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Twittering
My father wanted many birds but he had few cages, so every so often he would give away a bird he no longer wanted for one that was prettier or sang more sweetly or was simply newer, because new-ness is a good in its own right - right? One bird he couldn't give away because it was dull and brown and did not sing but merely twittered, he freed. It staggered out of its cage in the light of its newfound freedom and stood there in the shining majesty of the world beyond imprisonment, uncertain, and only flexed its atrophying wings at the shoo-ing of my dad. It flew, maybe for the first time in its lifetime, away. For weeks afterwards, atop the small, nondescript rattan cage where it used to live, we would spy the dull, brown bird. Sometimes silent, sometimes twittering as if in prayer, sometimes pecking at the cage begging to be let back in, it stood naked, stripped of its chains, and full of fear. I wondered if it ever wondered, what horrible sin it must have committed, to have been stricken with freedom? Oh, how much of life's meaning it must have invested in the steel shackle on its claw, the same shackle it once strained against!
Happy belated Women's Equality Day, by the way.
August 26 was Women's Equality Day, and so here are the news involving women that made me want to punch a brick wall and wonder what the difference between being not wanting to be a patronising dogmatic "Western ideals" ideologue and a complete moral coward is. 1. I spotted this one because I was looking up material for my abortion project. Pregnant Inmate Forced To Undergo Abortion To Be Eligible for Death Penalty in China Chinese prison officials have forced a pregnant inmate found guilty of transporting heroin to undergo an abortion so that she could be eligible for the death penalty, according to a report published on Wednesday, AFP/Yahoo! News reports. Since under Chinese law, pregnant women cannot be executed, and this woman, you know, needs to die, hell, why not abort the child on her behalf? Have I ever mentioned I fucking hate the Chinese Communist regime? 2. This interests me because it is in Malaysia, and over the past few month there have been much sparring between Islamist, and secularist and moderate forces in the country in the news, always an indication that something is afoot. Examples include TV3’s Sure Heboh carnival being declared haram by Muftis in the country, which PM Abdullah Badawi rebutted, and saying some fatwas may be irrelevent to "modern times" at a Muslim conference. An NGO there called Sisters in Islam urged that "the opinions of the state muftis be viewed as advisory and non-binding". Another move was Abdullah Badawi turning up at a Christian conference, which of course fundamentalists denounced. Here is the latest rally. I think all of you know which group I am rooting for. In chronological order: Make marital rape a crime Every year, more than 70 wives complain that their husbands have raped them but the authorities can do nothing because marital rape is not a crime in Malaysia. Malaysian rape law provokes storm Women's groups in Malaysia have reacted angrily after one of the country's most senior Islamic clerics opposed calls for new laws to protect women from rape within marriage. ... According to the mufti of Perak, women are subject to their husband's desires. A husband has the right to be intimate with his wife and the wife must obey, he told one local newspaper. If she refuses, the woman is "nusyuz" - disobedient. "If the wife refuses, then the rule of 'nusyuz' (disobedient) applies and the husband is not required to provide financial assistance to her," said mufti Harussani Zakaria. He is the mufti of Perak, so ignorance is not something we can ascribe to his views. Suhakam: Wife battering is wrong Rebutting Perak Mufti Datuk Dr Harussani Zakaria’s allegation that it was influenced by western ideology by suggesting that husbands who forced their wives to have sex with them be charged with rape, Suhakam said no religious teachings allowed anyone to be cruel to another person. “The allegation is amusing. No religion condones violence. The prophet set out guidelines on how one should treat his or her spouse. But coercion is not necessarily violence. I found this a most unsatisfactory rebuttal, but one I agree with, at least. 3. Remember the poor Turk girl who was sold to her rapist for the price of a truck? Well here's her compatriot, but this time, a happy ending, which makes it scarier. Rape victim marries jailed attacker THE dusty Berhampur Central jail, 120 miles north of Calcutta, provided the setting for a bizarre wedding last week between a rapist and his victim. The victim faced a life as an outcast, ostracised and stigmatised by Indian society for being on the receiving end of a violent sexual crime. But if her assailant married her, the shame would be lifted in the eyes of the local Muslim community. ... "I took advantage of her weakness and assaulted her while she was alone. What I did was wrong," the apparently repentant Shaikh said at the end of the ceremony. "Now I am happy to get a chance to make amends for the crime I have committed." Khatoon, who looked very happy after the marriage, said: "For that act [of rape] I hated him. Sometimes I felt like I wanted to tear him to pieces. "But I have a different feeling for him now. I have forgiven him because he has chosen me as his wife. I have to love him now." This is the most fucked up thing I have read in months, I thought. It just blew my mind. 4. In the Democratic Republic of Congo, there are 30 _reported_ rape crimes a day. And these are _violent rapes. Those who report them are disowned by their husbands or family, so you can imagine that the actual number is probably much larger. DRC rape victims endure living hell In eastern Democratic Republic of Congo, more than a year after the end of the war in the vast central African country, rape continues to be widespread, steeping its victims in agony while their attackers almost always get off scot-free. ... "There were five of them. They knocked on the door and my husband opened it. They tied up my husband and then gang-raped me, even though I was seven months pregnant," she said. Ndusabe lost her unborn child as a result of the rape. Her genitals and rectum were irreparably damaged in the Caesarean section carried out to remove the dead baby from her womb. She untied the many layers of skirt that she was wearing to show her lower stomach, bloated above a mound of badly stitched scar tissue through which her urine and stools seep out. Ndusabe's husband has left her for another woman, but still visits her. I was wrong about 3. THIS is the most fucked up thing.
Name Me Three Songs
Favourites always change, but there are some songs that will forever retain a special place in your brain and cold, dank heart. Name me three songs that do. I will begin. 1. The Beautiful Ones by Suede Until I heard this song I had no idea what Britpop was about. For a long time I thought of it as the greatest song I've ever heard - but then my musical frame of reference was the likes of the Backstreet Boys. If I heard that song today it probably would not have registered the same way, but I was 15 and it was music. I remember singing this song walking across the bridge with the Chongster and James from Bukit Timah Shopping Centre (or Plaza, I always get confused), and it was simply magic. Ah to be able to hear the tunes the way I once did! Many who are virgins wish they could lose it as soon as possible; but right after they do they wish they had it back, because baby, it's only the first time once. So it is with music. (This was a tough pick because I still like Wonderwall a lot. Interesting that when I look back some of the tunes I loved so much now seem embarassing.) 2. Paranoid Android by Radiohead There was some fucking about with Blur and Oasis and their like before I discovered Radiohead. After hearing Suede I started buying shitloads of music mags with what little money I had and tried to find out more about the "scene", so to speak. So within my circle I was the first to discover Radiohead. Airbag was alright, but Paranoid Android... wow. Because I am still a shallow, poppy person at heart my favourite track on OK Computer is Karma Police, partly because the MTV for it was just cool beyond words. After this I fucked about a bit more, but never kept up after the bookstore I used to buy all the magazines from collapsed from lack of business. The fact it was always empty was why I frequented it. Anyway at the time of writing, I am watching a video of Fake Plastic Trees live. It wears me out... it wears me out... if I could be... who you wanted... if I could be... who you wanted... all the time... all the time... 3. Half A Person by The Smiths First off, I admit part of the reason this song is here is because I don't want ALL the tunes to be from my secondary/junior college days, and the one song that affected me most recently was this one. I must have listened to this one a few hundred times in the past year. Sixteen clumsy and shy... hey Morrissey, that's the story of my life too, man. First of the Gang to Die, from Morrissey's latest album, is really quite fun to listen to, by the way. Now it's your turn folks. So what's the story of your life, in three songs?
Something Familiar
Like Quasimodo and me, the lecturer at one of the courses I am taking at the National Institute of Education (where teachers go to learn and I go to relax) carried with her an eternal hunch, and while she taught she paced about the classroom, mumbling, often incoherently. Her hair was lank straw, which bobbed weakly at her neck, hinting at some sort of fashionable styling that has long lost its original permed lustre, possibly in a wind tunnel. Her frumpiness, I have no doubt, was the result of overwork. I mean, today she opened the class with the words: "I was here at 6.30 in the morning trying to get some papers done..." and closed it muttering: "Man. Just two more hours before I am outta here." Furthermore, her eyes held the haunted look of a stressed academic, and I was told she had the additional misfortune of being the mother of a seven-year-old girl. Since the professor had only one child she must be one of those persons who exercise tremendous restraint, for people as a whole have an alarming tendency to repeat their mistakes, which accounts for that oft-mentioned phrase "Lets try that again, shall we?", and polygamy. After all, if practice makes perfect, then failure only makes you better at failing. Anyway, she had a rather thick Aussie accent, which made it difficult for me to comprehend her rambling drawl, but I thought she was cool - cool because she was one of those people who actually are funny, but you don't know they are, because they joke in such an understated and off-hand manner you only realise they have made a joke only 20 seconds later, at which point the humour is felt but the impetus for laughter is gone - a good thing, for laughing is a very foolish act, most commonly committed by madmen and babies. While I like her, partly because of that and partly because she is very self-deprecating (a very lovely thing and a very unusual one among Ph.Ds), at the same time I am frightened that someone who teaches teachers how to teach, can't. I mean, if you can't teach, what can you do? (Some of them end up in journalism, I've heard.)
Narrative Structure
Narrative Writing 101 Orientation (Setting and Characters): Dull rock band, boat full of passengers, Chicago River Complication (A problem Arises): Shit falls from sky Resolution (How the problem is dealt with): Everyone is disinfected Direct Consequence (The Outcome): Lawsuit Reaction/Coda: Amusement Result
Today is Qiqiaojie
Today is the Chinese equivalent of Valentine's Day. (Because we use the Lunar Calendar, which is funky, it doesn't always fall on the same day on the Roman Calendar.) Just a cool fact.
RIDDLE ME THIS!
This is not the really hard one I was talking about. Imagine an island, where there are only two possible eye colours: brown or blue. It's a small island and so everybody knows everyone else's eye colour. However nobody knows his or her own eye colour, because everyone belongs to a cult that holds that if you discover your own eye colour, you must kill yourself within a day. Whenever someone commits suicide, everyone on the island knows about it immediately. All of the inhabitants are perfect logicians, meaning they will immediately make any deductions that can be made, and all of them are aware of all of these facts, including this one. One day, the truth fairy wanders on the island and gathers all the occupants to her. She says: "I see somebody with blue eyes." What happens? (If you know the answer wait one day before commenting. And don't Google the damned thing, please. Or email me at holy001 at bluebottle.com)
What EXACTLY do people do in Singapore?
I've been trying to sleep for the past hour and couldn't because of this question. Someone help me. Where do you fuckas go to chill out or do stuff in this island of ours, whether by yourself or with a friend? Let us say you are operating under these constraints: 1. Singapore is very hot and humid, so you don't want to be outside too much. Plus it rains. But it is still _okay_. 2. You don't have any money. 3. Shopping with a lot of people is a pain in the ass. Plus you don't have money. Plus you don't really like shopping. Because you have no money. 4. You are lazy and you like to lounge about, but you want _some_ visual stimulation. And it has to be kind of comfortable. And it can't be too crowded. And it can't be boring. However a fast food restaurant is not an option. 5. The sight of Orchard Library strikes fear into your heart. 6. You don't want any alcohol. 7. You don't like karaoke. 8. You don't derive any special utility from food. 9. You don't really want to exercise or "get naked", which means water-related activities are out. 10. Arcades are too noisy. 11. You don't really want to go LAN gaming, because people who do that are scary and frankly it's kinda expensive too. 12. Too much excitement is bad. Clowns are bad. This means no circus or theme parks. They're expensive anyway. 13. You don't like watching shitty movies. 14. You don't want to stay at home or go to anybody's home. 15. You don't want to go too far a distance from home. For some reason the Botanic Gardens is calling out to me. But it violates 1. Or any of the museums here - but they are expensive and decidedly uncomfy, which violates 2 and 4. The Science Centre, the same. Libraries are okay but the one at Orchard just ain't cozy. I know Fleming will suggest a pet shop, but - no. Geylang/Desker/Changi Village/etc are also not acceptable answers. Changi Airport violates 16. So, my Singaporean friends: Where do YOU hang out? Share your secrets, please!
I just realised I haven't posted any funny pictures for a while
So here's a random one I stole from the Internet. 
And in the same vein, here's a random moral dilemma I would like you guys to answer: You have a house full of birds. They aren't caged; they just won't go away. You hate the winged wastrels with a passion but your beloved wife, who is dying of strangulated hemorrhoids, makes you promise her that after she has gone to the great toilet in the sky, you will look after them. She died two days ago. The birds are driving you crazy, in fact, only last night you dreamt that God Almighty Himself told you to drown the feathered fuckers. What do you do?
I've heard this don't impress the chicks none
But if you click here you get access to a nifty website that lets you find out the ranking of words by frequency. I wonder what these results mean: Apotheosis is 39859 : Deification is 60801 Love is 384 : Sex is 1236 No is 51 : Yes is 146 War is 304 : Peace is 1155 Fact is 229 : Fiction is 4378 0712 is Heart : 1982 is Dress Rights is 760 : Duties is 2586 Yawn? (21642) Yeah. (115) Goodnight. (8343)
We look around us when we should be looking at the stars
My bus had arrived, and though it was filled to the brim, like cliches in a politician's speech, I queued anyway. When it was my turn to board a man shoved me aside and took my spot. Rather than suffer the indignity of being squeezed in the space between the door and the man's quite plentiful buttocks, I decided to walk. (I needed to walk, anyway.) Of course, the moment I took my first step, my right ankle started to hurt. I knew my home was nearby, at most several bus stops away (in Singapore that is what we count distance with), but I had no idea where it was precisely. I have lived around here for a few years, yet I didn't know my way home; I knew where I wanted to go, but how to get there, I knew not. A familiar lament, no? But you can't get anywhere, even lost, until you start moving. So I did. I walked. The first thing my feet led me past was an old bus depot (SERANGOON CENTRAL), which had many buses but no people, perhaps because all of them were at the Central itself, which, like all places with an over-abundance of humanity, is brighter in the dusk than in the day. As I weaved about in the spaces between the masses, I saw one store named WONDERFUL TROPICAL COOL, which was right beside a store named WONDERFUL MARKET,where employees in singlets lounged around under rotating fans. People walked past them, but bought nothing. Whatever was wonderful then, sales was probably not it. I walked on, past an old man selling newspapers, and into the cloud of nicotine and tar he had exhaled, and so for a moment he and I shared the same acrid breath in our lungs. Then I slithered down the slope beside the peddler into a well-trafficked coffeeshop, for I needed to use the toilet and coffeeshops inevitably have one, because as we all know, where there are the eats there are the shits. The toilet was nasty, because for some reason they removed the flush. So I walked on, in a rush. I only knew I was on the right path when I saw Serangoon Stadium. It was, what you call, a landmark, or something people use to orient themselves. Nobody has ever discovered where they were by looking at their feet, but a surprisingly large number persist in doing so. Perplexingly, I saw many joggers jogging outside the stadium, quite oblivious to the fact that the stadium was built so that people could do their running inside, which must mean it's true that sweat and toil addles the brain. My right ankle was also hurting quite badly at this stage, but I consoled myself with the jogger adage that pain means you are making progress. Not a jogger then was Epicurus (an old, dead Greek man and therefore a philosopher), because he said: "Pleasure, defined as freedom from pain, is the highest good." But we must all suffer for the paths we take, so I walked on. On my way home, there were a great many houses , built in all sorts of ways. One looked like a little church, some like little Hindu temples, and others, not. What was all the same though, when I searched within them with my gaze, was that their occupants were all sitting on their sofas, enraptured by the television. So this was what the hippies and ecumenists meant when they said that regardless of faith, we all worship the same God. What they didn't know was that He has antennae. Amused at the thought that though we were a million years apart, we were not as different from the ancient tribes of the Ant God that wandered through primeval jungles as we would like to think we are, I walked on. Near the houses there were several shophouses. One was a prata store, named Al-Athar. It sold Muslim food. I knew this because there was large Arabic text all over it, and a star and a crescent on its signboard. I also knew this because its signboard said: MUSLIM FOOD. But even if it did not say that I would still have known. Just a few buildings away was a spooky-looking house, which had large blood-red lanterns in front of its windows and a giant incense burner in its doorway, so of course it had to be a Chinese temple. Don't you see? Signs of difference are also signs of similarity. We think we fear being different; we think we fear being the same. Who truly cares either way? I will tell you what we do fear, and that is the state of being the same as what we want to be different from. That is all. And because I was nearing my destination, I walked on. And on some more. Finally, standing outside my home, I triumphantly reached into my bag for the keys that would let me breach its gates - and found I had none.
A Day to Remember
After reading newspaper report after newspaper report on abortion for a project, I got an SMS from a friend telling me to go play football at a nearby field, and as starved for football as I was, I agreed, and got my brother to go along, mainly because he could drive. After we left the car he said: Hmm. I forgot to put a parking coupon on. Should be okay one lah. Two hours, several blisters, one cracked lip and one parking violation ticket later, we went home. I went upstairs, took a shower and read my emails, and would have written a reply to one of them when mom walked into my room and told me we were going out for dinner. Why, what was the occasion, I asked. She replied that it was her wedding anniversary. It would just be the three of us (mom, dad, me) because brother had to go for some function. You look tired, she asked. Do you want to go? I'm not tired, I said, switching off my computer. I want to go. We went. Dad is a bad driver, and mom loves to remind him of that, over and over. I stared out of the window. I thought about my parents. I thought it strange why I like mom better than dad. Compared to dad, she is boring. Dad is colourful. Dad collects birds obsessively; if he had his way the house would be a goddamned aviary. He spends his time talking to ah peks in the coffeeshops and has even gotten into the occasional fight. He makes up wild stories, insane theories and ficitional characters, such as ah peks who give him birds and people who mistake him for home minister Wong Kan Seng. He goes out every night to "return money" but I imagine he probably goes to Geylang or nightclubs for a fuck or somewhere quiet to masturbate. His dad is a Taoist priest. He annoys waitresses and people seem to remember him. He is arrogant and lazy. His jokes are actually occasionally funny. He ran a software company but does not know how to send email. Mom on the other hand, is a decent human being. Sometimes when she talks, I want to die. She was talking a lot. We were going to eat at a restaurant called Thai Village, which was on the Kallang River, which is near the National Indoor Stadium, which was lit up and its irridescence would leave the river shimmering that night. The stadium is just up ahead, mom said. That can't be, I think I took a wrong turn, said dad. I saw a a sign with an arrow pointing "Stadium". Mom of course was right. My dad has no direction sense, like me. Cannot be, we are on the wrong road, dad insisted, as he drove past another sign saying NATIONAL STADIUM. Look there, mom said, cackling. There it is! There it was indeed. Oh, they must have changed the roads since the Nicoll Highway collapse, said dad. No they didn't, insisted mom. Yes they did, insisted dad. And that is why I insist that I don't want to learn to drive. We circled the stadium for a long time before we found a parking lot, which was right next to the restaurant. The carparks were laced with cars and the human beings they ferried, which was why the stadium was glowing. There was an event and there were people inside. And where there are people, there is light. As I walked to the restaurant, I found it very bright. We were led to a corner table, which only had three seats, which was probably why it was unoccupied. It seemed everyone else brought their entire extended family. I don't know how people could afford it, it cost us $60 each. This was some expensive shit for lower middle-class folks like us. Maybe many people got married that day. We sat down. What do you want, mom asked me. Anything, I said, lying. We shall have sharksfin, said dad. I know all about the cruelty of the sharksfin trade, where some fishermen slice the fins off the shark and then throw the now finless predator back into the ocean so it dies a slow and agonizing death, like so many of its prey. But sharksfin is oh so delicious. So, fuck fish. During dinner, because it was their anniversary, I asked my mom: When did you two marry? In 1979, she said. Three months after we married we conceived you. So soon? I said. I had forgotten. Why did you decide to have a kid so soon? Why? What why? The only reason to get married is to have children and start a family, isn't it? Or why get married? Just enjoy single life if you don't want children yet, she said. I had nothing to say to that; I could not find within me any reason to disagree. Things have changed, times are different, added dad superfluously. Now you know from whom I inherited my ability to state the obvious. Of course, anything that is obvious is wrong, right? Then mom said excitedly: Look at the angmoh! (The white boy there!) I didn't turn around. This is 21st Century Singapore, mom, there's nothing special about a white person in a Chinese restaurant. No, he is so red! Look how he scratches his head! I turned around. A young Caucasian male was leaving the restaurant with his family. A woman, who looked like his mother, was petting him on his back, consoling him. The table they were leaving was filled with half-eaten food: seafood whose only existential purpose was to be a delightful snack. Sometimes though, they strike back, like in this case. The poor afflicted white boy was obviously allergic to something, as his face looked like a pimply cherry, and his scalp had to be raw from all his scratching. I remembered a line from a message I once received and I laughed unexpectedly. Divine retribution, I thought. A sign from God! Did he not know that He once told His people that they were not to eat sea creatures without fins or scales? Ah, the terror that is sea cucumber! Maybe that was why his face was red; it was red from sin. I am the same when I drink too much alcohol, by the way, perhaps for the same reason. Like me after drinking, Chinese marriages are also crimson, drunken and incoherent. Hainanese marriages are the worst, said mom, giggling, her face partly hidden behind the steam from a claypot of duck feet (they are very tasty). Dad laughed. You see, before you enter a Chinese wedding, you present to the hosts a hongbao. With us Hainanese, we open the red packet right as you present it, and announce how much is in it, so everyone nearby can hear it. It is quite clever as it forces people to be generous. It is also quite tasteless, like what mom cooks. Ah Tan, fifty dollars! said mom, reminiscing. Dad picked up from there: Okay Ah Tan, go sit at the white tables! The red tables are only for people who give hongbaos of at least $70! We all laughed, even I, with the chapped lip. It was so ridiculous!
A Nine-Minute-Thirty-Nine-Second Love Song
Recently I came across the band called The Good Life, and I have listened to their latest album, titled Album of the Year, and it has come pretty damn close to living up to its name, for me. Tim Kasher is now my new favourite lyricist. The ninth track is my favourite song from the album. It is the only song that's sung by a girl. I have no idea who she is. I do know the name of the track though, it is Inmates. For you, you dirty lovehounds, here is the first stanza: When you said you loved me, did you really love me or did the words just spill out like drool on my pillow? 'Cause I was naked when you said those words, but I felt covered in your whispered worship. And as you passed out fast on my shoulder, I imagined a child waiting so sad and still for his mom to arrive. Did she leave you an orphan, in that big, brown leather chair? Said, "Don't you move a muscle, kid, I'll be back in twenty years," You were scared, you were lonely, but you must've been aware; life is a series of calluses, this is just another layer. So, build 'em up, tough it out, yeah, that's your skin - don't let anyone under there. If you want to hear it, send me a message on the Mercora network when I am online and I'll play it for you.
In every house a mystery
Mom was back for lunch, and the maid had cooked some fried noodles. I was scooping some of it when mom entered the kitchen. She looked at the noodles I had in my plate and she said: "Hmm. The maid is quite amazing. I've never bought fishcakes yet she always has fishcakes in her cooking. We don't have any bean sprouts in the house and," picking up some brussel sprouts, "she always finds bean sprouts to put in the noodles. Where the heck does she get all these ingredients?"
In my country there is problem
The problem is no Borat Click here for Throw the Jew down the Well. (FUNNY!) Geek Bonus: [13:35] shagga: what's it about? in counterstrike there is problem? [13:35] oviraptor11: yes [13:35] oviraptor11: the problem is the n00b [13:35] oviraptor11: they camp and take the AWP and never come out Soon, FMJ shall return!
We are all going to die clutching our throats
I was going to sleep when I saw an intriguing link in the forums I frequent. It is to an article in the Scotman about how scientists are alarmed at the increase in melt rate of ice in Greenland. According to the article, Greenland’s cover of ice is melting ten times quicker than previously thought. Greenland has 772,000 square miles of ice which is up to 1.9 miles thick, and if all of that melted sea levels would rise 7 metres, destroying unimportant cities like, oh, London and Singapore. Of course, the New Scientist had to have an article titled Ancient Rome's fish pens confirm sea-level fears that said that "all the rise in sea level since Roman times has happened in the past 100 years, and is most likely the result of human activity". And the Sacramento Bee story titled Experts: West is feeling the heat that described the effects global warming is having on the American West. There should be a limit on the number of pessimistic climate- and water-related stories news agencies are allowed to disseminate in a single day!
I didn't do it on purpose, I swear
On a crowded train, an unoccupied seat is godsend. So when one appeared in a sea of strangers, immediately and with great precision I launched my buttocks at it to claim it as my own. Now firmly entrenched I reached into my bag for the notes I had been meaning to read. I had only just finished reading them (I only had the last section unfinished when I boarded the train) when a plump, middle-aged couple plunked themselves down to my right, which had just been vacated by the departure of the previous occupants, and proceeded to sleep. Now in my hands was Everything is Illuminated, a book I was made to promise to finish, and you can't finish something until you begin. At this point the rather large woman to my right was exhibiting an alarming tendency to lurch to my side as she slept, and as she began to encroach on my space I tried to avoid being crushed by leaning to the left, but not too much, a pretty schoolgirl sat in that direction. I did not want to accidentally touch her, as I was afraid she'd think I was doing it on purpose and scream molest, because I knew cute girls always attribute to ugly boys the basest intentions (or is it the other way round?). So if you sat opposite me you would have seen a young man trying to read, with his body slanted like a clock's hand at the 1 o'clock position, while the person to my right (and thus your left) would be oscillating between 2 o'clock and noon. Her head would hit my shoulder, bounce off, and she'd jerk into an upright posture, before her cheek descended inexorably my way again. I wanted to scream. Finally at Chinese Garden the schoolgirl got off, and with both gratitude and relief I shifted to her now vacant seat, now free of the intrusions of the roly-poly shoulder-pounder. Relaxed I stretched out my feet and concentrated on reading my book and not on dodging an inverted human pendulum. So you cannot blame me for having to surpress a vindictive giggle when my slumbering tormentor tripped over my feet when she tried to alight at Lakeside.
Family Lunch
"Why are you still sleeping? Wake up, wake up, I told you we are going for lunch. Hurry up. I am going to take a shower first. You are next," said my mother. I gestured weakly with my index finger to indicate my waking. My eyes however remained firmly fixed on the back of my eyelids. A moment later I heard her walk out. An indeterminate amount of time passed before I heard my brother enter. "Knn, you still sleeping ar? What time already? You don't want to go eat arr?" he said. I opened my eyes and peeped from under the sheets. He had already bathed. He wore a t-shirt that was too big and a red cap that was too small. He was wearing the cap because the commanding officer of his camp had ordered the whole unit to shave their heads. Of course the CO exempted himself from the order. So the if you wanted to know who was in charge of the unit, you only have to find the one uniformed man with a full head of hair. Groggily, I looked behind me, at the time. It was already noon. I had been asleep for twelve hours. "Okay I am awake already, I will be ready soon," I told my brother, who was looking not at me but at his reflection in my cabinet. He left. I yawned. I started screaming a medley of '80s Mandarin songs. I crawled out of bed, to the floor, to the cabinet, picked out a t-shirt, and to the shower. As I soaped I could feel my skin wrinkle. Did you know that the rate at which your skin "prunes" up in the water can be used to find out whether you are suffering from nerve damage? I bet you didn't. They were already in the car when I was done. Through the windscreen I could see their faces. On their faces they wore the look of people who had waited too long. I picked up my shoes and entered the vehicle. As the car backed out of the gate my mother said: "You didn't close the door again." "I forgot," I said. "You always forget, you don't care," she said. "Sorry," I said, but I made no indication that I was going to get off the car and close the door. Neither did she make any indication that she would stop for me. We were off. --- At this point I feel compelled to include a Mercora chat log. I am shagga. Jiayi is oviraptor11. [17:35] shagga: would you give GWB a blowjob if it would end world hunger? [17:36] oviraptor11: FUCK NO [17:36] oviraptor11: those starving children can suck it --- I loved the restaurant. The passageway was tiled by green translucent slabs with Chinese poetry on it. I understood none of the words. My brother noted that there were seven slabs in all, and talked about Cao Pi and his Seven-Steps Poem. Cao Pi was a Three Kingdoms prince, who was forced by a brother to make up a poem within seven steps, or he would kill him. Every Chinese person who has even a vague memory of his education here knows the poem. A waiter led us to our seats. There were some sofas with Chinese calligraphy emblazoned all over it, black on grey. But we got the wooden seats, black as coal. This wasn't one of those Chinese restaurants that were overly bright and overly red, a style I am sure was never favoured by Chinese people with taste. Strange how most traditions have nothing to do with the people we supposedly inherited them from. A pretty woman was playing the pipa. I never actually saw her face, but she had to be good-looking, because her music was so sweet. Also, it was a restaurant serving Yangzhou cuisine, and there is a Chinese saying that goes: Beauties come from Yangzhou. My handphone beeped. Somebody had sent me a message wishing me a better day than yesterday, but yesterday wasn't such a bad day. Yesterday I watched a play, something I had not done in years, though I used to be in Chinese Drama. The stories were boring, except for the last one. They were all about adultery and love. I think the stories were supposed to be edgy. But my father is more edgy. He was annoying a waitress, as he always does. She looked like she was on edge. Mom had made dad come here from work. He was here because we needed someone to pick up the tab. That's what adult men are for; that is all they are good for. I realise not for the first time I have been an adult man for quite some time. I poke at the handphone's buttons to make a reply. As we finished the order, a beautiful woman in a qipao (or a cheongsam) picked up a microphone, and started to sing. There was no stage so she stood in our midst. There is nothing more beautiful than a beautiful woman, except a beautiful woman in a qipao, and nothing more beautiful than that, except when she has a beautiful voice. Beauty is additive. When she was done, we clapped. "Thank you very much, I hope you enjoyed that song," she said in mainlander Chinese. She sang too loud. She would sing again, later. I suppose she would still be singing after we were gone. We were served. We ate. The food was delicious. "I hope you enjoyed that," mom said, in the car, on the way home. "We won't get a cake this year, okay, since -" "I don't want a cake anyway," I replied.
Nobody will click on the links and read them
Well, except maybe Jiayi. Hey bro, when are you heading back to our Asian backwater, oi? But I am going to post them anyway. As you all know, I am usually three years behind the rest of the world when posting links, but I still do so anyway. Anyway this morning, I woke up, decided to surf the Web as usual, and found a quite fantastic site at the Edge Foundation. So far I've only read one article, which was about contrasting views between the "underlying functions of our minds", "THE TWO STEVES"- Pinker vs. Rose - A Debate, and while I found it very informative, you should read it for the sheer bitchiness that rival academics exhibit when you make them criticise each other's ideas. It was also interesting how little their stands differed from each other, if you read closely. Pinker seemed to know his stuff better than Rose and his stand is a little bit more interesting, but there were some parts where I thoroughly agree with Rose. Pinker responded to a question about love and essentially gave a purely evolutionary speculation. Yeah, we all know love is a chemical cocktail in the brain - but what does that explain? (Note that the introduction is kind of biased, and I've been unable to find which year this debate took place.) The next article I was interested in is CHILDREN DON'T DO THINGS HALF WAY: A Talk by Judith Rich Harris. Judith Rich Harris wrote The Nurture Assumption, a book that asserted that "how parents rear the child has no long-term effects on the child's personality, intelligence, or mental health". (This finding was mentioned in The Two Steves.) This is a book that's on my "to get" list, and I would have got, and read, were I not a stupid, lazy bastard. However, here's a Slate debate she had with Harvard psychological professor Jerome Kagan where he insists her evidence is selective, The Nature of Nurture: Parents or Peers? Interesting tidbit I found in the article that I will quote here: HARRIS: Sure. And there's no question that parents act differently toward a healthy child and a sick one, or to a larger child and a smaller one. But if these differences in parental behavior had long-term effects, we would have known about them a long time ago, because they would have turned up in birth order studies. There's no question that parents treat older children differently from younger ones, and firstborns differently from laterborns. These are systematic differences in parental behavior, not random ones, so if they had important effects it would be easy to detect them. JB: You mean, because parents tend to favor firstborns? HARRIS: No, I mean parents are more demanding with firstborns. Firstborns are given more responsibility; more is expected of them; they tend to be punished more harshly for mistakes. Parents are more tolerant of laterborns. Well, fuck. Lastly, while scouring Google for "The Nurture Assumption" I found this Mar 19, 1999 article in Salon, The Nurture Assumption, which had nothing to do with the book at all. Rather, and I quote, it is about this: A woman borrows a baby to test her theory that some people don't want to have children, the way others don't want to hear Michael Bolton.
Nonsense
Why Write Every so often when I believe I have a coherent thought, I try to write it down and find I cannot: Maybe it was not as coherent as I thought. Madmen Fanatics of a religion think their Book compels them to bring about an Apocalyptic day; the enemies of that religion think exactly the same way. Convictions None of us could sleep comfortably without our hopes as a blanket against truth's chill. Fact If we were honest we would let facts shape our worldview and not the other way round. But few men are honest. Contradiction The opposite of a virtue is not necessarily a vice. Utopia Dismantle the system and the world will be fine, the man preaches; and so the world teeters from cataclysm to cataclysm, for every delusion that comes into fashion. To quote Karl Popper: "Do not allow your dreams of a beautiful world to lure you away from the claims of men who suffer here and now. Our fellow men have a claim to our help; no generation must be sacrificed for the sake of future generations."
Fuck You, Internet
The copy is gone. I was sure I had sent it. Now I have to rewrite the entire thing. Also, now I know it takes ONE FUCKING WEEK before the lecturer decides to OPEN A FUCKING EMAIL. Life sucks so fucking hard. Received on Tue 8/10/2004 6:36 PM From: XXXXXXXXX Sent: Tuesday, August 10, 2004 6:36 PM To: XXXXXXXX Subject: RE: CS412 Class Assignment 1 (Aug 4, 2004) No attachment, please submit your assignment as soon as possible. -----Original Message----- From: XXXXXXXXXX Sent: Wednesday, August 04, 2004 12:20 PM To: XXXXXXXXX Subject: CS412 Class Assignment 1 (Aug 4, 2004) Here is my homework.
The Big Thirty Nine
August 9, 2004. National Day. A year ago I sat at home staring at the TV, watching paratroopers jump from their planes and secretly hoping their parachutes would fail, and they would fall, and I would laugh. I watched little men in little green uniforms, and I would laugh too, because I was once one of them. And that was great. Hard to believe it was five years ago when I boarded that bus, chased by sargeants screaming "Faster! Faster! Move it! Move it!" from behind the National Stadium, together with a platoon of men slick with sweat and camouflage, the vapours of our bodies rising as a mist in the air-conditioned air. It was over and we were singing -because it was National Day, damnit, our job was done, and we were truly brothers, for a little while. As the engine revved, the traditional fireworks were unleashed and the skies exploded, kaleidoscopic. The bus tilted as we surged to the windows by the side to witness the magic you can get by mixing charcoal, sulfur and potassium nitrate with sky and just a little spark. The stadium flashed red, orange, green and blue as we drove off, leaving the celebrations behind us. Odd that what can make so beautiful a sight uses the same forces that launch ICBMs and propel bullets. A year later, I sat on my fast craft on the river, now wearing blue not green, cruising silently only metres beside the big black barge my boat was supposed to watch. A huge hydraulic pump rested in the front deck of the boat, and I wondered how useful it would be, for the barge was pregnant with gunpowder, and if it exploded, the fire would have been quite unstoppable. Plus, maybe I'd be too dead to do anything. "This is going to be fucking great," my coxswain told me. I nodded, yeah, as I closed the hatch to the engine room (a real gutter) and - - the first WHIIRRRR of a rocket, then bang! and whoosh! and I heard myself shout "FUCK WOW!" And again! And again! The cosmic glitter was so close - my God - I believed that if I reached out I could touch them. I swore if I swam, I'd burn, for the waves were aglow. A fellow mechanic said over the radio: "Jesus this is so awesome!" Damn right it was. They were some of the best times of my life. (... and that was why we had to go see the pretty lights.) Happy National Day.
News is entertainment, Truth is what we want it to be
How easily we - we who know nothing, and are certain of everything - forgive in our allies, what we condemn in our rivals.
She said I had to write this down
After watching The Return, an enjoyable if enigmatic movie, Cisoux and I went to the cafe at Orchard library to have a drink and a quick bite. I had only finished ordering my food and I had only sat down for a moment when a well-groomed man with a huge instrument on his back came up to me, and said: "Hi, I really enjoy reading your articles." Shocked, I muttered: "Erm, thanks." Then he walked back to where he was seated, on the other end of the cafe, with his date. I turned to mine. She said: "Wow." I won't repeat the conversation here because I would look megalomaniacal. Cisoux would probably be able to say it better. Too bad I am not sure if I should continue writing for the newspaper.
If only you would understand, then you would believe
ED: Very incomplete draft of a story that I would have written for the goddamned Chicken Soup class if I were still in it. After all, they were writers, and no one would keep writing if they did not possess a vast over-estimation of their self-worth - and writers the school contained a-plenty. Unsurprisingly the student body of this school included a large segment of single-sex secondary school graduates, because those in charge of education in the nation were convinced that segregation was the answer to developing an academic elite. It was successful, for knowledge they had in abundance, and it was pure and untampered by unimportant things like reality and perspective. In terms of eloquence, they were without peer. In other words, this bunch was completely insufferable. One of its products, a gangly misfit named Gabriel, was more of a writer than most. He loved himself little, but he loved his utterances a lot, and would inflict upon those he considered friends with his disjointed ramblings often, with the result that the number of who would regard him as a friend has thinned considerably. This he minded little, because he took the Bible's commandment that "You shall love your neighbour as yourself" very seriously. He would have done well to pay heed to Kierkegaard's explanation that properly understood the commandment also says that "You shall love yourself the right way", but Gabriel was a literal man when it suited him. Still, he was clever enough that he never publicly displayed his low-esteem of others among his friends except in the fashionable way of dismissing those in the more useful crafts, like engineering, as mere worksmen; or more enjoyably by pointing out the foibles of those in rival peer groups. So when he strode back to school after a blissful holiday filled with books, porn and solitude, he did so with a grave sense of loss and longing for those halcyon days. Everything he wore was black - Nikes shoes generic socks, Giordano jeans, underpants and a shirt he stole from his father - yet he managed to somehow look mismatched. As the mismatched fool dodged acquaintances and enemies alike, he plotted the path of least humanity towards the lecture theatre, while reciting mentally his favourite verse from the Copenhagen existentialist: "Then is learning not evil? Is it not an invention of us men because we have no desire to understand what is only too easy to understand - an invention by means of which we are strengthened in... shirking and hypocritical evasion?" As he found himself seated, and the familiar drone of how an apple really wasn't an apple but only part of a vast hegemonic conspiracy to subjugate the mindless masses washed over him, he realized how right in part Kierkegaard, ripped out of context, was (he was only speaking of the believer's need for a more comfortable interpretation of the Bible and not education as a whole), and how wrong. He was _here_, at this very moment, because he wanted a fucking degree, and for no other reason. He wondered if it was more depressing if he was alone in this, or if he was not. And as his mind wandered, the lecture passed him by. "If only you would understand, then you would believe," read the headline of a pamphlet that was handed out to him on his way to the library. Since it was the first week of school, various groups were out in force to rein in the lost sheep to their flock, which was of course the only True Flock. Gabriel glanced at it, crumpled it, and threw it into the nearest dustbin, still in view of the people who had handed it to him. "How rude," they muttered, but he never heard it. He was wondering, as he slouched past an array of goodies, enthusiastically peddled: If they were so convinced as to the inevitability of their cause why the need for crass bribery - cakes, cups of Milo, bookmarks, t-shirts, friendship? To be continued, if I can be bothered. Don't bother to try to answer the last question by the way.
Perspectives on Malaysia, Islam and Democracy For Your Reading Pleasure
I fell asleep at around 9pm today, and woke up at 1am, and has been unable to sleep since. So I woke up and started surfing the web, as I always do. Because of recent events in Malaysia that I found quite disturbing, I decided to focus my reading on these events. Here are the results for your reading pleasure. For some background, it is to be remembered that generally, Malaysia is considered one of the successes of democracy for the Muslim world. The fact that it is a key site and its proximity to my own nation is why I think we need to keep up with events there. In recent years, despite the defeat of PAS in the last election, the main political party UMNO seems to be shifting towards Islamism, as a means to win votes, which would be alright if not for the fact that there are lots of non-Muslims in Malaysia, (more than 35% I think) with two large states, Sabah and Sarawak, having Muslims as a minority. Eg. Last year, Badawi called Malaysia an Islamic state. (For a pretty good overview of events, though the article was written in 2001, I thought leftist pro-democracy political commentator Farish A Noor's No bated breaths for result of out-Islamising race was pretty good. He's idealistic as fuck and oftentimes too critical of the USA's policies but he's alright.) I will be using links mainly, because frankly this is a subject, like most others, that I know very little about. First off, the news event two weeks ago was outlined, in a very truncated AFP article titled Four who renounced Islam lose appeal in top court . This is a potentially landmark ruling. Here is a good overview of events, from an evangelical Christian perspective, titled MALAYSIA: THE GREAT APOSTASY DEBATE. Note that the courts avoided the question the apostates asked, whether the Malaysian constitution includes the right for a Muslim to renounce Islam and whether they are immune from Syariah law, deeming it irrelevant. More optimistically, Badawi appeared at a Christian conference to call for moderation, in a Bahrain Times article titled Resist attempts by extremists to hijack religions: Badawi. It is the first time the World Council of Churches has held a conference in a Muslim-majority country, and the fact they chose Malaysia says something important. Flags from all the countries where Christians live were flown, and this included an Israeli one. I can't imagine any other Muslim-majority nation's leader speaking at a conference with an Israeli flag in it. Can you? KL-based lawyer Karim Raslan at the IHT wrote a column that made interesting comparisons between the Malaysian and Saudi experiences, titled Muslims need Saudi change - but slowly. And since we're reading the IHT anyway, here's Philip Bowring's argument for secularism titled To be modern, Malaysia needs to be secular. On the other side, Salbiah Ahmad criticizes Singaporean multi-culturalism in Malaysia Kini titled: A tale of two neighbours, arguing that the Singaporean leadership paints a binary picture of Islam - either extreme or moderate. It also goes to show that in both countries, the rights of the majority intrude on the minority - on Muslims in Singapore and non-Muslims in Malaysia. I've always thought that if you wanted to know your country well, look no further than the opinions your neighbours have of you. Singaporeans often bristle at the Malaysian view. Well, I think the Malaysians have got us down pretty good. For a fairly optimistic view, here is a May 2002 article from the New Internationalist which tackled the thorny issue of Islam and Democracy by Abdelwahab El-Affendi titled Do Muslims Deserve Democracy? He argues there is no contradiction at all. Another what I think would be a very optimistic view is at the Muslim Democrat newsletter available at the Center for the Study of Islam and Democracy. I've yet to read any of them, I've only skimmed the May issue, which had little mention of Malaysia and thus not within the scope of this post. Plus it's 5.17am and I've got class at 9.30am so cut me some slack. (I think the writers are generally liberals or moderates who believe in reform.) Since we're on the topic of religious liberals, read Karen Armstrong's article called Cries of rage and frustration, written in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks, that religious extremism or fundamentalism (not just Islamic), is a "reaction against rational, secular modernity" and that "when it is attacked, fundamentalism becomes more extreme". As recent events seem to indicate, she is right. And finally, I saved the most polemical for last. Ex-BBC news editor and Guardian and Spectator (a right-wing mag) columnist Rod Liddle argues that "the idea that war would bring democracy to the Middle East is as absurd as all the other reasons given for invading Iraq" in an article that I am sure will offend your sensibilities titled: No such thing as a free Muslim. He says that "Malaysia is the only Muslim country in the world with a tradition of democracy, albeit democracy of a somewhat paternalistic kind. However, it is a democracy in spite of Islam rather than because of it." I advise breathing deeply before reading this one. Especially before reading the last paragraph. So, is the lack of any working democracy and outbursts of fundamentalism the result of Armstrong's idea that it is the result of a backlash by reactionary elements against secular modernity, Noor's idea that it is "due to the constant interference and meddling in its internal affairs by external powers bent on securing tactical leverage as well as protecting their own selfish material interests" or Liddle's idea that Islam and Democracy are intrinsically at odds with one another? Or something else that I missed in my four hours of sleeplessness? Can Malaysia become truly democratic and pluralistic, and what should "religious freedom" mean for the hypothetical majority Muslim and democratic state? And will I collapse before I enter class today because of utter lack of sleep?
Slow Reader
Why am I writing when I ought to be reading? I am doing so because I am a very bad reader; my mind goes astray constantly. Having put down the collection of Saki's short stories I had been reading, which I abandoned with four short stories to go as I could stand the oppressive malevolence in his writing no more, I started on Steven Pinker's The Blank Slate. After the first chapter I started running around talking to myself. You see, I have a disease. It's called the Jump Up Oh Syndrome, so-called because after I read a passage I leap and holler "OH!" Its symptoms include an erroneous belief in one's own knowledge of the subject one is reading, the urge to link the newfound theory with the conditions of one's existence, and an urgency to display one's ignorance for all the world to see. Here was the dialogue with myself: Fucking Descartes. Cogito Ergo Sum my nuts. He is a clever guy, positing that the fact that one thinks presupposes that one surely has a mind, but the existence of one's body is uncertain, because even a disembodied consciousness can imagine a physical form. It is a lot like Zhuang Zi's parable where a man dreamt that he was a butterfly, and asked him what it meant. Zhuang Zi, or some other dead old Taoist guy, asked him how he knew he was human dreaming he was a butterfly, and not now a butterfly dreaming he was human? Descartes helped promoted a duality in the idea of human nature, that the human mind and the human body were separate things and the mind operated at a level beyond that of the body. Hobbes thought otherwise. He felt the mind and the body were one and the same. We are machines - highly sophisticated machines - but nothing more. Descartes and proponents of the Blank Slate - the idea that there is no real underlying human nature, that everything is a social construct - generally hold sway in all the courses I have ever attended here and in NIE. These three years, I have never heard anyone question the sociological and psychological concepts we are fed, or wonder how one-dimensional it is, in relation to the huge bias towards behaviourist thought. (In class anyway, I am sure they do so in private.) This is odd because in a designer pill-popping world where Prozac can numb the soul and Viagra can stiffen a man's self-esteem, the evidence that our bodies and our minds cannot be looked upon as separate concepts is overwhelming. And genes! How ever did the idea that the traits we inherit from our parents are primarily the result of social imprinting become uncontested in an entire discipline?
Life in a Concrete Cage
The day started promisingly, if any day that starts on three hours of sleep can be so described. I set the alarm for 6.30am but mercifully I remained deaf to the world until 7am, when I crawled out of bed to a combination of a clock's flagging rings and my mother's shrill enthusiasm. She said: "The new parakeet your dad brought back is soooo cute! If you leave a newspaper inside its cage before it sleeps it will crawl underneath it and lie a-sleeping. When I went downstairs and turned on the night to the kitchen I saw it crawl out of its blanket, and so I switched the lights off. Later, when I came back, I tried calling out to it - it wouldn't respond. SOooOOOo CUuuUTE!" (There was no other way to describe her undulating shriek.) Well, I thought, at least one animal in the house is enjoying its repose. (The parakeet is named Awang, because Wang4 means prosper in Chinese and money in Malay, and we called him that because we're Chinese and relating everything to money is what we do.) When I returned home from school I slumbered from exhaustion that was more than just physical, but while I awoke refreshed I remained cranky and very uncompanionable; but when I went downstairs for a dinner that I ate very little of, I caught sight of the sleepy parakeet. My mom had informed me, again after I had just woken, that the maid had not lain a newspaper in its cage so Awang had knocked over one of its feeding boxes, and crawled into it to sleep. The sight was a most charming and cheerful thing, and would lift the spirits of even the most leaden cynic. Awang, a tiny, red and green thing, had its head inside the tan container, and the rest of its body stuck out, unmoving. It was only when I turned on the light to dispel the dusk that it stirred and popped out of the box to stare at me, almost annoyed. Will you turn off the light please, can't you tell I am sleeping? it seemed to be telling me. After I related the tale to another charming and (somewhat) cheerful thing, she said, quite emphatically: "I am sure a human soul resides inside that bird." And who would dispute that? And you know what? It is an attribute I can't in honesty ascribe to some of the people I know. "It's a really sad thing that it is trapped inside that cage," she later added. I agreed, hollowly. My mom had said that the previous owner of the parakeet had let it fly around his home, which meant he had to clean up its droppings at the end of every day. He would whistle whenever he wanted its presence and obediently it would flutter its wings to its owner's shoulders. It never attempted to leave the house. But if it never left was its freedom not reneged still? Yet if it was caged before at least it was in a prison bounded only by its own choice. Perhaps someday I can say the same.
Afterthought
The fact we need and are, indeed, drawn to other human beings as a matter of instinct created the hydra called society, to put it very simply. But though society frees man from the desolation of untamed nature, it does so by chaining us to a beast of an admittedly somewhat more temperate nature; but we are enslaved all the same. The nature of the aforementioned beast is easy to decipher - just stand in front of a looking glass, and stare. It inevitably stares back. There is no avoiding its gaze. The tribe I currently belong to is known to all others as NTU SCI, charitably noted sometimes as an institute of higher learning. Here, the interplay of personalities makes school but a microcosm of the many-headed thing above. And after a week back, I have come to the conclusion that I am not a social being, and if I were to be given the choice I would like to withdraw from this tribe, and to abandon all its strange rituals and mores, all of which are beyond my ability to understand or enact. Somebody once said there is nothing lonelier than to be alone in a crowd. How true! It is not the companionship of these acquaintances I miss, but the inability to adapt that stings. How awful it is to be regarded only as an afterthought! I would rather not be thought of at all. --- "When you find human society disagreeable and feel yourself justified in flying to solitude, you can be so constituted as to be unable to bear the depression of it for any length of time, which will probably be the case if you are young. Let me advise you, then, to form the habit of taking some of your solitude with you into society, to learn to be to some extent alone even though you are in company; not to say at once what you think, and, on the other hand, not to attach too precise a meaning to what others say; rather, not to expect much of them, either morally or intellectually, and to strengthen yourself in the feeling of indifference to their opinion, which is the surest way of always practicing a praiseworthy toleration." --- Arthur Schopenhauer, Counsels and Maxims
I put in more effort for these things than you think I do
The commentary I am hoping to write about the decline of reading books (and why it really isn't the cultural Apocalypse Mr Solomon's article in NYT implied) simply isn't moving along, and while scouring the Internet for inspiration I came across a poem which was so apt I had to post it. A Man in Love Unable to read his love's ironic smile, he reads a book about love. Love on the open page has neither scent nor texture but is bursting with meaning. He closes the book and sighs, then goes out to his judo lesson. The teacher rebukes him, shouting, "Read your partner's moves!" That night, refused a kiss by his sweetheart, he thinks, "This world is full of things we have to read. Compared to reading a person's heart, reading books is a snap." But shouldn't we remind ourselves that we read words in order to read what are not words? He goes back to reading about love, sighing, and using a condom for a bookmark. (written by Shuntaro Tanikawa, translated by William I. Elliot and Kazuo Kawamura) Other poems available here.
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