a small poem

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where the heart is

these rains
weather reports tell us
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are unseasonable
february is no time
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for monsoons
nor this longing
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that sweeps away
all caring
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this longing
for home
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spring-cleaning

And once again, the rains are coming down today, these unseasonable Feburary rains. Spring-cleaning, literally. i need to do some spring-cleaning meself. Too many books, too many clothes, too much stuff, cluttering up the precious little space in my room. It's time to cut down, cut back, give away. Make room for what really matters.
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cello concerto in E minor, op. 85

It's been years since i last heard this. i'm not sure why. i think i didn't want to listen to it, for some reason; but i can't remember what the reason was. The CD's been sitting on my shelf unused all this time. And then, a snatch of the opening on the radio while driving today, and suddenly, a flood of sadness and nostalgia, just as Elgar intended, i'm sure, and now Jacqueline du Pre, Sir John Barbirolli and the London Symphony Orchestra are on my sound system, and i wish my room were air-conditioned, carpeted and sound-proofed so that i can blast it as loud as i want without worrying about disturbing the neighbours or the other people in the house.
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i've always associated this piece with World War I England. Maybe it was the soundtrack to some film or TV drama or documentary i watched -- the image that comes to mind is in black-and-white, a war-ravaged landscape with a few trees left standing forlorn on the horizon. Very cliched, i know. Clearly i have a great alternative career as a director of second-rate period dramas.
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teach me, O Lord...

This week has been such a humbling week -- a good thing, surely, and an answer to prayer. (Praying for humility... is a dangerous thing...).

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i am surrounded by amazing people. Such a blessing, really -- all my life i have had amazing friends, amazing teachers, amazing colleagues, amazing bosses... Just this week i was reminded once again of what excellent teaching looks like; and how much more i still have to learn. And in the last 3 days, i realised what amazing church-mates i have, people who show me in action and not just words what it means to live the Christian life. Such radical, self-sacrificial love. i would never have thought of doing what they did this week, for someone they don't even know that well, thousands of miles away. It puts me to shame. i don't even dare to say it inspires me -- would i dare enough, care enough to do the same?
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all that you can't leave behind

Ok. So maybe i didn't think much of this album when it first came out. But now i think i'll have to listen to it again. Am starting to regret giving away my CD...
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on difficulty

What writing is, is a constant effort to keep oneself inspired, to play tricks on the mind so that you keep alive, or rekindle, that tiny flame of desire licking up the void somewhere between the roof of your mouth and your tongue. This silence, waiting to be turned into speech.
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(Geeky digression:
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There needs to be another word there, in place of 'turned' -- i thought 'distilled' at first, but that's not right. Then i thought 'condensed' -- as in, the condensation you see on a cold glass of water. But the word 'condensed', when applied to descriptions of language, has come to mean 'concentrated', which is what happens when condensation happens... But it's not what i had in mind. So, 'turned'. For the moment. Until i find something better.
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End of geeky digression.)
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Anything can do it -- the trick is finding the right thing at the right time. Today, it is taking out Tim Liardet's The Storm House. i could spend my entire lifetime reading his poetry, especially this collection. It sings and howls with grief and pain and guilt and anger, made somehow transcendent by his words. It's difficult writing -- in all senses of the word. And it makes me want to write, to write better than i've written so far, to take what is difficult and make it happen. Thank God for small mercies.
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five loaves, two fishes

i never gave much thought to the story of the five loaves and two fishes -- it just never seemed very relevant to life as it is now. So it was really quite a revelation when i first heard Corrinne May's song. It made me see the story in quite a different light.
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Anyways, i think i've seen over time how the dynamic in the story really does work in God's kingdom. It just takes faith to believe it in the time before the miracle actually happens.
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Here's a very nicely-done video animation of the song.
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all the white horses

And once again, just when i thought i'd settled in, found a place that i love and wouldn't mind staying in the rest of my life if i had to... Things are changing. Not that i couldn't see it coming. i really should learn to use my amazing sense of intuition better. What's the use of knowing beforehand if you don't do anything with that knowledge to prepare yourself for what's to come.
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This is not the first time something like this has happened in recent years -- having to say goodbye in one way or another to what i've come to love and think of as home.
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i read somewhere recently that the only place that we can safely call home is God. With all the change, transition and upheaval of the last few years (a lot of which i have sought out myself, i must admit...), i'm seeing the deep wisdom in that.
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'Cos things are gonna change so fast,
All the white horses have gone ahead...
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(Tori Amos, 'Winter')
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..
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[Edit: a few hours later...
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OK. i think maybe i need to take back, or at least qualify, what i said earlier about using my intuition to better prepare myself for things i know are eventually gonna happen. Cos... what would it mean for me to do that? i knew from the start that AP would not be staying in Singapore for the long term -- i think i knew even before he'd admitted it to himself. Should i have hung back from building our friendship? i'm pretty sure D will not come back here for the long term after her time in Berlin. Should i stop having late-night suppers with her at the prata place just because i know i'm gonna miss them so much when she leaves? Etc etc.
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No. In the first place, it doesn't make sense. It's like LK when she said, half-jokingly, Maybe it's better for married couples to not be too close to each other, so it's easier when one of them dies. Also, to do that would be to live only halfly. And i don't do half-measures. It's just not me. i've tried before and it made me miserable. Don't know how some people do it. Maybe they're just made differently.]
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project singapore

LKY's in hospital. The news was released on FB by the Prime Minister's Office at 1847hrs today. There are (at the moment - 2151hrs) 454 'likes' -- whatever that means. (Honestly. How weird, or how spiteful, to "like" an announcement that someone is seriously ill...)
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"Mr Lee Kuan Yew was admitted to Singapore General Hospital yesterday after experiencing a suspected Transient Ischaemic Attack (TIA) associated with a prolonged episode of atrial fibrillation (i.e. irregular heartbeat). He has recovered but will remain warded for a few days for the doctors to adjust his medications and for observation.
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[A Transient Ischaemic Attack (TIA) is when blood flow to a part of the brain stops for a brief period of time. A person will have stroke-like symptoms which clear in less than 24 hours.]"
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What a coincidence... or maybe not so much a coincidence, given the way our media works here... But i was just thinking about LKY this morning, and writing a blog-post about him. i was meaning to come back tonight and write it up some more. But now i think i'll leave it as it was earlier today. God be with him.
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An extraordinary interview with Lee Kuan Yew on urban design in today's Straits Times, conducted by Liu Thai Ker last August, and due to be published in the e-version of Urban Solutions at the end of the month. i can't help but wonder about the timing -- right smack in the midst of the White Paper furore, and on the day of the planned protest event at Hong Lim Park...
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Still. No matter the politics, if i had to name the one person i find the most fascinating and whose mind i'd love to get into and understand, it would have to be LKY. Much as it may be seen as uncool and pro-Establishment to say so, i'm convinced that the label, 'Father of Modern Singapore', really does suit him to a T, no matter what we may say about how there were many other players in the story, he had a wonderful team working with him, yada yada. And i still think that the Singapore we live in now is truly and inescapably a miracle. It really did take an extraordinary conjunction of people, events both global and local, and just plain timing, to get us to where we are today. What were the odds, really, that someone like LKY, with his intellect, vision, work ethic, charisma, and sheer raw audacity, would have emerged just at the time when the British were losing their grip on their Empire, when natives all over the world were losing their faith in their colonial masters and agitating for independence; and that he would have found at the ready a team of brilliant men (and women... his wife was by all accounts an extraordinary woman...) who would share his vision and work together with him on Project Singapore...
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Yes, a heavy price was paid in the realisation of that vision. And to this day, i wonder if it was really a necessary price. My heart goes out to the old uncles and aunties who lived through those times and who saw their hopes and dreams for a future destroyed by the man they had put their faith in, who had promised to be on their side. When i'm working at the Chinese section on level 9 of the Bras Basah National Library, and i see all these old men shuffling among the shelves, taking down books and magazines nobody else reads anymore, i just feel terribly, terribly sad. And i don't know what to think. And i often wonder what LKY himself feels about all that now, years down the road and long after anything can be done to set things right in any way that truly matters.
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But even that doesn't detract from the magnitude of his achievement, or from the respect, admiration, and gratitude i feel towards him (mixed with a whole bunch of other feelings, of course....). He's been very quiet lately, and he just missed the Chinese New Year dinner at his Tanjong Pagar constituency this week. When he passes on, i will pay my respects at his wake, and if the public is allowed to, his funeral. i've been saying this to my students for many years. i haven't changed my mind.


[Edit: 18 Feb 2013
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Ok, he's out of hospital. But he's 90 this year already... What a life he has had.]
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the well-tempered clavier

Listening to Bach is like running your fingers across a tablecloth of rich white cotton, twice doubled over on a dark wooden table, with a glass of white wine standing ready on the side, and a white porcelain bowl of green grapes set in the centre, while the sun pours in the bay windows and the light finds its way to the contented ginger cat, curled up half-asleep on the blue sofa.
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better late than never

So i've just discovered Leslie Cheung, years after his passing. And all because of a random memory of Vietnam. Late to the party, as always. My excuse being that i don't speak Cantonese and so never paid much attention to the Cantopop scene. Which is not much of an excuse, seeing as my Malay ex-colleague likes his music, too, despite not knowing any Chinese at all...
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political protest, singapore-style

They're organising a protest against the White Paper this Saturday -- a landmark event here, possibly the first of its kind in.... decades (?). And no, i am not going to be talking politics on this blog -- just making an observation: that Singapore might possibly be the only place in the world where the organisers of a political protest event are so very solicitous about the welfare of the protestors, yet at the same time so very trusting towards the State...
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Am i the only one who finds these instructions kinda amusing and touching and yet vaguely insulting and maybe even clueless at the same time? As if these grown-up protestors were 10-year-olds about to go on a school excursion to the zoo. And as if the worst thing that could happen to you when you're protesting against your national government is that you'd get wet in the rain, go hungry / thirsty, have your jewellery stolen...
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Things like this make my ambivalence about this place hit an all-time high.
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"As rain is being forecasted unfortunately, do bring an umbrella or a rain coat to stay dry. We hope that you will stay on despite the rain. I will try to ask the stage guy to do up more tents for shelter at the park."
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"Just a little reminder: Don't forget to bring short collapsible umbrella or large black plastic refuse bag with holes cut on the side at your eye level so you can see out when you put it over your head or buy a cheap $2 plastic raincoat from the $2 store. Don't wear anything fancy but use your lousy shoes. Don't forget to bring camera to record this event in the making. Don't bring any offensive weapon of any sort. Don't carry a lot of money or wear expensive jewelleries on you. Beware and report of agent provocatuers out to create trouble amongst the innocent crowd. Be civil, calm and non-violent. Police ourselves is the keyword. Eat something before coming to the event. Bring 250ml bottled water. Thank you."

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追

Memories of Vietnam -- Hoi Ann with its wooden houses and shops, rice fields, ten thousand tailors, beef pho, Saigon Beer, and a conversation with old friends in which i was introduced to this song by the late Hong Kong singer, Leslie Cheung. Great song to be listening to, obsessively, on repeat, while begging for money from your country's National Arts Council.
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night bus

On the coach back to Singapore from Malacca, watching the acres and acres of green flash past outside the bus windows, as the sky slowly darkened until all that could be seen outside were the dark shapes of oil palms and rubber trees, and the occasional glimmer of water from small streams cutting through the plantation grounds. Malaysia is such a beautiful country. And they have so much land. No wonder LKY cried on public TV when we were kicked out. What dreams he must have had.
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i like taking buses at night, especially in foreign countries, especially on long cross-country journeys. The last time was in Norway -- winding through mountain roads, seeing the patches of ice on the slopes, the spirit set at rest by the calm surfaces of mountain lakes stretching into the horizon as the evening sky went from orange-streaked to dark dark blue to almost-black. God i love Norway.
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And just as memorably -- in Morocco, going from city to city on the rattling, rumbling buses, past stretches of nothing with the mountains in the far distance, the PVC seats cracked and knobbly, everything feeling raw and third-world and oh-so-alive, even in the evening quiet. i would love to go back.
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祝你一路顺风

Back from the airport again -- i think i've been to the airport and back more times in the last 6 months than in the 3 or 4 years before this altogether. (*Checks grammar* -- there's something wonky about that sentence that i don't know how to fix right now.....) This time -- saying farewell to a Taiwanese friend from church: after working here for almost 2 years, he's decided to head back there for good, rather than stay longer.
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Apparently, there is no word or phrase in Chinese that means 'goodbye'. The equivalents that we use, literally translated, mean 'we'll/let's meet again'. It's strange, how i'm feeling unaccountably sad over the departure of someone i don't actually really know very well at all. i think this is what it means to be part of a community.
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fugitive pieces

It's been a strange week, full of conversations and encounters that all seem to be pointing to some vague Meaning which has yet to be made manifest. Fugitive pieces: the Population White Paper; the Entwistle bookshelf; talking about social justice (and wondering when we'd start *doing* it); rediscovering Vivaldi; Jeremy Tiang's Chinese middle schools article; the Monsieur Lazhar essay which i nearly didn't submit; the jazz guitarist busking outside Chinatown MRT; seeing Singapore at night as if through a video camera; the conversations about church and community; that Fou Ts'ong interview; washing dishes and reading scripture in church; visiting old mosques and temples; working out summer plans...
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All these bits and pieces, each of which seems so brimful of significance for some reason that i have yet to fathom. It's all starting to feel very strange -- as if i'm looking in on my own life through a layer of sound-proof, reinforced glass. I can't help but think of those times as a child when i visited the polar bear exhibit at the zoo -- how i used to stand with my face pressed against the glass enclosure, the half-tonne bears swimming silently in the blue blue waters just inches from my nose.
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inchoate

inchoate:  adjective \in-ˈkō-ət, ˈin-kə-ˌwāt\
[Etymology: 1530s, from Latin inchoatus, pp. of inchoare, alteration of incohare "to begin," originally "to hitch up," from in- "on" + cohum "strap fastened to the oxen's yoke."]
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1. not fully formed or developed; rudimentary. -> confused or incoherent.
2. Law (of an offence, such as incitement or conspiracy) anticipating a further criminal act.
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Here's T.S. Eliot, whining most eloquently about writing:
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So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years —
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate — but there is no competition —
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
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(from 'East Coker', Four Quartets, by T.S. Eliot)
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