A mere number of meters away from the slope, and I was already on my butt - something I just couldn't get right no matter how many times I tried, the whole getting-off-the-lift thing.

But as I sat there and strapped up, that slowly faded into the recesses of my consciousness, overtaken by the familiar feeling of adrenaline rising from the anticipation of the imminent rush that was about to ensue.

It was the last run, and I was determined to make it a perfect run...

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Niseko By Night: Snowblind

A Quiet Walk by Night

Grand Hirafu by Night

Walking through the Storm

Warm Lights of Home

BLU @ Shangri-La Hotel: 3rd Year Anniversary - The Experience

14th September 2010

"Any champagne to start the night, sir?" The waitress asked promptly, after we were firmly rested in our comfortable red seats.

"Two glasses, please," I replied, without batting an eyelid; and more detrimentally, without the slightest clue about the price.

Indeed, the mood of the night was set with that exemplary opening gesture - a night or pure indulgence and bliss, on a sensory and, more significantly, emotional level - as I reached out for her hand.

It all felt so natural by now - and it should afterall; considering that it has been exactly three years since I placed her hand firmly in mine, remembering the caption and the phrase of "holding happiness", from our initial and discreet hand-holding moment immortalized on film.

"Are you ready to order, sir?" The waitress asked politely, as I rested the base of the long champagne glass on the white table cloth, the bitter aftertaste that tore through the sweetness still lingering in my mouth - a delightful sensation. 

"We'll have 'The Experience Menu", I told the waitress. 

"The Experience Menu" - a more than apt word to sum up the dining encounter we had at the Shangri-La as we marked our landmark celebration. 

I've always believed dining to be an art in itself, and more importantly and more essentially, an 'experience' (for the lack of a more suitable word). "The Experience Menu" at the Shangri-La not only reinforces, but utterly validates my point.

Led by Chef Kevin Cherkas, with footprints imprinted on some of the globe's Michelin's Restaurant, his creativity and culinary abilities shone through as we were introduced to the concept of "progressive dining"; which was not only a feast for the stomach, but also one for the eyes and the mind, as we left the restaurant in full appreciation of not only his skills, but also his creative talent and hospitality.

"Foie gras is a must, lobster, beef and if possible, oysters." I recited to the waitress, as she noted my preferences down.

"The Experience Menu" at BLU is a special menu where patrons are asked for specific food preferences, allergies and the like; which is then reported to the chef, who will set customise a menu for the patron based on the patron's preferences, and maybe, a little bit based on the chef's mood on that day. Akin to a degustation menu, except that it is a two-way deal between chef and patron rather than a one-sided affair.

For us, even though the menu was recited to us, the names themselves were inventive and at the same time abstract, sometimes being a little bit difficult to visualize, leaving plenty of room for the chef to surprise us, and indeed, he did with one dish after another.

Looking out of the tall glass window over a quiet stretch that would eventually meander to the much busier Orchard Road, she spoke of how it reminded her of Otaru, or in general, Japan... again. Some things in life probably leave a deep imprint on one's soul, and travelling on a magical getaway is probably one that still thugs at her heartstrings ever so often. Nostalgia is sweet in itself, but perhaps more so for me than her, the memory of sharing special travelling moments with a loved one is more than the icing on the cake, it is the very essence of the Experience; one that can only be fostered over a period of a compromise between a passionate love and a comfortable trust built over a course of time.

Mushroom Bubble

A spoon with an odd-looking bubble-shaped object was placed in front of us, as we were instructed on how to consume it. Placing it on my tongue, I applied pressure from the top of my mouth onto the bubble, causing it to burst and releasing a potpourri of flavours, dominated by those of mushroom and an after-tinge of cranberry sauce.

Analogous to drinking of the potion in Alice in Wonderland, this little bubble only served as our entry point to the more fascinating things to come further down the rabbit hole.

Lobster "Thermidor"

Washing up onto the shores of our journey-towards-gourment-excellence next was the Lobster "Thermidor." A rich dish that served the most succulent bits of the Lobster coupled with a rich lobster-based broth that had roe floating on the surface, pieces that I almost missed completely in my blindness and negligence. The combination of the succulent meat with the mixture of the rich and thick lobster broth brought back memories and inevitable comparisons of the lobsters I had in Boston. 

Memories of a time of difficulty and a time of need, as I remember the lazy Sunday afternoons that I would be sitting in front of the laptop in my dorm room, literally reaching out to touch the face I saw on the monitor in hope of getting just that little bit closer to her, despite knowing an inch wouldn't make a difference to the miles apart, but still did so regardless. 

Stealing more than a Glance

That familiar smell, that beckoning texture; stood right before our eyes, as I uncontrollably used the knife to spread over the top of the slab, just to attest its texture and its firmness. Expectations rose by the millisecond as I dug my knife gently into it, watching it crumble softly, as I raised it to my mouth and pressed my lips tightly closed after putting it in my mouth.

Typical of those of the higher grades, the piece melted slowly in my mouth, emitting an assortment of flavours within my mouth; a tinge of saltiness, the familiar taste and an additional spruce of nuttiness thrown in for good measure, Foiegras@fruits.com (yes, the official name of the dish) quickly rocketed to the top of both our Foie Gras favourites list, sitting very closely to that of Le Saint Julien's, and playing hosts to a whole deluge of memories.

Foiegras@fruits.com (no, you can't click that)

Memories of the different times we shared Foie Gras. Perhaps a mark of luxury and celebration on our part, most major celebrations in our history is somehow always graced with a platter of Foie Gras at the table; and through these different occasions, I think it is safe to say that we have jointly established it as our favourite couple-dish. Mainly because of the taste, but partially for the memories, the numerous candlelights and romantic-slow-burn dinners we've had over the major occasions in the last 3 years closely associated to the taste of the dish.... the smiles, the tears; the birthdays and the kisses.

The Egg Came First, or so states Chef Kevin's witty answer to the age-old question. My retort: it doesn't matter which came first when the egg tastes THIS good. Cutting down the middle to allow for the yolk to soak in and through the thick onion broth, the combination of the inherent sweetness and saltiness from the egg combined with the sting of the onion in its broth was only made more heavenly with the sprinkle of bread crumbs that littered the top of the dish.

The Egg Came First

A refreshing refresher of grape yogurt and soda-infused grape later, our main courses were served. A fresh snapper with vanilla-scented paella for the Lady, simply entitled "Catch", and the manly Wagyu Beef Mustard for the Gentleman.

"Catch"

Well-coloured and even more well garnished, with the brown sauce taking the shape of a perfect diamond, the Wagyu Beef Mustard melted slowly in my mouth, rivalling the texture of the Kobe Beef that I had savoured in Japan a good while back, before the sting of the mustard kicked in to give the meat a sensational after-taste. Passing her a piece, I saw a similar reaction in her eyes as she savoured the meat through the consumption process.

Wagyu Beef Mustard - A Perfect Diamond

My personal belief is that a good relationship changes a person, ideally for the better; as we work towards the notion of becoming more "complete" through our partners. It wasn't too long ago at Morton's that I instigated and tempted her to break her abstinence from beef, never to look back. And while this is highly debateable on whether it is a change for the better or not (in my books, more than definitely), over the months and the years, I can safely say that we've both changed one another.

No more is she the wide-eyed gal with an infinite sense of wonderment, but blossoming into a butterfly of confidence and an opinion to back it up; and no more am I the impatient, self-centred jerk that I used to be, but blossoming into an impatient, and slightly less self-centred jerk now upgraded with enough room for two in my mind, trying my best to consider her thoughts and her feelings along the way alot more (ok, maybe I didn't change THAT much).

"It was still swimming yesterday, so that's super, super, super, SUPER fresh," he said, pointing to the fish. "Not that it makes it any more appetizing, but it makes it a lot healthier."    

A rarity to see the chef outside the kitchen, but yet Chef Kevin made it a point to make personal trips out of the kitchen over the course of the night to play host and explain his creations to the patrons in the small, cosy 40-to-50-seater lined with a traditional, but nonetheless, elegant decor of velvety reds and soft-wooden browns.

The candlelight continued flickering as her unsteady hand tried to capture a shot of our dessert. The Egg proved to be a highly innovative dessert, shaped convincingly like an egg, but tasting nothing like one - but instead, with a mango centre, and coconut white and finished with passion fruit sorbet at the bottom, the combination of flavours was fruity and refreshing, and served as an excellent finish (almost) to our "experience".

Candlelight is perhaps another one of the totems of our relationships, simply because the abundance of candles in the places we've graced, and when you have a predominant-couple-activity of (fine) dining, it is not hard to find the association.

More symbolically, and perhaps more exaggeratingly though, is that this love has indeed proven to be my Light-in-the-dark cliche. But as much as I hate to conform to such, the truth is that, no matter how frivolous and non-committal we wanted to establish it to be at the start, at many a time of darkness and gloom cast upon my career over the last three years, the romantic candle has often remained my source of strength, simply by the virtue of it's presence beside me, and perhaps to much (of her) chagrin, the listening ear to my neverending moping and the little haven for my perpetual brooding.

Customarily, I wrapped up the bill and passed it to her after paying for the dinner, as she picked up the hand-written menu based on our "Experience".

And as we walked out of the doors of the restaurant with happy bellies, I knew deep in my heart, that there was more to the night than that. More so than a Celebration of a Milestone, a Celebration of a Record, a Celebration of History, a Celebration of the Future, a Celebration of Memories, or a Celebration of Love - it was a Celebration of an Experience.

ex·pe·ri·ence (k-spîr-ns)

n.

c.  the totality of a person's perceptions, feelings, and memories