Sabbath Bloody Sabbath

You've seen life through distorted eyes
You know you had to learn
The execution of your mind
You really had to turn

The race is run, the book is read
The end begins to show
The truth is out, the lies are old
But you don't want to know

Nobody will ever let you know
When you ask the reasons why
They just tell you that you're on your own
Fill your head all full of lies

The people who have crippled you
You want to see them burn
The gates of life have closed on you
And now there's just no return

Nobody will ever let you know
When you ask the reasons why
They just tell you that you're on your own
And fill your head all full of lies

The cake that my insurance agent gave me for my birthday had been the kind with stale fruits, limp sugar cream and nasty sheets of frosting at the side. I ate but one mouthful and good old mum finished the rest. That is, she finished all but the frosting. It's too much even to her to eat slabs of pure artificial flavor. So guess what did she do with them? Discreetly used them like sugar in cooking. I realise from here on I can go on a different tangent, and create a "history of mum's ingenuous cooking innovations". But this hadn't been what happened. So I detected slivers of the nasty sweetness in mashed raw beancurd and the fish the other night. And I protested. Mum was then scared into a gruding silence. She had never been able to take criticisms impersonally. This is a scary quality if it falls on someone you can neither avoid nor severe relationship with.

The scariness comes tonight. Mum'd been waiting for me to have dinner together, for the first time in a couple of days. On such occasions she coils herself into such a docile and vulnerable state with goodwill that she's just ready to flare at just about any judging remark. There was a good soup of tomato and wintermelon. And I recalled that a same soup two days ago had tasted different, less of the natural sour taste of tomatoes. And I asked for the reason. She frowned and curled her lips into a desperate expression and implored, "Just don't mention it anymore, will you?" I was as puzzled as anyone who reads this can be. When demanded further she was past the point of reconciliation in her agitation, as she let out that the soup two days ago had been added with more sugar - frosting from the cake. Ok, so I thought that's a good cooking lesson learnt. Point #1, fry tomatoes with a little sugar before making soup. Point #2, adjust the amount of sugar for the level of sourness you want. But the cooking lesson was not all I was going to learn. How severely mistaken I was! Mum with an unknown frustration repeatedly hit the table and called me to see reason, and not to make it out that everything's her fault. Now I thought it must have got it into her head that I was trying to bring up her "wrong doings" regarding cooking the frosting again. It wasn't before long that she started crying and calling upon grandpa to bring her with him (grandpa's dead of course). I didn't give in this time because there's no way that I'm going to destroy the little confidence I'd been cautiously trying to build before the external world. I made but the innocent question of how the natural sour taste of tomatoes are removed. It was a fact, though, that I had asked the same question before and forgot about mum's answer. She could have told me about the frosting then, and now repeating the question I might just sound like I'm trying to be difficult with her.

Stuff such as she's reduced to such miserable lifeform ever since she came to Singapore, and gets a savagely unfilial daughter in return were often said, but this time amidst earnest shouting and tears. She said, "I don't want to live anymore. Do you believe that I can just jump out of this window?" And thereafter went over to the said window, stood on a stool and reached out. I had gone to the living room to practise on erhu, but my fingers were cold and couldn't stop shaking. And so put down erhu, marched into kitchen, dragged her bodily away from the window into a chair, and told her not to be ridiculous. There's no "fault" to speak of in this matter, and if she wants to victimise herself to make me feel bad, nobody can gain anything out of it. I told her as much. She was only further confirmed of my undaughterly "fierceness". She is such a vulnerable being. Her mum only found fault. That's why she so desires praises and takes criticisms only to pierce her own heart. I'm past the point of trying to think whether rational moments exist within her, when she understands the concept of emotional blackmailing. But she really has no one except those who are close to her. Those whom she talks to in the stadium bring her news of China and add to her regret and depression from migration. She only has the close ones to indulge a little of her want of attention. She only has me to hurt.

I've tried so hard to replace my own fault-finding view of life with confidence, goodwill and cautious happiness. I've relied on nobody except maybe on this blog. And I know I'm getting better with emotional equinamity. If that had necessitated ignoring sources of frustration, I do see why mum's pissed off at my indifference towards her. I still couldn't do otherwise though. The vice of selfishness used be my big time taboo but now I just want to keep my own life together. I'm too wearied to say sorry to mum. I just want to take a deep breathe and suppress negative thoughts instead of looking for scissors to relieve frustration.

Keeping out messy relationships and friends is not the same as keeping out messy mum. Or maybe it's not so different... It does seem I'd always been having messy relationships. I have them, I break them off. I had friends, I cast them off, or grow wary. It could all have started with mum in the first place. But get a grip, girl. No fault-finding...............

Of Dogs

My erhu teacher has a chihuahua called "Baobao" (baby). I should think artistically gifted people such as her would want to endow a more exciting name, but the dog could well be their real baby - they have no kids. The dog's kept in a cage in the shower room. The frosted transparent shower door is closed on it. The cage is roomy enough for a chihuahua, but there he sits in utter darkness while his owners are out of sight behind doors, coaching one student after another to late in the night. I saw it when I once came in early and, in passing the bathroom, heard the scratching and quick breathing. He was sure excited at seeing a visitor who took notice of him, but he did not vocalise, not even an eager whine. Later erhu teacher took him out at my mentioning (at the expense of my lesson time). She said he's a competition grade dog for the shape of his skull, which is apple-like and fits a palm perfectly. However one of his ears is awkwardly folded, probably due to mismanagement in cultivation of the newborn. And I doubt that such an imperfection doesn't degrade its value greatly. I told her that it's quite surprising that a dog as little as him doesn't bark. She said, with an air of confidence particular to the Chinese, "If he barks, we hit him. We've done that before."

I guess it's the Chinese, who lead geherally sedentary lifestyles (used to anyway), who impose the same on their dogs. The difficulty of keeping dogs in a city is known - less space for exercise, less grassy grounds for waste disposal. Still American people fare well enough. NYC, according to Jo anyway, is a "doggies' paradise". Even in Singapore, aunties and uncles (yes, even uncles. Actually more of them than aunties) find nice pastime in walking dogs or sitting them while they talk in neighbourhood resting areas. Sitting is good enough. It's open air after all. And the dogs love, above all, routine and the physical presence of the source of their devotion (that's why I always thought the concept of pet-like devotion to God is a little bit shaky, but that might just be BL). For the Chinese, it used to be the case that the monarch rules the subordinates, who exploit common citizens, who exploit the poorer common citizens, who are left with not much else to do except kicking the asses of dogs. The hatred of a beggar to dogs is well-known, for they aren't even able to exercise that last privilege as well as people of other professions. Habitual hierarchy. A dog, pretty as it looks, is supposed to obey just like kids and women do. So there had been emancipation of the fairer sex, and rebellions of the youth; but I figure animal right movements would still have to maintain an image of childish ridiculousness for a while. Of course we are not abusing the dogs. We beat them when they disobey, yes, but we are not being criminally saddistic or something - we give them food and drink, and hug them once in a while even.

As a result I didn't dare saying too much to my aunt when I saw their pomeranian caged all day and all night long - and it's a small cage that has only the openings of a window and the latch door. When he's released for the short while when my aunt's at home, he gets frantic at the liberty and dissipates his energy at sliding across the wooden-tiled floor, fetching winter slippers, or making love to a designated soft-toy - a tiger cub that fits snugly within his four embracing limbs. While I was there, I tried to run him every morning. Shanghai's not an extremely dog-friendly place, even though more and more people are keeping dogs (mostly shitzus, pekingnese and pomeranians). The aggression of the people are transferred onto the animals. There are few dogs who don't display hostility upon meeting each other. Roover - that's the name of aunt's pomeranian, given by my grandpa (I thought it sounds western, like "the Ranger"; and is decidedly a cool name for a male dog) - is unfortunately of a meek disposition, and winces at the advances of big, white shitzus in the neighbourhood. I'd have a good mind to give Roover a good run on some proper streets, but aunt advised against it, for good reason too, for traffic in Shanghai is quite unbelievable. And pavements are dusty and cluttered, entertaining occasional cyclists. Not the best place to walk dogs. I remember going to aunt's place one time, and her coming to the bus station to fetch me on her motor-scooter. At her chest was Roover, sitting securely within her arms, his handsome orange hair flowing and tongue hanging to give the good old pomeranian smile. So I got to the back of the scooter and we went home, dog and all. It was an experience, something that would rather bring music to my ears. My aunt said, "Look at him - crazy! You'd better bring him with you to America." And I rather wished I could.

Of Routine

Routine is a strange thing. When you have a chance to leave it, your mind is filled with nothing but fresh air and adventure. When you are done with diversions, and the panic of emptiness is about to envelope you, you get into routine like slipping into warm water, peaced and the sense of purpose reinstated.

Happy birthday

It hadn't been a bad pre-birthday day considering my frightful anonymity in Singapore. Had been wished a happy birthday by colleague, insurance agent (whom I'd been avoiding for some time), a blog-begotten "bean", RZ, and even mum. Mum didn't exactly say anything of course, but expressed regret at my breaking the spell when I told her I'll go out on Sunday evening with RZ (who took the other free complimentary Science '05 movie ticket), for she has plans of cooking noodles tomorrow, and would have wanted me to forget cleanly about own birthday until she reminds me of it.

Mum says that it's always good not to remember birthdays. I guess if you lose count of your years you can always imagine you're still young, and thus gaining emotional equanimity. Spent 10th birthday at grandma's (whom mum hates and fears with an air of the tortured daughter-in-law) together with cousin. She's three months younger. At that age we actually looked alike and had once been used to play a trick on an unsuspecting relative, me posing as my cousin. The picture taken of the two of us had mum smiling bitterly. Mum and I went to that birthday dinner after spending a whole drizzly day getting documents in order for going abroad, decidedly not a pleasant process at that time. Were sent to one bureau after another; and all I could remember were muddy yellow floor tiles. I don't think mum'd ever done this kind of thing. She'd never wanted to go away, but she's one who'd take all the trouble for something others told her to do, and if realises later that it'd been against her will, complains and resents in an oblique sort of way until people like me become wary to mention words related to those matters. I thought she wasn't at all happy at the dinner (and she told me as much later in that oblique manner) for she resented deeply grandma's supposed instigation for dad's work-turned-migration. The birthday dinner being held not just for me just confirmed her opinion of the old lady, who had never cared a straw for the family of this particular son.

Thereafter birthday hasn't been celebrated. Indeed I later found out that there's no other cause for the celebration of a birthday than another excuse to hang out and generate the joy of company. (Seriously, who cares about when a child was born? Even for a guy like Confucius, whose birth's symbolic meaning had been dreamt several times over, we don't remember much when he was born.) On last birthday was drunk from Champagne bought by ex-housemate who was taking the famous Cornell wine-tasting class. The only thing was that I got drunk before ex-housemates et al came down to my apartment with cake and all the regular props, intending a surprise but instead discovering that I had a greater surprise for them.

Now that once again I fell out with mum the prospect of noodles tomorrow is doubtful. And makes me wonder if today had been one of those days when everybody says the same thing to me, leaving me wondering what I've done wrong.

Trollope's getting tiresome. Eleanor Bold is annoying. Come now, isn't it just normal feminine spite at a virtuous woman? Not really. Of course not. I never liked heroines who hide their own feelings because of angry prejudice. It sure serves to frustrate the readers. And the old trick of a misunderstanding sinking deeper and deeper with deluge of words and explanation which are worse than giving none at all. Maybe the Victorian British people did talk exactly like that.

Prospect of spending next 3 days outside of JI upsets my stomach with nervous dread. This is reminiscent of something SJP told about the Cayuga Medical Center. Will have to leave mum alone. No way out except waiting for dad to come back. So I'll do that.

MAF (Mid-Autumn Festival)

Just a week ago I had switched apartments with a girl and then lived two tiers further down the hill. That was why I had to climb a little more of these slopes crunchily carpeted with red, brown and orange leaves everyday now. New residence was unexpectedly comfortable except, maybe, for a droning noise that continued on daily till midnight. The origin of the noise was a gigantic steam emitter pipe, property of the restaurant next door, installed almost right beneath my windows. I didn't mind the emitter terribly though, for its image was coupled with a fragrance of barbecued meat loaves and bread. And I dared say it'd improve heating during winter. Therefore the loveliness of the windows and all the scenery outside was unspoilt. From the windows, the restaurant's terrace and a corner of a leaf-littered carpark were just visible. Beside these, there were lines of trees, through which I was sure the first glimmer of spring would shine onto my room, when they start to grow hazy with leaves again. The path at the back of the trees led right down to the gorges, over which the moon hung. I couldn't hear the hum of the gorges above the drone of the steam pipes. But I felt as though I could. I couldn't see the overhanging moon. But it was there, steadily growing colder and brighter, as the day of mid-autumn drew near.

There was going to be a celebration held this year by the Chinese Student Association. The idea was a tour on the Cayuga Lake, with much eating of mooncakes and appreciation of the moon. Despite the exhaustion with recent house-moving I promised my friends I'd go. Returning from campus at 6, I contemplated warming up the second half of lunch packaged from HK, the Chinese restaurant in Collegetown. Then I realised the grave mistake I made, whose consequences I hadn't a clear notion, but which I'd still dreaded for. The mistake of forgetting the key while living alone. Landlords had gone home and I hadn't been in a hurry to find out the caretaker's number right after I moved here. Panic struck like on the other occasion when I was trapped in the bathroom of my previous apartment by a faulty latch. After I took deep breathes and lifted the latch with a hairpin, I narrowed my eyes and congratulated on my own ability to pull myself out of a quagmire. So I moved. The bathroom door latch made up my resolution to stay clear from the person whom I was calling right now, while staring blankly at the corridor of the dorm-styled one-bedroom apartments. M wasn't home. I could just run up two flights of wooden stairs to check it out for sure. Maybe check it out just for once. Once wouldn't hurt. I might have wanted to, but my fingers were doing something else. They dialled Kat's number.

"Hellooo!" Kat was drinking again.

"I just wondered if M's with you." I said, voice surprisingly smooth and oily.

"Yaah.. he's... doing some physics homework. He just came to do some homework. Is that ok?" her voice rose shrilly. I had always liked the natural deepness of her voice better.

"I mean... I got locked out. I just wonder if I can get his help to open the doors for me." A tone of demure helplessness came out without much effort, and I felt myself in front of the camera of an epic drama. I was sickened and the objective behind the locked door, the remainders from lunch was already out of the question.

"OOh! You got locked out! Sure! He must come and help you. I'll get him to come and help you... you know what, jy," Kat started crying at this moment. "You've always been a good girl... you're a really good girl... I'm so sorry..."

We did remember to say goodbye after much scrambling in the background. Shortly M arrived with his lock-picking tools. He stooped and worked while I frowned severely at the mess I made. The door opened, he looked at me and said, as if to a child, "Ok?"; then he pinched his lips and gave a brief nod, and turned and went. I had but the briefest moment to look beggingly into his eyes, and then his back disappearing down the corridor. I was reminded of sedentary schooling days in Singapore, when I looked at the back of my dad in this manner whenever he went abroad on business trips, leaving me alone with mum. Each of his return was a celebration. Each of his departure desperation. The desperation of seeing a knife plunging while having no way of stopping it. I could only watch it plunge and scorge out a bloodied piece of my past, leaving behind the suffering of nostalgia.

I was going to be the one who'd leave first. But M somehow was. And on the deck of the motor boat that night on the lake, where we were blown stiff by the wind while waiting for clouds to dissipate, there was no moon.

It's no good. I try to live it up by having less encounters and thinking and talking less. But that pisses mum off. But I'd certainly not like to talk to someone who'd wreck my nerves, and mum's number one among people from that category.

想想自己有什么好沮丧的呢? 只不过是没了一个男朋友，那都是快两年的事了，世界上那么多人都没男朋友，或是有了再失去，不都好好地在过日子么? 要说工作压力，谁没有呢? 而且最近得到了好的研究结果，难道还怕跟director交代不成? 至於RZ，只不过是现在跟以前的一切不同之处中的一处。到了不一样的环境，人的相处方式总会不一样；更何况这环境对我和她的意义本来就不一样。她回家，我 退化；她独立工作，我孤单上班。她对新加坡的思维和看法是自然的，我的是想入非非的。只希望这一阶段能快快地过去。到了临睡时间，别忘了讲句至理的话，深 吸一口气，明天会是条好汉。

Title

I've been cruelly mistaken by own lack of resources (generally I'm lazy to use even google) that this format doesn't allow a title. I seek forgiveness for my densely worded archive. But will not make changes for indolence.

On my way to meet the insurance agent yesterday after work, I saw an old man playing a gu3 zheng1 at the MRT. He was tanned and wrinkled like a lot of them performers at MRT stations. The instrument he had was not terribly old. The wood was bright and varnished; coloured prints of bird and flowers were visible. I had my silicone earplugs on and couldn't hear him playing, but still stood there, transfixed in a stare at his bent figure and bony fingers while the heavier metal version of "Papa don't preach" continued on in my ears. After some agonizing deliberations I stopped Kelly Osbourne in the middle and listened to the gu3 zheng1. After awhile I realise the melody he was playing was repetitive, a continuous cycle of notes that began and ended in themselves. It's like those never ending ancient sounds played in the background of a Chinese drama (actually that wouldn't have been a conventional drama). His fingers plucked and pressed mechanically. And soon I started to anticipate the next lun3 of the fingers.

Office politics manifests itself today on a minor scale. It's about an uncomplicated matter. A accepts lots of projects; B is envious and makes a criticism of A to C; and C repeats it to A, being A's friend; and A feels hurt. It might seem bizarre why B'd want to complain about A in front of his friend, of all people. In my opinion the criticism is not severe. It's more like one coming from a cynical scholar, a casual remark wanting to claim intellectual superiority.

Casual or not, I have my prejudices against Chinese scholars who like to openly look down on people. Dad might well be one of them, but he redeems himself with his reserved nature, preference for independence and lack of interest in competition. These people, the communicative and condescending ones, talk to you as though you are speaking like a child of five, always pausing awhile before making a reply and looking at you in a knowing manner through the corner of the eye. As such I think the generation of Chinese women in their thirties or fourties is not considered emancipated. Mum may even figure here as one who rebels against masculine indifference and condescension.

A's hurt and pissed off, but not afraid or vengeful. This sounds so much like the dream qualities a righteous, uninhibited hero, kind to the good and unafraid of the bad. Well I'm romanticizing a fair bit but romanticising is not necessarily distortion of truth; it only seems out of place when the setting of the story is not a drama. In reality A's indeed an exceptional character. He doesn't want to offend people; but work and progress is not compromised as a result, because he's disposed to working without being bothered by competition, wealth and positions. How cool it'd be to work like him - just work for work's sake. But that's close to impossible for me. To be like A is to show no partiality to people. He is friendly to anyone but doesn't display exceptional warmth towards anyone (he's single and doesn't seem to be in a hurry at an age of 31). Needless to say he doesn't form cliches. And that disables a lot of talks even if jealousy for his enthusiasm for work reaches any zenith. Therefore A's not as much as a principled and passionate hero than an exemplary chi4 zi3, the Chinese for a 'red kid', or a 'naked kid' - I'm not sure which (why is it that the British keyboard doesn't have double quotation marks??) - a person possessing the belief of a child in goodness (my understanding).

C's really apologetic. There's no need at all for him to convey that remark, and a lot of scholastic cynicism just reduces to pure spite in repetitions of such kinds of complaints. And C's disposed to be carefree and exaggerating. That sounds dangerously close to myself, except that I talk in a random and uninhibited manner in order to make conversation so that I or the other party (believe it or not, it's the latter most of the time) wouldn't look foolish. I dare say that's a highly unnecessary concern and has the most awful repercussions, but it's me. I must not talk. This is a line worth writing a thousand times.

Hope I'm not writing too much like Trollope now. His putting people under the microscope can get a little too far sometimes. Speaking of microscopes, I've been monitoring a reaction in the lab and can't leave because of need to maintain microscope focus (though not using that ill-fated objective this time). Therefore for the first time am writing blog freely and unabashedly during work hours .

There's some point of time when the mind gets tired of negative thoughts and withdraws from thinking of them. Is that the real, final "test" of whether a person is meant to be depressed?

1. Don't think about own mistakes/faults/shortcomings.
2. Don't think about others' mistakes/faults/shortcomings.
3. Detect the earliest sign of anger.
4. Know that certains things are meant to be in certain ways, and it's not lamentable, and it's not own fault.
5. Be really careful about thinking and saying things in general.

All these are easy to manage at present, when my mind is at a weariest state possible after a first major torment since I came back to Singapore. It felt like the semester when I moved down to South Quarry Street. Gotta be real careful about recovery.

Old Ground Re-Visit

Went to NUS science library yesterday after work. Msged both W and D for dinner together but they were busy and didn't reply till a good while later, when I was already in the heart of the science canteen. It was renamed the "Frontier", which is as unappetizing as the name of a canteen can sound. D was at the arts canteen; but for the rain I would have gone over. The arts canteen reputedly has better food. If I hadn't felt it much three year ago, when I hadn't a desire or taste of my own to assert, I received the proper education last night at the Frontier with my dinner of spicily bland laksa and a rock hard chicken wing.

Apart from the outdoor inconveniences of messy hair and slippery slippers, the sentimental esteem I hold for rainy nights does not decrease one little bit. Reading by a window in a rainy night is as charming as ever, even though it's the window of the library instead of a bedroom. The snugly feeling of safety and comfort. The scratching of pens on papers. The soft sound of rain falling outside. All in a state of such an allure that I began to feel sleepy in no time. Still there was good information learnt. But couldn't make copies because photocopying cards in the libraries could only be purchased with cashcards and I had none.

Contacts with NUS and the science library in the past had been a mixture of privilege and apprehension. The privilege is a common feeling for awe-struck junior college students who get to work on the university campus. The apprehension is for the incomprehensibility of research materials and for getting caught at going to the science library "just for fun". The fun of smelling the books and hiding between tall stacks. The fragrance and silence of safety and privacy.

What I need to do is to strive to increase moments of comfort and intimacy with objects in Singapore. That'll give me strength to believe that I'm capable, peaceful and cared for by friends. How different this would have sound if it's someone else's writing! I never thought I need to tell myself that. Thought even less how I could have sunken to this state, when I thought confidence is not something fleeting. Maybe it hadn't been true confidence then.

Today mood was strangely lifted, even though it's weekend. Dad has just come and gone. He'll be back next in another four weeks' time. The house is really quiet without dad, although in retrospect the house has been quiet most of the time with him as well. And mum was so agitated and acted up again. Poor mum, who kept trying to get dad's benevolent attention but there's already deep prejudice between the two. When mum fails to raise the correct sort of alarm for her problems she gets quite resentful. Yesterday we made a phone call to my dad's parents. My uncle's wife was called to speak to mum, for they thought in the family that they were friends, both being wives of sons. So my aunt spoke with the usual kind of Shanghainese vigour that sounds like quarrelling. Shanghainese speak like that to show intimacy and friendliness. When pressing others to accept a gift, they like to say things like "Just take it! What are you doing all these things (refusals, oh-you-really-shouldn't-haves) here with me for?" with an earnest expression of anger. My mum's never been at ease with this kind of demeanour. I guess that's why she still has inferiority complex with respect to the city dwellers. So she was properly terrorized by aunt's demands of why we aren't back to visit for so long. She actually was so at a loss to say anything that she kept saying "I'm sorry". At that moment I thought mum can well be clinically determined to be socially dysfunctional. Aunt said something to the extent that, "I have to say this even if you are angry. Why didn't you...etc" So later mum got it into her head that the aunt said these fierce things to teach this younger wife a lesson in front of their mother in law, my grandma, because the latter has always hated her (mum, not aunt), etc etc. This is past feeling bad for getting a shower of non-sensitive behaviour which she's not accustomed to. This is making up stories to appease somewhat the bad feelings. When dad and I protested that it's not true she got really angry indeed. And she never thought of how I feel, as a person close to her, when she gets angry. I think the rational and understanding front that she's been trying to build up for me (for which I'm utterly grateful) totally collapses when dad comes. She's got just too much resentment for him.

I wish peace for those who passed away on 911 '01 and for their families. Also peace for human beings who suffered in tragedies big and small, taking the chance of the 911 event that has the proper amount of magnitude and drama to be representative, to express such a wish.

I lift my fingers to write to SY, but found that I couldn't do it - 've been able to do it less and less. And then it follows that I have no one else to write to. But it's better that way.

I think it's because of communist connections that Russian literature was once in fashion in China. I know a handful of names, all of whom nineteenth century writers of "westernised Russian literature", that I like to say out loud, for I like the sound of them. It is a privilege to be acquainted from childhood with "classified knowledge" as a social phenomenon. This is not to say I've read widely and know much about Russian literature. Read abridged version of War and Peace in Chinese and don't remember much of it except that WD's favourite character is Andrew (or Andrei? There's no way of knowing since they're the same in Chinese translation). Read Anna Karenina but didn't understand what the point is esp of the character Levin (Now I can google it up though, before Microsoft crushes it.) Once, when playing with Jo's dogs reached a peak, I thought of getting my own dog and calling it "Dotstoevsky", or "Dots" for short. In general though, Russian novels, the poverty, the schizophrenic characters, are a little depressing.

Near Escapes from Disasters Today

1. The 20x objective lens of the Raman microscope in my lab has a tiny working distance. It's less than 1 mm. After I was done with the sample, I turned the knob of microscope's focus the wrong way. I could have used more agility and resolution like this in a lot of my other actions. But this time before I could realise what was going on, my sample was crushed by the objective lens with a resonating crack. Next to my sample was a pile of pretty purplish black crystals, some oxide of manganese which was under examination by the previous user (I was lazy and didn't want to get my own quartz glass slide, so just placed my sample on that slide). They were sent flying by the vibration. I was terrified and blamed the music on the lab computer for distraction. Wiped lens, checked its focus and it appeared alright. However still apprehensive of the prospective of forsaking whole year of salary for compensation of the lens.

2. Supervisor came to ask me to go to lunch together. I had my earphones on as usual and was thrown into a panic (they were Sony earplugs with silicone fittings that block out external sound. Perilous in office when cubicle lacks privacy). So threw off earphones and head off for lunch. Came back to realise that one of the plugs was projected into a cup of water and had been soaking there for an hour. For a while thought this to be retribution for the microscope. After repeated rounds of slinging, rubbing, dapping and blowing earphone was ok, albeit a little moist in the ear and rendered different audio effects in one ear.

Gotcha, you evil evasive polymer who refused to be synthesized! Now who's your mommy!

Especially during moments such as these, when mum finally left me alone after forty minutes of attempted endearing conversation that left me sinfully vexed and impatient, I harbour a great fondness to English nineteenth century novels (umm still have doubts about Dickens though). They tell a tale in such an unhurried manner, and reveal a society that's so entirely stable, and so provide a complete, well-constructed haven for escape, like sitting back to watch a movie without having to go through the mental strain of understanding the plot (the nineteenth century author explains everything). Am currently reading "Barchester Tower" by Anthony Trollope. Bought the novel for no reasons other than that vaguely heard the name before and that it was only one-fifty SGD (one of those Penguin classics that go on sale now and then in NUS campus stores).

On the radio programme at 6.30pm everyday, the DJ lady, with her assistant DJ, discusses a question of social interest to the Singaporean masses (if you read my blog you know my opinion on questions of social interest to the Singaporean masses. I'm apologetic for my probably prejudiced point of view - I'm indeed shy and am not the kind who's out to confront - but it doesn't change the fact that Singapore stifles me with its being the same everywhere and yet having the cheek to condescend). On certain days, when (I think) they really really run out of topics, they talk about stuff such as "what's your opinion and experience on molestation, or outrage of the feminine modesty?" If the channel's just out to gossip that's fine with me. Then it shouldn't be in such a hurry to go ahead and call itself "The Number One Station in News and Information".

Today, the question is, "would you donate to the victims of the New Orleans hurricane, considering that USA is a big country and we are just a small one?" I think she's trying to say that USA is a wealthy country and we are in any sense considered somewhat a dependent state, so does it make sense to bypass their own government's rescue system and make some sort of effort that has the potential to look ridiculous. So the use of words "big" and "small" are imprecise and misleading. Russia and China are sure big, but donations during floods in China are taken for granted to be certainly "correct". I'm long sick and tired of the poor Chinese standards of Singaporean media. The DJ's being up to her usual tricks (and these tricks other DJs sure over-use as well. She's actually one of the better ones) of repeating and dragging out the pronunciation of these words to makeup for the extra meanings she can't express.

During some moments though, I'm not sure if she didn't make explicit explanations on purpose, for the benefit of the listeners, who are, as usual, "uncles" and "aunties" having no specific clue of nationalistic feelings arising from political and economic competitions. She did propose that New Orleans is not a wealthy city, and asked something to the extent of whether it's because of the not-too-sound political performance of Bush's governance that leads to horrifying total celebrations of any US tragedies (such as that on 911) by those who resent US control. But the conversations wound down to showing mercy, kindness and generosity regardless of national background of those who suffer, rationals that appeal to uncomplicated emotions and goodwill.

It's interesting how such a question is asked in the first place, without any assumption of it being proper. It's strange if you come to think that people donated to the tsunami relieve fund without hesitation. However, if I had not been US, I might just picture myself finding the question completely valid. But then again there's some difference in the tragedies incurred by nature and by the sickened minds of individuals who do not even regard highly their own life. The former is of a greater magnitude, belittling human effort to contrive and plan, and is therefore more tragic.

It's been quite a while since I have the courage to write again. RZ said, and I rephrased here as thus, "You feel bad because your colleagues are different from you. You lack people like scholars or students to hang out with. People who aren't extremely consequential to your life. All you think existent in your life are family and friends. So you feel you get too much of family and not enough of friends. But friends are there. Just that they are not for you to meet everyday. Colleagues are. Inconsequential people are. You don't have enough of them, yes, but Singapore is not to blame."

She's right. I'm not complaining, I'm kind of begging her attention; but she's right.

It feels nice to drop judgements of every Singaporean thing and person. People on MRTs, walking to and fro, their dresses, their faces, their thoughts. The more I judge the more I condescend and the more I punish myself. There's really no need to. Job's fine. The big people are tolerant. Mum's getting understanding. And friends are there.

Had dinner with the boss and the rest. The whole world's going to Kyoto for the exposition except me. Had been one of the sources of stress. But the dinner was ok. Only wished for the usual stuff: less AC, looser clothes, less tea so I didn't have to watch out for shaky voice due to cold and caffeine. Wished also that RZ spoke more and KP smiled more. And also wished I had made the essential clarification that the subject is omitted in Italian when I explained the Italian perplexity of the Singaporeans' use of "can" and "cannot". And wished I didn't offer myself up so eagerly for the Iran trip, now that I know what they're in short of is some sort of a trip manager; and so ladies aren't suitable since they can't talk in public there. But more importantly I can't imagine myself in a managerial position yet. Was already dangerously close to stammering and incoherence tonight.

No erhu practice tomorrow. Instruction of that kindly condescending president of the orchestra. Will msg the section leader to make sure. Must prepare for a weekend indoors.

Wore contact lenses in the wrong eyes, which have got about 50 deg difference in power. Now one eye is blurry. Last wish is that eye will recover tomorrow morning. Rise and shine my sister.

I tend to be obssessed with details and have a habit of describing trivial matters with precision. That sounds a lot like Jo actually. But I should stop making parallels between she and I, parents and I, the past and the present. For those who are in search of consistency, parallels come down to those same, half-dried explanations. On top of that, the image of a dirty keyboard is not touching like that of the "weary old pen". And who am I to talk of being weary and old?

I think it's just the general difference between being alone in a city and in "10 square miles surrounded by reality".