Song of the day: Nina Persson's "The Bluest Eyes in Texas"

She didn't sound the way she normally does in the Cardigans, sugar-kitten-like. I wonder how she makes it so easy, to sing like that. Faye Wong is somewhat a Chinese equivalent, but she sounds strained at the high notes.

I like twangy, dusky music played on a lone car driving into a setting Texas sun. I guess that's because it feels like travelling, being eternally on-the-go and leaving the past behind but not forgetting about it. I have only seen a Texas sun in Kill Bill II (I don't understand why it's not as good as KB I. Probably because BX told me the whole story before I watched it, like what she always likes to do). I have never been to Texas, and from stories of Bush and all that it doesn't sound like the most classy and venerable place. That's the thing with America. Foreigners look down on its simplicity and "crudeness" or hate its power and "loudness". But foreigners love to go there. Simple or loud, America's just so endowed with rich resources for both commercial and spiritual exploitations. It's a paradise of both the consumers and people who want to think and act alone and still be able to feed themselves, even doing fairly well in a lot of cases. There are lot of OSIs who enjoyed their time overseas a great deal. Their minds were exposed, influenced, stimulated to various experiences of exhiliration or depression that Singapore's never gonna give them in a thousand years (ok, I take that back. If Singapore's still existent in a thousand years it should have quite some stories to tell its young folks). Here's one such lady: www.toomanythoughts.org/blog. If I drink and club and blog fast without feeling guilty, I might be of her type in Singapore.

Ways in which Singapore's like America (although its infrastructure and many governmental and social systems follow British model):

1. Immigrants' nation

2. Multi-racial society

3. History in school learnt with lots of "trivia" - a word I got to know in the States meaning details of a rather inconsequential nature. There was a story, but it was rather simple. British, Japanese, independence. If American history is considered simple, then Singaporean history is a miniature version of that (not to say that I know enough of American history to be eligible to talk of it) And both are histories of nation-building.

4. Generally leave foreigners alone (claim of Russian colleague. I guess that applies well compared to other Asian countries)

Differences:

1. America's an immigrants' nation to both old and new immigrants. Singapore's edgy on people who come and go without converting to a Singaporean nationality. America's hesitant in dealing out the green cards while Singapore's coaxing the foreign professionals to stay (although it's getting less so, according to Russian colleague again). That makes little sense if you think about the sizes of the two countries. But I'm sure it's not all about size.

2. America tries to keep racial harmony by not speaking of it. Therefore there is tension. Singapore keeps harmony by stressing on it. And I guess it works. I stare less for seeing an Indian in Singapore than for seeing an African American in America (although that could well be because of growing up here but I used to jump at seeing people in Singapore, not in America). Of course size matters very much here. Smaller orbitals overlap better.

3. History of America is about independence first; history of Singapore is about independence later.

4. Singaporeans takes condescending interest in foreingers; Americans take childlike interests in foreigners. Towards the Chinese, who are coming to Singapore in an ever increasing number that I feel like giving some sort of veteran speech to all those kids who got downgraded two years in school (I got 1/2-1), the older Singaporeans think they still farm lands and drown baby girls. Well I bet some still do but not professionals. As for the younger Singaporeans, been fed ad nauseum the importance of entrepreneurship as if it's the only dignified way of earning a living, China is a land of opportunites. Media disseminate dreams of catching the Chinese express of economic grown. When Singaporeans start to realise cultural differences between the two nations it's because of difficulties arising from doing business with mainlanders, who are as cunning as foxes and snort at Singaporeans' self-professed imaged of efficiency and professionalism.

Towards Caucasians, older Singaporeans may well have that indifferent treatise of foreigners one may find in literature of travelling from the west to the Orient at the beginning of the century. Descriptions of funny native ways turn indifference into a lyrical charm. I think the west therefore inherited that curious, explorative interest in Asians. However, I feel that's sort of over in Europe. They've done their explorations and have entered a cultural slumber, so wearied from centuries of thinking and breakthroughs. But America's the "new found land". It's in many ways innocent, like a.. "super baby".

Present wish list:
1. Insurance will work out. Mum doesn't agree with buying life insurance. Will get a cheap one, but how cheap?
2. YF? hmm
3. The world will find alternative energy sources as soon as possible. If eight out of ten people on earth have to die after oil runs out, may them die peacefully (Is that possible?). And the remaining two find a cure. (According to my supervisor, who has an amazing attitude, that's certainly possible)

To Dan: What Does My Country Mean to Me?

History and pretty costumes and hairdoes in ancient drama productions (Mainland and Taiwanese, not HK). Chairman Mao and economic progress. Japanese flag-burning. The language. Smokey-rainy Jiangnan (southern bank of Yangtze River. Rain drops are so fine in springtime that they are vapoury). Stories of love and parting. Travelling in a rainy night. Anything, anyone. Mostly fictional and abstract. For I did not stay there long.

Or intellectual complaints and condescension. Unknowing adaptation and tense preservation of pride. Convenience for patriotic yearnings, because homeland stays abstract and poetic. Apart from these, I guess I can throw in standard answers which enjoy popularity with OSIs (Overseas Singaporean Intellectuals): food and Singlish. Simple, straightforward and all about the senses. And if there's a day that I stop staring dumbly at the mention of these sensations, I can perhaps think of non-intellectual reasons of what Singapore means to me.

And I suppose I can't talk of what US means to me since it's not my country. It's a terrible pity because that's the place which made me understand what the phrase "means to me" means to me. China is a faded backdrop. I wish I can recall those moments when reading passages in Chinese novels lights up my imagination and makes me pace around the room in dizzy circles. I wish I still felt immense interest in any stories of Chinese history. Instead, I know that I will understand, compare and judge those stories in order to salvage some superiority over the sentiments from which I've been estranged. The more I hide from the Chinese people the more I frown at their rudeness, loudness and selfishness. The more I frown the more I hide. There are sentiments that rear their heads in my life so far (for which I'm ashamed of writing like a young person), such that I was reminded they originated from the anxieties and happiness of my childhood days. For example, the love and fear of travelling in a rainy night is preserved and magnified by the American experience of owning a car and convenient highway system. Should I blame the fact that this experience of learning and self-discovery was conducted in English? Was I beginning to be like this, losing the grip of my mother tongue, even before I went to the States? I only knew I was running away from home then.

Home in Singapore is the most familiar place. I mean it in a sense that I only watched 6 movies in my 8.5 years of teenagehood there. Now, even if I were in such a fit of self-hurting frustration, I can find no other place to hide than my room. I'd never ventured out of home after I come back from daily routine interactions with the outside. So Singapore at large's a big scary place. Or a small scary place. For the price I paid for the estrangement of Chinese after my college years in US, I gained the ability to look at Singapore straight ("straight" is British English, which I'm picking up once again). Not as straight as I imagine, maybe, since I talk to foreigners mostly in my company. Oh well, good enough for now. I dare say I will find genuine sentimental merit of a more sublime nature in Singapore if I live here long enough.

Before starting that life as a working adult, though, I'm going back the States for grad sch. All's under the arrangement of the sponsor for my studies, for whom my service in Singapore after graduation is required. When I'm back, I'd have spent equal number of years in China, Singapore and America. Well China wins by some 3-4 years but childhood days are condensed. I should rather think I'd have gotten used to a life broken into pieces by then. Where should I go next?

Maybe it's just the result of reading too much Sebald combined with it being midnight and I being sleepy. Sebald says that immigration is traumatic. But traumatic experiences are not supposed to be babbled. So I guess I'm fine.

Colleague is back from a week of training in Chelmsford, MA, USA. This morning she said "Ciao" to a guy who didn't greet back (he probably didn't see her). Then as a fake complaint, in line with post-holiday Tuesday blues (on Monday she was down with jetlag), she said "at least people in the States are nice."

Which makes me realise I miss the country terribly. There are two kinds of people who go to USA. The first being ambitious with empire-building get disillusioned by the "superficial cheeriness"; people like me, on the other hand, already condescend on the "superficial cheeriness" and hate being bossed around (the Chinese's been bossed around for far too long. While Lu Xun says the average people has a slavish nature, you can say they harbour a sort of silent, dumb hatred of the slaves for authority and control). But we turn out to get comfortable with the idea of "each gets a chance", not to fight for what we want to do, but to not get punished by what we should not do, in terms of lifestyle and social conventions. I know I know, that's a terribly loser-like view of life. But look here, my colleague couldn't resist the "niceness" of Americans as well. It's natural. Even now I'm trying to escape punishment from mum. But that's working out I guess. I hope.

The Americans are "nice" by virtue of their cheeriness, their abilities to "keep boundaries", to hide their troubles in front of people. So when they wish you a nice day, you believe they sincerely do. The reason why some call it "superficial" is that it's hard to get below the pretense of sunshine and talk of real upsetting issues. But that's fine. There are psychiatrists and it's not a taboo to visit them. Another trouble is that you'll have to be cheery like people around you. That's fine too, since sometimes it "makes the false into true" (nong4 jia3 cheng2 zhen1) and I end up having good mood by pretending to have it. The real risk comes when spending of genuine warmth and effort goes overboard in these conversations of hyper goodwill.

It's strange how you can miss a country and make fun of it at the same time. It's like being nationalistic without being patriotic. But the USA transformed from the arrogant, evil almighty king to a "head of the family" figure who takes foolish responsibilities (though not entirely unselfish) and doesn't get thanks for it.

Air-conditioning + music + empty stomach + aching muscles

These are the things that combined to make me retrace, in my mind, every corner of my room along East State Street, call out SY's name silently for many times, thinking about how reasonable it is to end life there and then, my eyes two gaping holes in the darkness out of which tears couldn't stop flowing. Conclusion is, I gotta be real careful with the life I'm leading in Singapore. Images of HDB flats are replacing the face of SY. And this in turn just gets to me in moments of nostalgia and makes me doubt where my present life is leading me. "It takes courage to live life, child." If I choose to be freaked out, however, I'll just end up like SY and no one else will be sadder than myself. Gotta live for myself.

So what happened was like, RZ, I, and RZ's colleague YF got together to sing karaoke. I ought to have sung more new songs, but the harm of singing karaoke with different groups of people is that you can't wait to show off the same songs in front of each group, thereby wasting precious minutes in that enclosed little freezing black box. Anyway, wasn't as ill at ease with YF as expected, partly due to him being easy-going and fluent in Chinese. Missed sectional erhu practice prior to rehearsal on purpose for the sake of karaoke session, but was seriously late for the rehearsal for a different reason. After supplementing meagre lunch from kbox with tapiocated bubble tea, walked from MRT along CCK Ave 4, then 3, before realizing should have headed in opposite direction to Teck Whye Ave. So took bus to the right place. Was trying to get down to some tuning and warming up. Then a guy who plays the 中音笙 (wind instrument with multiple brass tubes, real heavy, players of which are eternally blocked from view) talked to me of my background in this snappy, condescending tone which somewhat indicates his amount of popularity among other members. I was actually light-headed with fatigue and hunger, and struck up one of those conversations that make you wonder later why you had even felt the excitement of communication, salty and drying tongues, etc. If he were a Singaporean, then I'd always hated the condescending way with which they take interest in mainland Chinese. If he'd had a dubious background, then.. I'm not even sure what to say of it. I'm not sure why I'm recording this now, but I do know it's one of the incidents which overwhelmed me today. I didn't know I could only withstand so much new people and exhibitions of self before I'm so overtaken by fatigue and grief of confusion.

And there was, of course, insurance and my sponsor. I payed the premium and receipts arrived at home marked "private and confidential". Mum, being mum, opened them and demanded explanation. So will try to settle that after meeting with insurance agent on Monday. Meeting him is like going to research meeting every week in Cornell. As for my sponsor, I'm not even sure if I want to say the reason for my being so begrudged is their ignoring me. RZ, YF and a whole bunch of people are following leaders out to other countries for symposiums, conferenecs and goodness knows what. And I haven't as much as received a breathe of what was going on in there. So want to be an outsider? A cynic of the system? Then just go easy over these things of name and fame. Isn't that what you want in the long run? That you want to hide snugly? That you want to do things on your own without getting punished? That you want to be recognised and attractive in that unfathomably eternal way, instead of this hustle of impersonance and achievement?

I even begin to think that mum's right, that I'm engaged in too many activities. But I don't want rest in the form of stay-home Sundays, in the company of mum and radio. There's ought to be something that I can do, with familiar, close people, which is refreshing and meaningful. Which'd be something to replace my past. Something I think back for courage to continue living.

Over the Last 48 hr

1. walked into a pillar (I mean it. Left corner of forehead suffered bad bump)

2. broke favourite bowl (fortunately not mum's favourite bowl)

3. poked syringe needle into left palm (fortunately syringe used to contain H2O2, which is disinfecting anyway; but contact of blood with chemicals is a bad idea. Will observe body for next 3 days. If little finger falls off then no erhu for life.)

Tonight

This is one of those moments, in which I want terribly to throw my laptop out of the window when it failed to start properly once again. And I can't believe just as I was typing this, it hanged on me in that peculiar way when I type a question mark in Chinese - all keys turn to the case on shift, and I can't move the cursor, can't select, can't scroll, and MSN disconnects itself. The only way to continue composing this crap is to shut down. It sounds like the ghost of the 'sticky' key function, although I've never in my life time ventured to observe its effect by turning it on.

Just had argument with mum again. It all concerns an incident which by itself is already unfortunate. It's time to pay off the residual electricity bill in my US residence, because I told NYSEG to terminate my account in Aug, and whatever amount that was due from my previous bill was carried forward to after termination. That was about 80 USD. On top of that there's around 1/2 month more of electricity to pay before we evacuated the house. So that's fine. But the bill due now turns out to be 180 USD. And I can't for the life of me think of how we used so much electricity in those days. In fact all electronic equipment were tragically on the yard sale. There was no heating of course. And when parents came, they sleep early and my room was never much lit. There's nothing we can do about it though, for the lady whom I spoke to across the Pacific could do nothing except reassuring me that the reading is correct, and that the bill was 5 days overdue.

Fine. I paid up. Or dad did. I must say that I never dreamt of myself involved in a college life lived in one of those Italian practice sentences in class: Quando ho bisogno di soldi, telefono a papa`. So email a papa` I did, and he paid promptly today. And the next step (sigh) has to be this UOB bank clerk calling home at 10.30pm, just now, checking on this dubious transaction. Mum and I had then just finished a lengthy discussion about "study companion mums". (A new sort of social phenomenon in Singapore where a child comes over to Singapore to study, typically at a young age with school positions secured through expensive agents, and thereafter the mum comes to stay in Singapore to take care of him. Not to be confused with immigrants. I'm not sure about other Asian Pacific regions but these people brought into light are all Chinese.) During the discourse I was dangerously close, on several occasions, on incurring mum's wrath again, but I had the good fortune to steer clear. However, after the phone call, which I was too fed up with lateness of night and all that to lie about, threw mum into a jumping panic. She was already upset with the wall fan, on which an attached pulling string for speed adjustment was stuck. This brings her to issues of migration to Singapore, the climate being one of its evils. So being hot and sticky and all that I don't see how being anxious and enraged help mum at all. I told her that I simply found out from the guy what it was about, deduced it was not a big deal because I knew about the transaction, and finally told the guy to contact dad by writing to him in email. Needless to say I had to hide stuff like my explanation of the trasaction to the clerk. Mum's accusations were that I had always been stupidly honest with strangers and that I'd better tell other people everything. And that a phone call made this late is definitely suspicious (which I sort of agree for this unfathomable working habit of Singaporeans). And that I'd been dumb in not asking for his name, and then been unreasonable in telling her that asking for names is not necessary. etc etc. Voices were raised but I didn't back off my reasons. Instead tried to pacify her with this half comical, half coaxing way of talking which turns out so much to be like dad. So I'm not sure if she was eventually more pacified. I don't mind as much as before though, because somehow I think I got to know mum's patterns a lot better. And I could actually sense her signals for backing off. And so I backed off too.

Moments of frustration are good for practising fingers for erhu. RZ remarked, after having dinner with today, that my erhu skills do seem wanting of improvement. She watched a guy perform the same piece which I used to play, and made such a conclusion. Irrationally and yet totally being me at the same time, I was profoundly hurt. This will be the kind of remark that makes me practise erhu with a vengance, like how Jo cut her hair or cooked for her dogs. When I replied that I'm much better at it now, which is a fact, I felt like crying and was choking back defensive sentiments. RZ is a smart girl though; if she hadn't guessed, it was only because she was preoccupied.

RZ rationalises a hell lot about her worries, setbacks in life. And I realised that my listening style towards her is one of joking and injecting weird comments. To the point of her remarking once (her remarks are sometimes profoundly penetrating) that my way of helping or consoling is one based on my having a uncommon view of life to begin with. As I write of it, I think I can well take that as a compliment. However, it's really because whenever RZ explains her case, she has finished up all the thinking and logic humanly possible to render upon the case. I want to offer fresh perspectives, being one who hates lack of originality (which is strange because I hate lack of authenticity too. Can you find a more contradictory mass of nerves than me? RZ can explain all this, no doubt). So I make uncommon comments. Hey that sounds like, whom? SY isn't it? That's how he always ends up saying something which nobody understands except me, and then quickly saying "aish never mind" with a slight anxious frown and opening of mouth. Now I shouldn't flatter myself, for knowing him or being him. But indeed, wasn't my past at least partly irreversibly shaped by him?

Rationalisation is a process of self defense. When you confide, you rationalise to get less hurt, such that in case you do not get comforting feedback, you have yourself to fall back upon. I realise I'd do the same if I were RZ, but I'd collapse in verbal logic. If given half a night I can write it out in ambiguous, broken sentences with a mind which remains clouded after writing. A more grandiose reason is that I think I do disdain logic for its lack of consequences (Sigh.. Singaporean talk shows.). An entirely selfish reason is that the patheticness of my effort to listen and help contrasts greatly with a ready made solution. And comparing to logic, the momentary warmth of heart and comradeship seems even more useless in solving another's problem. I guess until I learn to understand another, and put aside the urge to be comically theatrical, can I help people better, or start to talk of my own problems.

Yess! I'm being a good blogger, blogging before sleep instead of at work. What a heroic effort.

Furong vs Xiaxue

Although I've been extremely sleepy since the end of rehearsal today, I simply have to write this down. All thanks to a friend who sends messages at this hour and then goes offline right after (to sleep apparently).

A Chinese master student, Furong Jiejie (Chinese for Sister Lotus), renowned through internet for her unabashed proclamations of herself being perfect, has come to the attention of even the Singaporean Chinese. Sister Lotus professes that she is a beauty as pure as ice, a talented dancer and, in her college years, is capable of solving a problem in n ways while other students couldn't solve it in any way within the given time.

http://xiaxue.blogspot.com/2005/08/dear-miss-furong.html
A blog entry of a famous Singaporean blogger, Xiaxue, regarding the above character.

Well it's true that FR posts a lot of pictures of herself, which are not as aesthetically pleasing as what she claims them to be; however, I'm quite damn sure that she is considered sexy in certain kinds of opinion. Just ask the Americans. Singapore's obssessed with slimming. Xiaxue's remarks about paleskins, flabby arms would just reassure people like me to never show our pathetic selves in the Singaporean public atmosphere again.

But the real point I want to make is that the following up of FR's news, her unbelievable proclamations of perfection, her life stories of tremendous drama with dubious authenticity, showcases of her pictures with embarrassing captions, etc doesn't make sense, when what the followers do next is to smirk and strip her down to an icon for incredulous ridicule. It is the case with this entertainment icon Xu Chunmei in Taiwan too. This lady in question does about the same thing, but right in front of the camera instead of through the internet. (however, seeing as how even the once-vice-president of Taiwan renders literal egoistic descriptions on herself, I take it more as a Taiwan thing - will deal with this sweeping statement later when more awake) Shockingly to me, this self-appointed beauty managed to star a lucrative concert in Singapore. How people actually take her seriously and are willing to spend a second of their lifetime thinking about her is lost to me (well I guess I'm spending seconds of my lifetime thinking about her right now but not really). The same applies to Sister Lotus. There's a mass psychology here about the pursuit of "ugliness". Like how Chinese in the olden times watch beheading. Watch the immense egoes do silly things which violate the conventions, then laugh at them, for they help to prove that we ourselves are kinder, more considerate, more normal, more social, more healthily integrated - better. Who doesn't want to be a better person?

Investor Mum

Talked of investments and insurance with mum. I'm entering the race of SBI (Savings Beating Inflations) fast. Didn't know it starts as fast as this. To my astonishment mum is reasonably acquainted with such concepts, much more so than the average 'auntie' (middle-aged lady who speaks Chinese with heavy dialect accent and who hangs out in floral shirts and khaki capri pants) in Singapore. She is not surprised by the idea of 'losing' thousands for a late premium - her voice remained calm and brows did not knit, mouth did not crease. Though she holds onto the principle that a little tightness in spending makes a world of difference. Maybe it does.

SJP sent a message yesterday to have dinner. I didn't want a grand night out so asked for meeting at Clementi. Regretted a little afterwards because of strange fear of revealing that I don't know the neighbourhood as well as I should, having lived there for 7 years; and the fear of eating in streaming sweat in rowdy, smoky food centres, making conversation even more contrived. Indellible impressions of contrived conversations remained ever since that dinner with BL beside the McDonalds, me wearing a ridiculous "I don't do mornings" Betty Boop shirt.

Ever since he contacted me I dreaded any news from SJP and hoped that he's already back in the States. (It turned out he'll fly directly to the Netherlands.) But there's an unnameable thrill also in meeting. Drama? Old time's sake? Secrecy? For sure it's a meeting I'll tell none, and my stomach is invariably upset by clandestinity, having had proper upbringing by mum. Was tortured for the whole day in deciding the proper amount of indifference to exercise towards him. Towards the end of my stay in the States, I strangely turned into the role of "the punisher" from the innocent, vulnerable little ET who used to know and believe SJP three years ago. The new role is highly energy-consuming and occasionally sickening and is the cause of the present confusion in attitude.

And so met him at the MRT and was once again reminded that his face is one that I'd never get used to. Talk had to turn into the SJP mode and I retorted as best as I could. He asked jokingly like how he speaks of everything else, why are you so angry? I couldn't tell him that I was panicking with every reply and that he has the uncanny ability to remind me of the past under the most honest, ugly lighting.

Was secretly pleased when we somehow walked away from the food centres in Clementi Town Central. Further relief came when he said two of his friends would join. But still frowned severely on him. He said, don't you like surprises? I said, I've had too many surprises. Was really thinking about that letter from SY which started with "Sometimes I wish you like surprises."

Walked through private estates and got to the meeting place. Two guys were sitting on the pavement wearing Bossini shirts of identical design. The taller one in orange and the other in blue-black. Because of SJP, and also because knowing new people who are close friends of an old friend(?) is always easier, I immediately felt immensely familiar with them. Was thankful for having been tired the entire day - it disabled the kind of expressive conversation on my part that I kick myself later for.

Blue-Black was wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses of the Harry-Potter style, which made him look slightly boyish when he smiled wide. He talked in a deliberate fashion with a rhythm marked by slight nods, a much milder and less annoying version of the American grad student who showily dabbed his warts with liquid nitrogen for cure. Blue-black has a way of drawing a fresh breathe and saying "so um.." not to start, but to end a section of conversation, for people'd (at least I did) think he'd say something but he really doesn't continue, so silence follows.

The place we went to serves Mediterranean food. The chef-owner, who looked like an Indian (the deduction is because of his later proclamation of "we're all Asians". Unless he counts Asian minor that is) with Singaporean accent, came over to impress upon us of the certainty of a memorable evening. After the usual disparaging remarks about inauthenticity of food elsewhere (in Singapore), I asked for water without ice and was refused of it. The chef said in a gently oily voice, which I hate, We are an European restaurant. Here we only serve water after the first order of drinks. Fine. A detailed recommendation of beverages ensued. When he finally walked away, Blue-Black continued on quantum cryptography to Orange. Strangely JP didn't even try to talk to them. But the collective ambience of the restaurant, the foreignness, the seriousness of the owner is just the kind of thing they'd all make fun of. I, on the other hand, was restless with fatigue and hunger and extremely annoyed and stiffled by the strange smoky aroma and pretentiousness of the whole place. And I was constantly reminded of how weird the situation is, here I am, a dubious girl friend of SJP's having dinner in this unlikely place with two guys who actually enjoy JP's company. Blue-Black didn't show intentions of diverging from quantum crytography, so I forgive both for being extremely ill at ease and took out my Sebald to read. Was thankful for my presence not intruding on their activities. Then suddenly realised I no longer minded JP at this point and was glad and thankful for my guessing it right that his friends normalised the meeting. Guessed the trick to be comfortable with JP is to be like a guy. Of his kind. Well I guess I am of his kind but just need to push girlish sensitivities aside and the sun will shine. Tried to talk to JP about Sebald and apparently he knew about everything as always. However he was still unusually reticent.

Dinner went on and food was salty and not as fresh as what the chef promised. That aside things went on fine. Orange was kind and attentive minus some minor incoherent moments. Talked mainly of science, scientific organisations, professors. Both had been abroad, but two years in the army changed former excitements such as travelling into a faded backdrop. Then again, JP never showed an explorer's kind of enthusiasm for travelling. Blue-black was going to MIT and was justly glad about it.

Walked home in unexpected good spirits. Orange and JP walked the same way and suddenly grew reminiscent of the past. Hearing my voice ring out in the night in a deliberate, indulgent fashion didn't bring on usual sense of dread. JP and I parted on friendly notes but I'm still afraid of his emails of wrath. His bitterness might have waned in the tropical paradise. Still, can never be too prepared for those.

Suffered injustice at a shortened erhu lesson last Saturday.

After battling throughout lunch the desire to stay with dad, who's back from HK for the festivities (not really. He left on the 9th), with that of sticking to plans of joining the Chinese orchestra at CCK CC, I finally left home under the usual sweltering heat, dodging mum's frowns at my not bringing an umbrella to shade the sun. Took far longer than expected to get to the CC, and found out there that the orchestra really practises in an "education centre" a couple of more minutes walk down the street. Got there, sat down to dutifully wait in the reception area. The centre was a little box of a place all on its own, composing of the reception, rehearsal room and some sort of meeting room. Was told that the conductor only arrives an hour later (and later found out the practise ends at 7 instead of 5, showing fallibility of the arts council website). Meanwhile talked to a couple of Sec 2 girls from BPSS, whose Chinese orchestra is conducted by the same conductor. They were going to join the orchestra too, and to my horror talked of the need for an audition. One of the two pieces required is the famous sai(4) ma(3) (horse-racing), which I've always had the impression of being extremely difficult, and so couldn't believe my eyes when I read "level 4" sneaking glimpses of the girls' scores. Three years ago I would be dumbfounded and defenceless with panic amidst a community of fashionable young Singaporeans previously acquainted within themselves. At that moment I was ok. After all going there was about the first original deed I performed in Singapore (ok, there was RZ and belly-dancing). After a few rounds of cramped and confused tries of the score, the conductor arrived. Talked to him. He exempted me from the audition by virtue of my plans to take the exam at the end of the year for level 6. It's been a while since I last talked to a Chinese teacher-like uncle in Singapore and I felt reassured. However my old way of response towards an elder or authority with full-fledged warmth and urgency to please has morphed into a more incoherent shyness with unwillingness to sound sycophantic. A series of nodding, smiling, stammering which increases sense of idiocy for self. And the conductor's inability to look at me in the eyes when he talked only increased my insecurity, reminding me not to be taken away by sense of familiarity - Chinese, tradition, goodwill and all that. As the rehearsal started he put me in Section 1. It made me cringe with the old dread of doing something I'm not good enough at. But the rehearsal was well, even though I was stumbling through due to infamiliarity of the scores.

Sneaked out at 4.30 during the break to go to erhu lesson. When found out by the conductor, promised to stay to the end the following week. Thought there was plenty of time but when I got off the MRT at Toa Payoh it was already 10 minutes to the start of the lesson. And missed two buses due to the inability to locate a traffic light to cross the road. Was frustrated more by lethargy due to body aching from intensive badminton playing two days ago. Got to instructor's home at 6.15 and missed the lesson by 1/2 hr. And was dumb enough to spent more time chatting with her about the orchestra (but I couldn't have done otherwise, so pleased was I to see her, as usual; and stuff like I was waived of the audition on account of my being her student just got cooked up effortlessly). When the next girl came, she let her wait as usual, but only for a short while before she closed my notebook with a clap and said, "ok." I knew it was a sign for me to go but I couldn't quite believe that's happening. With usual reticence though, I just stared for the minimal period of time and got up and went. Only had 25 min of lesson. Mum's concern with the fees is getting to me, and it seemed impossible to pick up the former lack of interest in money matters such as this and insistence instead on quality of time and stuff like that.

Tried a new route home via Serangoon MRT station just to spend off the time so parents would not suspect shortened lesson. Bought a litre of pasteurised honeydew-flavour milk en route and drank it all despite aweful taste and urgent need to go to bathroom. Walking in twilight was quite nice though - brought back memories - and would've enjoyed more if not for aching body. In retrospect no one can be blamed for my being late. Still, more than ever distressed by the link between artists and commercialisation/earning of dough. That link seems to be born out of necessity. Also can't exactly deny it's more worthwhile to spend on learning than on entertainment. Learning a musical instrument is still an endeavour whose meaning hasn't been taken out for me (heaven forbid!); learning in general has that cathartic, spitual sublimity that's worth a lot of pains; learning in the context of the research profession is dangerously close to the state of utter drain of energy and motivation, but I'm in denial of that.

Lover vs Hero

QK, friend of RZ, showed bafflement last night during a dinner gathering, for the distress induced in the audience of a drama when the main character died. This dude (main character, not QK) was, to start with, the leader of a well-known sect, possesses great martial arts skills and of a generous, bold, unconstrained nature. Then it was found out that he was of a different ethnicity, and was born of the country, Liao, with which the Song Dynasty was having war. On top of that some other guy framed him of murdering a whole bunch of people. And to find that guy he killed his girlfriend by mistake. Facing utter rejection and ill-will, he returned to the country he originated from and got an important official position. In the final scene, where the Liao army was marching out of one of those desolate checkpoints at the Liao-Song borderline to invade Song, this guy put himself between the two opposing armies and, with his amazing skills, forced a pledge, from the Liao commander, of no invasion for fifty years. Thereafter, having acted against the favour of his homeland, he compromised by plunging the two pieces of a broken arrow into his heart.

That's a tragic hero if there ever was one. And my heart goes out to him. (I used to fear death more than anything else, and thought there can always be better ways than to die. For some reason I overcame these reservations.) QK asked if I would cry for him. I was extremely sleepy then from dinner and habitual early nights, while at ten o'clock we were still wandering along the Singapore River amidst huge crowds of a pre-National Day bustle. So I simply said "yes". He asked, "But why would you cry over him than over, say Romeo and Juliet?" On the other hand, QK's issue is about the propriety to mourn over the death a hero over the death of a lover. "Would people cry over the death of Romeo rather than the death of Genghis Khan?" he asked. Personally I thought R&J are really bad examples for being lovers for they're really kids (though it is common for Chinese martial art stories to have really young main characters). And Ghengis Khan died of old age. There's a difference between drama heroes and important people. I wonder how come QK didn't see this simple sentiment. He is really quite out of the world - that's another virgo.

What! I can't believe this is happening. Got back from setting up N2 purging in the lab and received a whole bunch of comments just as I was complaining about the inadequacy of audience. I'd thank those who wish me a good night (if I were to clarify that I live 12 hr ahead of US time, I would just be letting out the fact that I'm slacking at work instead of snugly composing in purple moonlight and furry slippers - wait, no furry slippers at this time of the year. That much I haven't forgotten being back to the tropical paradise.) Can't just be because of the TSBW, can it? Still under the conviction that someone's playing an elaborate hoax on me. Can I get any more childish or insecure than this?

I still don't know wherefore do people find all these blogs of Singaporeans. And why do people still keep finding and reading them when they have an amazingly unifying theme of government and hierarchy and obedience issues. To be precise they are blogs of Singaporean intellectuals, mostly male, in their early twenties. Being intellectual is almost getting to be equivalent to being scholars, being overseas, or being (oh horrors) elitist. It's the intellectuals versus the "heartlanders". Such a dichotomy has been fried and over-fried to red-hot weariness, just like what Singaporeans do to any social issue worth gossiping about. From sentimental, emotionally exploitative issues such as parent-kid relationships, to half-raw notions rammed in to indigestion by the government such as creative enterprises. All these base discussions. No extraction, no abstraction, no sublimity, no conclusion (this is the most annoying).

The fact that I bother writing about the Singaporeans' blogs, and that I do get thrills for being a potential scholar-complainer getting my share of fame in the vanity fair of intellectual complaints, shows that I'm at least part Singaporean. On the other hand, I can proclaim without feeling guilt, with a smile and a smirk in heart, that I don't see the big deal about all these pointless discussion of the same old thing and getting nowhere. (I can't do the same - be free of guilt - to Chinese current affairs, to which I'm seriously out of touch.) Mind, though, that is another playground in the vanity fair, that of the proclamation and showing off of selfhood.

TSBW

Grrr annoying. Nobody reads my blog. And I used not to be distressed about that. I can still remember those gloomy winter days (when SY just went away) when I started the blog like growing a little pot of plant in my secret garden. It was comfy and private, like lying by a lone lamp beside the bed reading a book. On a rainy night preferably. (They were snowy nights in any case.) I actually dreamt of blog-writing being of a different nature from my "true journal". It was only until the journal in question sunk into disrepair that I realised it was impossible to keep apart the two writers in me.

The Three Stages of Blog-Writing (TSBW):
1. Timid, child-like, wide-eyed, lips slightly apart in a curious and wondering fashion; blogs about non-essential errands, events; throws in minute details as if wanting to record every second of life.
2. Deeply thoughtful, self-absorbed and secretive, brows pinched and lips tightly shut as if in eternal confinement of own thoughts; blogs about tiny twists and turns in mood which become incomprehensible at second read.
3. Benevolent and indulging smile towards the world, calmly and tensely posed at the same time, wish for twinkle in eyes; wearied of blogging moods; blogs about world views and people; blogs for an audience.

Learnt something new about foreigners in Singapore today. The Russian in ICES who has extra square shoulders and walks by in a whirlwind-style was rather friendly and bought me tea after the symposium today. He's rather familiar with terms such as angmoh and te-oh (black tea), has cycled all around Singapore (literally, from Tuas to Kranji to Changi Village and back down). Learnt from him that the foreign community (caucasians', at least) is pretty lively. People like him are able to enjoy fun-filled and carefree days by virtue of a foreign fondness of sunshine and an entirely far-far-away-from-home-and-therefore-burden-free lifestyle. It's like the what's-her-name's husband in "Ignorance" by Milan Kundera. Eastern Europe was already an escape haven. Not to mention such a convenient spot in Asia where people mind their own business. They don't seem to be disconcerted by the fact that they're past thirty and girlfriends are still back in their homeland. Though to be honest a lot of the girlfriends are here with them. Then it's an elongated, or eternal holiday.

So I realised that I really don't have to be embarrassed for them being in a foreign country, or be embarrassed for the Singaporeans for being hosts to foreigners. It is a difficult life to live if you are embarrassed either way. On top of the fact that you are shy already - because you are a foreigner yourself. So the easiest thing to do is align with the foreigners. Where in Singapore can I find support groups, international societies, clubs that are of my background, experiences, sensitivies? My family hasn't found itself any. Do I need one now?

Absence

Read something from "Age of Innocence" that could use to describe my state of mind that winter when I stayed with mum after 1.5 years of being away.

"... and he had built up within himself a kind of sanctuary in which she throned among his thoughts and longings. Little by little it became the scene of his real life, of his only rational activities; thither he brought the books he read, the ideas and feelings which nourished him, his judgements and his visions. Outside it, in the scene of his actual life, he moved with a growing sense of reality and insufficiency, blundering against familiar prejudices and traditional points-of-view as an absent-minded man goes on bumping into the furniture of his own room. Absent - that was what he was: so absent from everything most densely real and near to those about him that it sometimes startled him to find they still imagined he was there."

There are moments such as this when coming to write here gives a sense of forebode. Nah. Just mum and reaction not going on. And the latter is making progress no matter what.

Been drinking milo excessively today as a form of indulgence to self after almost a week of abstenance. Also justified by playing badminton later. Rule of my mood: enthusiasm at the onset is bound to turn into dread when event approaches. I can't believe how incredulous I felt that afternoon in early summer, when Jo hung her head low, practically begging RJ that she didn't want to go to LeaderShape Camp anymore. Now now, I'm allowed to feel the same, but I'm able also to stomache that as a normal occurrence of nervousness for something new. It's going to pass without my knowing it.

When I recall my awkward teenage days, marked by that orientation experience at the beginning of JC, I get rather amazed at myself passing through with considerably unshaken cheer, due to better ability then, through quick retreat into my inner world, to deny the others' opinion of myself. Somewhat regret that I can't seem to do the same now. The pleasure of the society has a price. If only I can put a name to those moments when I feel like to just drop everything, hang my head low, admit worthlessness and accept punishment. Talking of punishment or criticism, I feel obliged to be reminded of mum. This is not going to please her because she, like the Singaporean government, wants to be loved. It's quite dreadful to her otherwise.

Awww no! Drank so much milo and still sleepy.

Aw man! How glaringly simple is the solution! Lowering of expectations and setting up of emotional barriers always work like magic. Hmmm wait a minute. Is that true with mum? She has a neat little way of sneaking up on me (and on dad, too, for that matter), such that if she sets out to cause trouble, she will not draw back till she's achieved.

Now I realise the importance of a title

It helps to unify writing so that it doesn't become emotional garbage. I realise that I'm in love with what Edith Wharton calls "dumb sorrow". And one good thing mum is doing right now is to prevent me from indulging in memories, fantasies, possible encounters that realise this state of emotion.

2nd day of cold war between mum and I. I'm just using the term for lack of a better description. Being the intellectual, I harbour every distaste against a "war", aggression instead of rationality. I have mustered every fibre of logic I possess to speak to my mum in a way that can enlighten her to "common sentiments". She professes to be deeply acquiesced with both "common sense" and "common sentiments". But I can't see how she is so under most circumstances.

This is my explanation of her life. Grandma was poor and bitter. She has been through too much hardship. While Grandpa wasn't as capable as a man could have been, she earned the bread of the family. Mum was a helping hand to Grandma. She has always been obedient. Did needlework under kerosene lamplight; gave up joining school activities and societies to come home to help out. They've been through some stuff. Mum was never in the habit of realising her desires and was happy to always run life as a present steady state process. When changes and turning points take place she still tried her best to keep in touch with the past. She went down to the poor farmlands but got lucky enough to get back to Shanghai for college. Her coming back could be because of her parents, but she herself has the devil of a will sometimes and she does not select targets for her vehemence and (suppressed?) defiance. Such as now.

I know that every major event in life made her unhappier. Labour reform must have settled her social ineptitude. Marriage was a total mismatch, needless to say - although I can't imagine my mum being humble enough to marry lowly. There's an air about her that, if not smothered by the education of poverty and bitterness exercised on her innate tenderness, could make her come out as a vivacious, creative being (she's not bad-looking). But that education must have been extreme. She's never been through courtship. And dad is not one who'd encourage reticence, embarrassment and reservedness of a maiden to flourish healthily into romantic goodwill. Further suppressed desires. And this type of desire, above all! The desire of the most noble nature, of the poets.

What could she have thought when she desired anything of her own? It is very hard to get access to her thoughts when she's rational and self-conscious because, being smack in the middle of the virgo months, she probably never felt comfortable at expressing a direct thought. Direct thoughts must have been rebuffed heartily by Grandma under the kerosene lamplight. (That was all the detail I can picture with some accuracy, to the point that the detail has to become symbolic. If only Siobhan knows about this.) She never could bring herself to admit she has desires. She's not at ease even with her own body. Not even after marriage.

The next question is could my mum have ever had a moment of rebellion in her life. Once there was a fleeting moment when she mentioned ambitions or desire to be a writer. It's hard to think of why those desires transformed today into those for planning of meals, correcting radio DJ's Chinese, etc. Once I write this down I realise it sounds like the lifestory of a typical lady. Which concerns the issue of my conscience. The lack of consciousness of her present state of mind, and the refusal (or inability?) to link her present consciousness to that in her past and develop a logical, sequential process to explain about her being, baffles and frustrates me a great deal. Why? Why? Why? It scares me also. Not exactly for the fact that I might become numbed and desire-less like mum under her influence or in the general future, or in fact like the description of old people in the book "Alive" ("to have lived the years on dogs"), but for the possibility that being intellectual isn't of any use when it comes to the actual process of living out the life. That I'm really the one who's being silly at requiring mum to develop an understanding from the point of view of western philosophy. Then again, how does dad do it? Can you call mum "peasant-spirited" then?

The major events up next that totally upset mum's life are the eye accident and immigration. I should say that the damage to her eyes can be the single-most upsetting incident out of all the hardship she suffered. It gave her justice to feel totally victimised. Talking in the language of Dr. Greg Boyd, she had no freedom of choice at the moment of hitting the cement ground and sustaining eye injuries (not exactly, if you insist on a comparison to little girls who get raped and arms cut off by madmen). Loss of vision and medical leave was followed by leaving her workplace altogether, in a rather messy way. It was a hurry, a pity, which transformed into vexation, vehemence of uprooting a home. The possibility of securing pension even upon resignation could have dawned on her later and added to regret. Come to think of it, immigration was indeed a hurried choice. This kind of action is characteristic of dad. Sort of on-the-heat-of-the-moment.

In Singapore, poor vision, linguistic inconveniences, natural shyness and vulnerability for social interactions all worked to kill the last spark of desire she could have harboured within; for lack of ability she trains herself to live with lack of needs and wants. She has become totally out of the world. And by doing this she becomes even less able to get into it. A vicious cycle really. Through the radio, adventures out to neighbourhood markets and her kindergarten work experience, she makes her own interpretation of the world. She's admittedly right most of the time about the Singapore society and often exhibit wisdom when I'm the least on my guard. But there's a sense of futility about these wisdom gained. No satisfaction for understanding new things; no desire to understand more, except for some trivial, easily achievable things like a recipe, when she's in a good mood. Mum ought to develop a course of study called "Effective Lifestyle After Kidney Failure". Or you name the disease. Patients are less likely to act in a woe-begone manner if they take MML (for My Mum's Life) 101 to remove consciousness. If mum reads this she'll think (or rather, speak) that I mean to curse her with kidney failure. Therefore I have to clarify that it's not the point, which I forgot how to say in Chinese.

The next breakage in her life is coming like something dark and unknown about to peep out from behind a corner. That's me. I've been a beast to her. The fact that she is comfortable in the role of a victim justifies my status. Something new and interesting that I've realised is that she's incapable of imagining me sad, even after I've told her all about my experience in US. She'd tell me to get a grip on myself and forget about the past. It does not come to her that when I'm not openly expressing sadness I'm doing just that - getting grips and forgetting. Or it does come to her but she doesn't want to say a consoling word. When I'm positive about something, on the other hand, she expresses reserves. Or is encouraging in a way that shows she understood the issue in a different light. It's as if she's out to work out an antithesis of things around her, to set up oppositions, such that she can fight and be defeated, and sink back to being a victim.

She's incapable of imposing herself into the experience of other people and draw parallels - an ability that's definitely a nameable philosophy. I can't say the inability is a handicap because being overly intellectual results in something just as monstrous.

It all winds down to the question of whether mum is just one of a kind, or whether she does know "common sense" and "common sentiments" but distort both when she expresses herself due to bitterness, suppression and hardship she's suffered. I made the former assumption when I told her the night before, that she and I have different weltenschauungs. Taking the latter assumption is a lot of twists and turns in logic, but enables me to be kind. I need more energy though to cut through all the bitter and biting remarks my mum uses when she's out to hurt. I know how it feels to hurt people on purpose. I can just see Si Young's frown and mouth hanging open when I do that. It's equivalent to wrist-cutting. You can feel the hissing, hair-tearing frustration drain. (Wrist-cutting, being self-destructive, is less socially acceptable; but rationally speaking it's less destructive to people around you and is way more effective for relief. And it gets into a habit less easily than hurtling venom)

I know this is rather anti-climaxical but I absolutely gotta get into lab or I'm gonna get it from Effendi. Somebody help to translate these into Chinese please!