A nice day

Was going to have dim sum buffet with YF and parents for lunch, so refrained from having breakfast and cautioned parents to do the same. Instead, had a portion of a novel concoction of mum's - bananas soaked in vinegar. The formula, which was supposed to enhance bowel movement and purge of body toxins, was introduced by Billy Wang, the local DJ who gained fame amidst aunties for fighting cancer and practicing natural healing methods. It's supposed to be six bananas to one bottle of vinegar, with the addition of 5 lemons and sugar, which mum chose to omit. The bananas have been saturated with vinegar and disintegrates in the mouth, bearing no resemblance to any banana-ry taste whatsoever. So the result is rather like pure vinegar. I then realised that it does not suffice to leave mum playing on her own as long as she doesn't bother me (or us). There's danger when she starts to put innovative ideas into practice. After having had some tequilla (practically in minute quantities) at the Iguana Cafe (along Clarke Quay) at dinner, esterification could well be going on right and now in a nice and warm stomach and plenty of acid catalyst.

Despite esterification and the long day, and skipping rehearsals and consumpiton of alcohol, I didn't come close to having the dry-mouth nervousness accompanied by violent heartbeat and headache afterwards. The only time I was close to annoying hyperactivity was when the hugely oversized cake I bought was distributed to each filled individual, and I just couldn't stop laughing when SP (who was doing the cutting) comforted R's gentle apprehension by saying, "No one could escape. They're all of the same size." Even then, the laugh was personal, a release rather than a stringing-up, and even deliciously calming. It reminded me of the 907 days when people come to play mafia. A feeling of being in control and inconspicuous.

Don't blame your daughter (Diamonds)

Don't blame your daughter
that's just sentimental
and don't blame your mom
for all that you've done wrong

Your dad is not guilty
you came out a little faulty
and the factory closed
so you can't hold them liable

You come from an island,
you're cutting diamonds
with a rubbery knife

Your autograph is worthless
so don't send me letters
and don't mail me cash
'cause your money is no good

What's left in your mattress
is holes and lack of love left
some hair from a horse,
and none of it is yours, man

You come from an island,
you're cutting diamonds
with a rubbery knife

And the song you sing today
wasn't always in your head,
the words you tryin' to say
are the ones you shouldn't 've said
they're glistenin' like diamonds,
go out and find 'em
but don't blame your daughter

Read me your tombstone,
tell me you're sorry, fax me your will,
you owe me something still

Blood is like water
the bath that you poured me
has drained and it's gone,
don't blame it on your son

And the song you sing today
wasn't always in your head,
the words you tryin' to say
are the ones you shouldn't 've said
they're glistenin' like diamonds,
go out and find 'em

The world is full of diamonds
go out and find 'em
but don't blame your daughter

Mother's Day's coming

Went to Ikea after work with YF to get one of those support pillows in the hope of combatting my sleep problems. For some unfathomable reasons I told mum of the plan during the day. She was about to burst into abusives to make me realise her concern for the lack of storage space for pillows at home. Then she checked herself and said, I told you your present pillow's too high. I feared that this acknowledgement would bring back her bitterness for my insisting on bringing it back from Cornell while at the same time throwing away a wollen blanket she specially packed for me four years ago. I thought it was heavy and smelly while providing no substantial warmth. She said I was unappreciative of the effort of fishing out a blanket from the bottom of heavy chests and carrying it all the way here from Shanghai. But the linen-related resentment was not incurred for this time. She said, we've got a lot of pillows at home. Why don't you try them out before deciding if you want to buy any. I said, sure, that's at least a plan of action.

But YF bought the pillow anyway. When I got home she was still up. The radio was on. Her hunched figure was at the dining table over her domino tiles. In my memory the kitchen is synonymous with brightness and spaciousness, in stark contrast with my grandma's home by the river. But right now as my mum sit under the light she looked old. The whole scene looked hoary and tiring. Maybe the brightness and spaciousness belong only to the day. Maybe the lights in the kitchen are also yellowing. I've gotten used to yellow light again, I thought. I noiselessly closed and padlocked the door, opened my dad's unoccupied room and left the huge, bulging Ikea plastic bag on his empty bed. Living in this house made me learn to move around without making a sound. Then went to the kitchen and greeted mum with extra warmth. She said she tried to sleep but couldn't, and has been up with the radio for three hours. Her voice sounded tired and faint, adding to the desolation of the whole picture and confirming my impression that at that instant she was but a lonely old woman. It filled me with a piercing dread for leaving home again. Then she said, you came back alone? You saw me didn't you? I was immediately pulled back to the reality and my mind switches to combat-ready mode. I said, no, YF was with me right to the door. Yeah, I could hear the radio. She said, yeah I know you saw me or he would've come in. She said so quickly as if she's conscious of the things she says that are not to my liking. To that the best strategy was not to reply, so I didn't.

Took shower and thought both of us were going sleep, when she took out two pillows that she'd already found in the afternoon. She got into my room and made me try them and choose one. It was a stroke of luck that I didn't hide the Ikea pillow in my room. The relief made me attentive and enthusiastic about the pillow-choosing process. I even tried to make her laugh, saying that I wish I had two heads. As she put away the other she remarked that apparently and eventually Shanghai pillows are superior to Singaporean ones. That made me realise the nationality of those two pillows, but didn't stop me from taking out the Swedish support pillow from its hiding after mum's gone and spending the night with it.

The support pillow engulfed the neck which resulted in a little stuffiness, but I'd like to believe its advantages, and attributed the lingering of my teeth-gritting habit over the night to an excess consumption of drinking water before sleeping. All should be well except that I didn't count on my mum to be still around in the morning. A late night resulted in the late morning. She kept the radio volume low. Still I could hear her preparing breakfast and dressing up to go out to her usual stadium hang-out. Instinct seized me to grab the Shanghainesse pillow thrown aside for the night. Still I only had time to stuff it between me and the support pillow to hide the latter. My mum entered my room inquiring the effectiveness of my sleep. I was inclined awkwardly on two pillows and pretended to sleep on. She looked hard at me but eventually just said, it seems you didn't sleep too well. And she left. I got up, hid the Ikea pillow, did the morning things, went to work.

Of Gary Larson and the Introverted Creator

A letter to whom-it-may-concern from Gary Larson, the creator of the Far Side comic series

I'm walking a fine line here.

On the one hand, I confess to finding it quite flattering that some of my fans have created web sites displaying and / or distributing my work on the Internet. And, on the other, I'm struggling to find the words that convincingly but sensitively persuade these Far Side enthusiasts to "cease and desist" before they have to read these words from some lawyer.

What impact this unauthorized use has had (and is having) in tangible terms is, naturally, of great concern to my publishers and therefore to me -- but it's not the focus of this letter. My effort here is to try and speak to the intangible impact, the emotional cost to me, personally, of seeing my work collected, digitized, and offered up in cyberspace beyond my control.

Years ago I was having lunch one day with the cartoonist Richard Guindon, and the subject came up how neither one of us ever solicited or accepted ideas from others. But, until Richard summed it up quite neatly, I never really understood my own aversions to doing this: ''It's like having someone else write in your diary," he said. And how true that statement rang with me. In effect, we drew cartoons that we hoped would be entertaining or, at the very least, not boring; but regardless, they would always come from an intensely personal, and therefore original perspective.

To attempt to be "funny" is a very scary, risk-laden proposition. (Ask any stand-up comic who has ever "bombed" on stage.) But if there was ever an axiom to follow in this business, it would be this: be honest to yourself and -- most important -- respect your audience.

So, in a nutshell (probably an unfortunate choice of words for me), I only ask that this respect be returned, and the way for anyone to do that is to please, please refrain from putting The Far Side out on the Internet. These cartoons are my "children," of sorts, and like a parent, I'm concerned about where they go at night without telling me. And, seeing them at someone's web site is like getting the call at 2:00 a.m. that goes, "Uh, Dad, you're not going to like this much, but guess where I am."

I hope my explanation helps you to understand the importance this has for me, personally, and why I'm making this request.

Please send my "kids" home. I'll be eternally grateful.

Most respectfully,

Gary Larson

And a reply from a reader:

"His cartoons are his children, huh? He always likes to know where his children are, right? [Gary Larson compared his work to his children.] That's sweet. I sure don't evny [typo of reader] the bill he must have for private investigators and the like charged with tracking down every 'toon - pinned up on some professors office door, on the floor of some college kid's bathroom, tossed out in the garbage when the owner decides it's time for a spring clean. I don't mind that he does it for money, but at least be honest about it."

I used to be pretty bewildered by why-ever people need to earn salaries that are above 2000 (SGD) a month. (Actually.. I still don't get it but it's ok. I'm anti-progress. But I'm a scientist at the same time. Is that possible?) Assuming ignorance of Gary Larson's lifestyle, I'm still for him not being a terribly extravagant person. While it's gotta be true that Gary Larson would've for at least once thought of "Gosh, I could've earned a whole lot more if there's respect for IP in this modern world." - there's something about money that feeds the obssessive nature of people and so draws even the non-mercenaries - I think G. L. sounds like a guy who's too honest to "do it for money". I understand his sentiments which somewhat unclouded for me the issue of introversion vs talent for introverted artists. Getting scared by own creation, disgust for showiness and vanity, guilt for exhibiting showiness and vanity, revolt and rebellion against own honesty, fear for judgement, are all factors that contribute to the dilemma of to show or not to show. On top of that, being funny/acting the clown is way more taxing than creating a serious piece of work.

The two virtues G.L. named are pretty effective though. However, that'd come down to surmounting another paralyzing difficulty - that of having the confidence to face the audience first, before ever going on to respect them, and that of having the confidence to face self, before facing the audience. Confidence doesn't have to be loud and showy, and is, on the other hand, able to vanquish the shyness, guilt, revolt and fear produced from facing things loud and showy.

So to show or not to show? That's a fine line. But not the one walked by G.L. I think he's referring to a line of controlled showing and all-over-the-place showing. It's related to the artist's (as in Artist with a capital A, not G.L. in particular.) delicate confidence, which needs good control and balancing. G.L.'s complaining exactly about the internet, the digitized media. It's a place that promotes anonymity and showiness at the same time, and so easy to get out of control. How can we blame the introverted artist then?

So could anyone help me see the point of blogging please?