The 2I Circle

9 of us, once from the same class, more than a decade back, gathered around a table in Marche on Saturday night.

So here we were, the teacher, the almost-a-teacher, a couple of defence science engineers, an ORD person, two media stars, the PhD candidate, and the early bird (very married and quite, quite pregnant).

It was interesting to see those people again, never mind the fact I do still hang out with at least 3 of them, albeit separately.

We held our own little conversations, merging and dividing our attention as well as 9 people can, listening to and sharing stories at the same time. I was horribly sidetracked for a while when Yew Jin and Jiaming started on the former’s PhD thesis on game theory, with particular emphasis on The Angel Problem (Link as a reference for myself to find out more when times permits and interest perpetuates). Not that I understand fully what was being exchanged, but it was utterly fascinating to see two grown men in serious academic discussion. Yew Jin even illustrated his points on the napkin. I guess I am still very inclined towards the intellect(uals). I was originally caught up in another conversation, but the sight of them (just opposite me) lost in their own cyber geek world is, well, intriguing, like totally. Utter turn on.

I did take a snapshot of them downplaying their intelligence though. (See previous post)

I was taken aback though, when it was just Jiaming, Ryan, and myself left, and Jiaming revealed how at least two of our ex-classmates have commented (in private) what a pity it was that B hadn’t lived up to his student days and is only *whatever* he is now. That he should have been capable of achieving more.

Now, before anyone writes off B as scum and a let-down, c’mon, this is someone who received a PSC scholarship to Imperial College, and is to serve his bond. How is it justified that he hadn’t lived up to “expectations”, what kind and whose - those belonging to our ex-classmates, who have projected their dreams and ideals on the poor chap? I just don’t see the validity of the statement. It was unkind and uncalled for (even if they meant well, or very possibly, nothing at all), and saddening to hear such remarks being passed.

Said Jiaming coolly, a (the) gathering is like an opportunity to tell people your achievements.

Well, I’m sure that formed part of it and belonged to the least important bit.

My thrust? Still harping on the same point as in an earlier post: we are all “elites” in the pathetically classic sense (from the acknowledged and accepted pedigree schools) and yet we shoulder a ridiculous burden. If we turn out to be only mediocre and average elites, it’s like we 对不起 The World and ourselves. Tragic! And mind you, three of us are scholars, five, if you throw in the teachers, and we struggle like everyone else, if not more against heavy judgments and prejudices. Well maybe the government scholars have it that tad smoother :X

But I love my Dunman High 2I class! We are together, what's left, in this maddening world, and it’s enough for now for me to soldier on.

How we have degenerated and developed so - what hunks and babes we are now and how cute we were then!

The Young Ones, Darling, We Are The Young Ones

Look! So these are the two smarmy smarts attempting to further downplay their not so apparent intelligence. But looks are deceiving. One's holding the now defunct SGS scholarship and the other is a PhD scholar (I think). And check out their deeply dimpled smiles! Like I said, if you have no obvious veins running down your arms especially to engage my affections, dimples do come a very close second. If you have them both, I say that's more than half the battle won. But back to my two ex- (classmates), cute, aren't they?

The young ones, darling we’re the young ones

And young ones shouldn’t be afraid

To live, love

While the flame is strong

For we won’t be the young ones very long.

Tomorrow, why wait till tomorrow

Tomorrow sometimes never comes

Love, me, there’s a song to be sung

And the best time is to sing while we’re young.

Here's To Myself: Hop On The Joyride

My senior shared some news with me.

*beams* 刹那间，黑暗中亮出曙光，实在振奋人心。

Let me buy lunch, please, I pleaded and promptly whisked us to Noble House. Ordered Peking Duck to celebrate. Heavy, decadent meal but heck, I feel more in control now. Life, it seems, can be very good again, with a definite sense of purpose.

Later evening, I walked out of another place, feeling invincible. Or, at the very least, more like my old self. I hadn’t realized until it was pointed out kindly that I might have been exhibiting little traits that don’t do justice to my personality and character. Little traits that made me go WTF (yes, again), what a loser, yuck when I reflected and did my mental check. So yes, I had a useful session, or prep talk if you will, that made me think.

Since initiation and immersion into work world, I suppose I have ignored, downplay, prune aspects of myself due to the crazy things and people I have encountered, especially when I first started out. Which I had believed in good faith was a prudent move then in early days. In short, much as this may elicit snorts of incredulity from people who know me best inside out, I did attempt, to the best of my ability, to come across as modest, composed and agreeable. Being new, I had thought it good and healthy to play the safe, unthreatening role.

Which may not be such an excellent idea now.

So yes, I’m welcoming the long repressed sides of myself from the long respite and telling them to party and just enjoy the ride in life.

Welcome back, old loud, animated me. You were missed dearly at work. Maybe that’s why I have been wrongly typecast as subdued (!!) and nonchalant (??) at the odd potentially important career-changing moments (actually, only one so far).

My supervisor would chuckle and protest, I’m sure, and go WTF, even though she’s so distinguished.

Anyhow, I’m glad I can say with sincerity I have benefited from today (no pun intended, really!!!) and the people whom I met up with, who made a difference to my life henceforth.

I feel much, much happier professionally than I’ve ever been for a long time. A zestful happy state that goes beyond the promotion and payraise. Glam it up, babe.

The Pleasure Principle

I finally found Instant Karma in Heeren, the shop owned by an NUS graduate my age when Minxiu and I went on semi-late night shopping Sunday night. Back when it was first set up in Far East, I could never locate it. Minxiu liked the shop enough to purchase the Kinky Kailan and Rainbow Broccoli and KNNBCCB Knowledge T-shirts. There was also a Porn Star one acquired from elsewhere.

Earlier in the day, I had bought a leather bag from Country Road since it had 30% off its original selling price. Yes, that same leather bag. Ruth had asked if I really liked it so. For those in the know, well, I like it well enough. But I did buy it to prove a point, partly.

And to retain the impossible youth so that I would look like an undergraduate forever, I splurged on Biotherm products. Freebies galore and I lugged home a bagful of products, including one that I won spinning the wheel.

But of course, his accumulated bills beat mine hands down.

Then we watched Eros and walked out after first short, The Hand.

The Hand was another loving caress by Wong Kar Wai of a forgotten period, a sultry, pensive tribute to lost elegance and true devotion, as tight and taut as the bodies it costumed. The fable of lust, love and loyalty tells of a coming to age sexual maturity, of fetish-tic longings, desires and fallen hopes, all these nicely brought out by images of flesh on fabric. The Hand is controlled and hence, strangely erotic and moving, because of what doesn’t happen. Zhang Zheng gives an excellent performance here, his face scrunching up in various expressions of orgasmic humiliation, pain, pleasure and shame etc as Gong Li does a hand job on him. As for The Goddess, Gong Li, Zhang Ziyi is really wan next to her imperial imperious being. I shudder to think what sublimation and soul the former is capable of had she played the latter’s role in 2046.

We din walk out because all the reviews advised so, to go after the first. They’d have you believe the remaining two vignettes were truly gratuitous and horrid. We went because after The Hand, the various groups of people in the theatre became restless and started yakking away, hence marring our enjoyment of the movie. Minxiu demanded a refund/rewatch for the movie (Best Friend would have been so aghast :) and we got it. So we can watch Eros again (and basked in the glorious lushness of emotions) and check out if the other shorts were as bad as the press denounced.

There goes the weekend, in between finishing the very last of the shows I have on hand (pun not intended). I din get drunk at all even though there were XO, vodka and red wine whatever. But I had a fun time in the hotel room @Intercontinental Hotel and taking silly pictures to boot.

Wordly Musings Of The Worldly Kind

On judges who show up on TV and decide on what’s talent and prettiness – seriously, if they were to join the competition during the peak of their youth, they would not get in. (Actually, I’m also of the opinion most of the wildly popular and talented singers from the 80s to now would never win – so what does that tell you?) I remember thinking how fugly a male judge was a decade plus back and how flat and insipid ie unrecognizable his dull vocals were. Imagine my surprise when I learnt he became a vocal trainer and some kind of image consultant on the side over the years. The last straw was seeing him on TV (and still fugly) and being all catty and caustic about the contestants’ purported lack of looks and talent. They beat you hands down, my man. When you are fugly and manage to wring a modestly successful career out of nothing, you should keep a low profile. At least refrain from being openly critical, since people will just look at you and go WTF in their heads.

I’m fairly sure these star-searching shows have good intentions but the worldly market forces of economics demand that humiliation be omniscient from the start to grab attention, ratings and the ka-ching.

*

The world functions in such a way that I fail to get it. Is it absolute so in material terms that I can only gingerly approach it through the mechanics of money (is that why I succumbed to consumerism so easily these days). Is talent a marketable good or marketability a talent that drowns the former. Must it be an issue of either/or, that is the question.

Then again, what is marketable really depends on the hardworking publicist, isn’t it. I should know.

I see all these print columnists and writers and I go WTF over and over again. My Lit, or for that matter, Philo Honours kakis would be seriously depressed and de-motivated, decrying the ridiculousness of it, when they bother to think about it, as I do when I slow down. The fact that we can write and think well and have a degree to show for it counts for nothing in the real world (as proven by yours truly in at least two significant incidents that still burn raw into my consciousness). It would be excellent if I can celebrate that based on the arbitrary standards, the field is open and accepting. But yup, WTF, apparently not. Somehow there is still no explanation why you can publish articles from A whose merit and experience is debatable and stop short of giving a fair opportunity to B to prove his/her worth.

Yes, I am rather bitter about how some things have turned out in the most ironic kind of way. But such bitterness is really reserved for dark, dark days in the light of things. As someone senior and nice told me yesterday, I’m still young, and I look younger than my age but getting passed that, life should be pretty nice, given what I have achieved so far.

Still. The indignation of being doubted so! Especially at something I’ve always been nothing short of sterling at.

*

I had a nightmare a couple days ago. I dreamt I got what I want and broke out in a cold sweat. Can I want it this un-badly? What is the true corollary?

*

On Elitism:

As far as school rankings and reputations go, my friends and I would be considered the average elite (Yessir, even the elites have their average-ness and mediocrity, which being ordinary amongst the overachievers can be even more brutal and scary than the real, raw deal) . We have not chosen the Rafflesian family, opting to go for the traditional chinese school (DHS rocks, like real) and the lesser credited amongst the top five JCs (TJC rocks, for real). Most of us ended up in NUS and even those who went overseas did not study in Harvard or Cambridge or Oxford. We received our scholarships but none of us were of the President Scholar kind.

But we were acknowledged elites nevertheless, and we were brought up believing that intellect and hard work take you to places. But somehow, upon graduation and you are engaged animatedly (but never intimately enough, for the distance can be rather unreasonable in all senses to bridge) with the world that is disconnected from student-ly ideals and loftiness, you realise no one gives a shit about intellect and hard work most of the time. Know what, it's perfectly fine to adopt a WTF attitude towards scholars when you are not the one who want their 4-8 years. But when you are the one, surely it makes sense to suss out the scholars so that everyone is happy in what they are doing and able to make meaningful contributions.

Read this. And tell me I'm not a casualty of the system. Tell me we are not. But why are we struggling so unhappily despite the elite tag. Yes, partly it's failed comparisons with peers doing better (I believe in tracking to live well), and partly because of the pseudo glamour of being a scholar in a particular field - that no one quite believes in our deep, dark depression. Mostly because we are atrophying, and we are caught in circumstances too dangerous and delicate. There can be worse things I'm sure, but for now, as a young, intelligent, talented and attractive being, nothing beats atrophying and feeling generally helpless about the state (of things, of course).

You can reserve your rights to be unsympathetic, but really, sometimes the whole burden of being an elite, the belief in your elitism, that you have to live well and make something out of yourself to prove something (to yourself, if not everyone) is really too heavy a cross to bear. You don't want to change the belief for it may mean something more indigestible and traumatic (ie you were a fake elite; you are less good), so the onus is to live well as testimonial to your self-worth. Tragic but yes, I'm enslaved to such a mantra.

Addendum: Things happen, and not, for a reason. I may be very well on track still. As I have told some friends, it’s only annoying because I don’t think much of it in the first place, and yet due to circumstances, have allowed it to be in a position of power whereby it can deliver hurt and humiliation. *shrugs* Seriously, PSC scholars definitely have the better deal, as compared to scholars of other namesakes. As it is, I am relieved to learn of the no, and yes, I still believe I deserve better. And I contest anyone who dares say my status automatically translates to fairer or better treatment to a word duel – it can be the liability. You don’t know how hard I have to fight to get anywhere at all. It’s WTF pathetic. I guess if I can’t have dreams, the moolah will have to suffice. Yeah, just show me the money. The rest can come later.

I Am Not Alone

As recurring themes played out, pointlessness instead of potentiality ruled.

It is hateful that it should happen this way. But. I haven’t lived 20 odd years for nothing, only to prove that there’s nothing. I’m determined to find heart and meaning.

Feeling all down and depressed, so I’m taking a moment to sink in before I swim back to sunnier shores.

Quarter life crisis has never been so real – I wish I could reverse some decisions.

Or I could will myself to accept there’s a reason and agenda behind the composition of twists and turns in the little drama that is my life, which gives it credible meaning, that eventually I can come to understand (as opposed to coming to terms with) and celebrate in genuine gratitude.

Fat hope and thin ice?

In desperation to escape, Ruth helped me to list down top ten reasons to cheer if some imagined negativity should manifest itself entirely.

It wasn’t too difficult, given that I just want to be happy.

*

I wish I can tell Mr Veins what is troubling me today. I probably should, so that he can respond accordingly ie ruffle my feathers and annoy me so that I can be propelled from this wretchedness. But my ego is stopping me (It is annoying enough that I instinctively think about him whether shit happens and otherwise).

*

Whatever happened to the NUS me – am I still in here? Have I, God forbid, mellowed and melted into this gross, useless puddle that even I cannot help shuddering at?

Think of Peiyun who has successfully dried up. Then, think of the rest of my struggling friends who are just as confused by what is not happening. There has been a happy ending, in a way, and others who are still writing their life stories.

I am not alone.

Maybe I should just pretend to drown my sorrows at Paulaner with Minxiu and all tomorrow night. Pretend, because I don't drink that much, but I can try. The guys can make such a ruckus and are rowdy and risque enough so that we are able to believe we have never left those arrogant, heady, elitist days when life is only good and intelligent and sexy. Going Paulaner because it's the man's birthday wish - Happy Birthday, Minxiu! I pledge my eternal devotion and friendship, even on lousy, crappy days. Please remember that I love you, warts and all. There are times when the tides ebb but they will rise and soar, and fall and so on. Love and friendship are like that.

*

You thought you had understanding, but hell, you never did. More than a decade has passed and all those times you hummed, it's only now, that it makes perfect sense.

歲月的細水滿滿流　流到了別離的時候 輕拍你的肩　聽我說朋友不要太惆悵
霓虹縱然再囂張　我們的步履有方向 成敗不論切莫將昔日遺忘

多年以後　又再相逢 我們都有了疲倦的笑容
問一聲我的朋友　何時再為我吹奏 是否依舊　是否依舊

人生的際遇千百種　但有知心長相重 人願長久　水願長流　年少時候

and then there's this

听到dj又播出那一首歌 一首令我深深感触的歌
发生在啤酒周围的故事 还有住过的房子
昨天又接到一个问候的电话 禁不住又谈起那一段日子
曾经为了我 我失恋的伤痛 你们陪我流泪痛哭

多少次我们夜里漫步 谈谈人生与前途 多少次地酒後真情流露
而今我只能抱着吉他望着天空里星星无数唱着你们写下的爱情故事

I miss those days, and some people.

Work Matters

In Work World, three male celebrities pecked me before they left Singapore (including the one who smacked my butt). I find one of them rather attractive: the tall, beefy, quietly sullen who is boyishly charming when he smiles. He is always with the girlfriend (or is it fiancée). Even though they usually appear together, communication is limited between them when I bother to kay-poh, and observe group dynamics and chemistry. Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised by his gesture.

An aside, out of sheer curiosity and hell, inexperience, now, pecking: Is it pure good manners to brush the cheek ie check on cheek? Or is it akin to prostitution, the more you like someone, the more “intense” and “intimate” it gets ie venturing to planting a full kiss on the cheek as opposed to just kissing air? And can’t a hug suffice in expression?? How come the female celebrities don’t kiss me and hug instead? I’m also female, so why not.

His pretty girlfriend only smiled and waved and did neither. Does that mean she is less affectionate?

*

In another almost parallel universe, I am proud of the show that I have been roped in to help after my last one finished its run. As far as I am concerned, the fact that they could pull it off and put it out there is a tremendous accomplishment in itself. The thought of all the sponsors coming together, the generated extensive and expansive publicity plus the manpower behind the production is rather overwhelming. At least I feel I can say that with all fairness and a fair amount of professionalism (after doing 6 major events and two smaller scale ones and add to that, attended many, many shows), that this is no mean feat to be dismissed, that it is a positive milestone in the history of local show productions and would be taken as a sort of standard to compare against when people plan to deliver a musical in future.

Artistic merit may be debatable, but the set, the costumes and the music are commendable. Personally, I would actually prefer this over Forbidden City. The latter is too pretentious and pander-ous, if not ponderous, seen through a Western veil that one remains stubbornly resistant and ill-accepting towards because the story fails to elicit empathy, having made foreign and therefore, orphaned. The former (musical) may be derided as being too local, too light, too whatever, but it is our own, and the fantastic response from the audience (and the various ministers) gives testimony to that.

The musical gives hope to the local scene, for those interested in creating a homegrown musical. We need not borrow the past from others, for we have our own, and in it, we have our present and future.

So, merf, please consider my take on the musical, as you have taken into account that of my good friend. Incidentally, I don’t know how you reached his blog, but a quick glance at your links reveal you know May-Ann, who has linked me, and whom I do know. How small even parallel universes are.

I Smell The Blood Of An English Man

Mr Dimples was my companion on last Sunday evening, the night before I checked out of Pan Pacific Hotel. I’m afraid I have only lovely things to say about my friend.

Some hours before we were due to meet, I asked him to buy a instant disposable camera on my behalf so that I could take pictures of the hotel and the skyline, expressway, city buildings, early stages of casino/resort that the balcony opens up to, at different times to capture hues and moods. If it wasn’t too much of a trouble, that is, but who won’t buy, right.

Thing is, Mr Dimples went a shade deeper. In the sense, he warned about the deplorable results from using what I had originally intended, and offered his *Canon Z 90W, complete with mini tripod (!) in place. How terribly nice. Even when the need is posed experimentally to Best Friend post-need for assessment and comparison, she also stopped short of volunteering her gadget and was incredulous: how, and what else can I do – yes, I will buy for you, of course, when prompted and prodded.

We chilled in the room for an hour plus and yes, conversing with him is always good, and fun. This enjoyable fluidity extended to Centrestage where we had dinner and kept going when we were back at the hotel lounge till we parted.

He just started serving his bond at DSTA. Apparently our lower sec classmate is there too. Talk naturally steered to a possible class gathering which I became quite happy just thinking about the potentiality of it. The best part of secondary school life was then when we were together in the same class, a haphazard collection of personalities that was supportive and crazy and sincere in the way only people who exude real fondness for one another (in a peculiarly childish and yet likeable manner) can. In fact, the very next day, I received word from Yaoqiang, the other classmate at DSTA, and that we are gonna try organizing something.

In all senses, Mr Dimples is wonderful foil to foil the inexplicable attraction and habit that is the oddity, Mr Veins. The foulness and fairness of such a foil.

I need to check out, but what, and of what.

Let me return to my hateful lover – Work, for now.

Far From Home

For the past five days, I have been staying in a five star hotel in the heart of the city. While I wish the reason behind to be indulgent, and illicit, the truth is a mundane one: I am here because of work, and here I will be, till early next week.

I am 30 floors above ground level; my balcony overlooking the waters and the city. I can almost make-believe I am the carefree and care-less heartless I always imagine I can be, away from Singapore, pretending to be the thoughtless romantic and imbibing the delightful worldliness of alone-ness in a foreign land.

Finding the astonishing ability to leave here, leaving someone, and hopefully, leaving behind, some nothings, and if I'm that determined (and kind), a few denying and distressed words that would amount to an ending of some sort. Never a confession though.

(Alas, I am seldom alone, obviously. Unless I have guests, my baby sister is with me in the room. She's sleeping very soundly and emitting sweet snores as I tap out this.)

Tonight, he came over to the hotel to visit and have dinner with me. Referring to the ever-bustling busy Mr Veins. The relationship, if I can call us a relationship, is a bizarre one. It's childishly torrid and tumultous and yet, addictive. As mutual friends use to remind, it takes a lot of effort to react and behave the way we do towards each other, just faking annoyance and irritation (me, but some of it is real, okay) and coming up with items to frustrate and disturb (he).

Tonight, it centred around my Nokia phone. He snatched it away from me and refused to return when I attempted to take a photo of him. Which is still acceptable.

Thing is, he started checking the phone and declared that the Singtel sticker has worn off and is visually unsightly, and so he shall peel it off for me. Which he did, most carefully, after which he took tissue to gently wipe the front and back of my phone. The de-clothing and the molesting lasted for 10 minutes, serious.

Fine, so that is perhaps acceptable, but I find it weird contextually, can, to do that to someone else's phone.

Anyhow, so he still refused to return my phone after all that violation and kept it in his pocket.

So afraid was he (of being photographed) that he only passed the phone back when we were ready to go hotel and home separately, and literally sprinted away, despite having switched off my phone already.

I suppose this can't be healthy, how we appear to regress to the incredible infantile mode when together. But tell me something I don't know about us.

He: Do you believe I will smash your phone to smithereens?

Me: Now why would you do that? You'll have to buy dinner three times over at Morton's of Chicago if you dare. I can't bear to lose all my contacts again.

He: It's okay. You know mine by heart.

And now bed beckons. It's work again when day breaks.