Gifts
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Considering that some of my colleagues received cabbages and watermelons as Teachers' Day presents, I'm guessing mine is not that quirky, although there are some unusual ones worthy as Blog-fodder.
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Yes. I can feel it. Some of them are strong in The Force, considering these stuffs they bequeathed upon me.
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Six Star Wars keychains for one car key. Cool.
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The ultimate Jedi apparel.
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Some of them even prescribed me a healthy, balanced nutrition (below) - a recommended sustenance for a Jedi Knight.
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One even provided a spiritual relief...
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... while a trio hopes for me to expand my vocabulary of expletives in a foreign tongue.
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I got real and fake apples...
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... and breakfast as well. Without milk, of course.
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To further saturate my cerebral hemisphere, I got a couple of books too - Jedi knights must be well versed in literary aspects - ...
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... and a list of countries ( 238 of 'em ) beginning from A to Z. Just in case I need them during lessons.
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I even got a certificate to prove my Jedi intuition...
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...as well as a Certificate of my Secondary School Jedi Exam Results.
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My L1R5 above says 6 points. Whoa. That means I can go to the best Jedi College (JC) on this island.
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That'll crack me up. Or this will.
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It's always a good sign to see students applying their knowledge on common stuffs...
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... and how normal red pens get dressed up pretty nicely around this time of the year.
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There were also flowers in all colours, shape and symmetry with little cards attached to them.

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Of greater significance, especially to me, are those letters and cards - some are typed, others with neat and scrawled handwritings - that really inspires.

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At the end of the day ( no matter how lousy it has been, by the way ), it is those words on those cards and letters that really made the difference.

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I really cannot say how much it has brought a new sense of self-belief in me, or how much I have impacted people's lives thereafter.

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Perhaps this is the defining moment in a teacher's career.

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That the wonderful things that has happened is because I only need to believe in my students, and they, in me.

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Like a certain song goes; Do I make you proud?

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I want to believe that I did.

The Illicit Consternation of Rain
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On the way to work - which would have taken twenty minutes, max - on Thursday morning, I was greeted by

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(i) really bad weather, which then cause;

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(ii) really bad jams, which then cause;

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(iii) really bad traffic, which then cause;

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(iv) really bad problems for some really old cars - one, which then suddenly stalled IN FRONT of me - which then cause;

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(v) a really bad situation for me to filter out, since I was so damn close to his bumper, which then cause;

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(vi) really bad, expletive-laden situations to take place amidst the struggle to filter out from the jammed lane in a local hurricane on the PIE, which then cause me to be;

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(vii) really, really late.

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Daniel Powter was so right in coming on air on 98.7 FM just then.

The Idiosyncrasies of Art Exhibitions
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I tell ya, once you've been to an official opening of an artist's gallery of works, you've seen them all.
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It's like they took a template from the first art gallery opening during the Stone Age, and photocopy it down till the present day. Right down to the same suspiciously-looking crowd you swore they existed before Confucius was born.

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It also helps to hold your Beaujolais red or Vouvray white wine in your hands in a Rodin's Thinker pose while you pathetically attempt to look quizzical and cheem-ified when dissecting the paintings in front of you and asking yourself what the hell is on the canvas besides paint.

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You're also expected to actually be knowledgeable in some form of art history when the open commentary begins. If not, just standing while looking intelligent and interested is the best bet yet to blend with the rest of the arty-farty masses.

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Notice how some people actually become hypnotized - tranced, even - into some pieces of work. Like the paintings actually embodied their surreal existence around people into an enclosed space of some astral proportions.
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The picture clearly shows the angmoh woman in deep telepathy mode with one of the painting - for five minutes - at least.
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I took a frontal shot of that arresting work below. See if you can go cock-eye on it for five minutes too.
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Hmm. I don't see anything suspiciously...enthralling. The subliminal strokes of genius must have eluded my vision altogether, I guess.

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I also notice how his most of his works reek of the influence of Roy Lichtenstein. The big-ass printer dot styles are a dead-giveaway.

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The painting below could be his most profound piece at the exhibition. The bright blue and angry red paint eclipse almost all elements of caricature into mere background silhouettes.

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Looking at the work above, I wonder if his three-year kid accidentally spilled some paints while Dad was away in the kitchen. Dad came in, saw the horror ( or, a moment of genius ), framed up the piece, and over the weekend, earned $30 000 during the next Impressionist's Auction.

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Sheesh.

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Artworks are always accompanied by the artist's statements regarding the piece.

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Sometimes I see the most ridiculous of statements. Period.

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Like I said, if you've seen them once, you've seen them all.

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Now that's deja vu for you.

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Pebble
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Our school librarian came to me and asked me to pick a folded piece of paper in a bowl. Kinda like a lucky draw.
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I picked out a crumpled piece.
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The number 15 was scrawled on it.
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She took the paper, and subsequently handed me an wrapped-up orb for a Teacher's Day present.
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I opened it up.
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And saw this.

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A yellow flower. Delicately painted over the irregular surface of the rock.

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Seeing is believing.

Parking Hell.

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A friend was incensed when he found out that a picture of his parked car was posted on parkingidiots.

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He decided to embark on a tit for tat mission - he was armed with his Canon SLR for the next few days to capture the next idiot in a similar parking throes to avenge his humiliation.

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He was so happy he nailed one moron the week after that - right infront of him in the carpark while waiting for his fiancee. The bad thing that happened after he posted the picture online was that the (new) car belonged to his future father-in-law.

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*****************************

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See what blogs have made us?

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Whistle-blowers who indulge in the utmost trivialities of the smallest whims and fancies.

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That said, better watch how you park your car, okay.

Blissfully Cultured

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Over the weekend, I had the opportunity to revel in a cultural re-awakening of sorts.

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I had always thought of peranakan nyonyas as out-of-place entities caught between the reality of present life and the aristocratic inheritance of their matriarchal past.

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Beyond ayam buah keluak and itik tim and kebaya batik and anal matriarch Margaret Chan spouting hatred for humans akin to the flattening of cockroaches in the horrifyingly damned Masters Of The Sea, there is really very little stuff I know about them.

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Yet I find them - hauntingly, subtly - alluring.

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I guess it wasn't the nondescript sashaying of these aunties to the tune of Di Tanjong Katong on a Friday night, but rather an illuminating force that seemed to amplify their nonchalant performance to a certain vibe I can't put a finger to it.

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And under the ambient blanket of night in an alfresco setting, I find myself mystically drawn to their performance. Like the Mirror of Erised, I think I now know how difficult it was for Mr Potter to resist the attraction any further.

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I guess some things are more interesting to some people, but not to all.

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Maybe it's because I realised, in the first place, that it felt so weird to find non-Malay people speaking better Malay than me.

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And that Peranakans are very true to their roots - almost too filial. Which is really an understatement.

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Some of my colleagues and friends are Peranakans, or accidentally Baba or Nyonya-infused. Don't ask me how.

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I tell you, the way the younger Peranakan guys swear at football matches can put an diehard Englishman to shame. It's a sporadic ( and funny ) mix of Chinese, Malay, English, German and Gibberish Incantation that, in any likelihood, would most probably conjure an accidental magical spell that could wipe unruly nosehair off from the planet.

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I guess if there was ever a naturally-hybridized tribe which has resolutely stood the ravage of Time, the Peranakans would be It.

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Saturday saw us at Fort Canning for WOMAD 2006.

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This year's event wasn't as loud as last year's, save for the same intoxicated crowd by 3 am and the scent of marinated cologne and Chanel permeating the early hours.

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However, the organisers brought in a myriad repertoire of eclectic sounds that gave ( almost ) everyone a chance to drown in the percussions and mortar beats of the night.

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Music is really seasonal, you know.

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At some times, you want to listen to some stuffs which rocked the Richter scale; other times, you just want to be cradled in it's arms, like a precocious infant suddenly weaned off mother's milk and looking for the next best sustenance.

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I could almost hear reverberations still. The beat of Saturday night is undyingly latent in my earbones.

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It there's one thing I learnt, it is that music is universal, and that the common beat of a batucada's samba groove will thump you, and the strangers around you, all night long.

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And possibly spilling into the next few days as well.

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What a weekend of lucid culture shock.

It's All About The Force. Seriously.

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I woke up early this morning, had some time to kill after my morning run, and proceeded to watch The Poseidon Adventure on DVD while ravaging Banana Nut Crunch with strawberry milk.

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This is the classic 1972 version, and not the updated effects-galore Poseidon of 2006.

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If you have three and a half hours to kill, do NOT watch Titanic.

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Take the three and a half hours and watch The Poseidon Adventure twice.

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Okay, it's campy and it's the consummate 70s disaster flick, complete with ensemble cast. But when you put them up against each other, Poseidon Adventure is just leagues better than Titanic.

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Titanic is over three hours, and centers around two dorky characters. In that time, the two characters are hardly developed at all, they're terribly one dimensional and probably could be summed up in about a sentence each. Compare this to Poseidon Adventure. Stars off with a dozen main characters, and in half as much time, they all have their own personalities, quirks, and are real identifiable people.

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And far from the Titanic tendency of stamping "I'm gonna die" on people's foreheads, in the Poseidon Adventure you don't know initially who's going to die - or at least not how or when anyway. The Poseidon Adventure is just a more interesting movie. It may not be as glossy or as pretty, but it's got it where it counts.

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It was while I was watching those people on board dicing with their lives when I suddenly thought of Jedi Knights, and how much all this stupid deaths and crisis could be averted if everyone on board was strong in the ways of The Force.

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I mean, look at Armageddon The Movie. If there was ever a Jedi Council represented in the United Nations, their combined telekinetic powers would have easily displaced the goddamn asteroid far, far away from colliding with our planet. There wouldn't be even a need to send men into space to plant nuclear bombs on the damn thing, and Kofi Annan wouldn't have to turn into a coffee bean during these international crisis.

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Jedi are the way to go, man.

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If there was ever a gargantuan, mutant lizard rampaging New York ( where else? NOT Orchard Road. Think of the massive clean-up by STPB ) tomorrow, the Jedi knights would have pacified the big-ass gecko in a split second, and make it an adoptable, docile pet for those who have backyard space the size of Australia to allow it to be domesticated for lizard rodeo.

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If a luxury liner ever hits an iceberg, or a great barrier reef, or Pulau Semakau, a Jedi master would have lifted it up in the air and hover it to safety before any petrified Beng can even Yoda-holler "Wahlao! Champion ah, he is!".

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If the weather becomes apocalyptical and Singapore suddenly freezes overnight, the Jedi Knights can induce the common people to hibernate ( albeit, in lotus position ) and meditate at the same time to ride over the unnatural phenomenon ( which is quite easy to do in Singapore because MOST of us are rather unconscious of our way of lives MOST of the time ) until the aircon business thrives again.

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If durian sellers in Geylang gets abusive, well, there's always the lightsabre ( the real ones, and not phalic balloons ) to decapitate the issue.

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Also if there's a power blackout at night, or during National Day parades, lightsabres make pretty cool lighting effects - just make sure the people around you are small children or midgets when you swing that thing.

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If people suddenly find themselves coming face to face with monstrous waves, their Jedi lightning speeds would have brought them fast enough to safety to the nearest Jedi Mamak Shop to purchase the mini breathing apparatus Master Obi Wan uses during his snorkelling getaways in Tioman. The stuff's small and handy and provides you unlimited supply of oxygen, and puts scoliosis-inducing scuba equipments to extinction shame.

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NS will also be more contemporarily chic and tasteful because recruits now no longer need to cut botak and they also wear androgynous pastel-coloured kimonos around the Jedi Academy in Thomson Road like hermaphrodite pugilists from inner Mongolia.

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I tell ya, the possibilities are limitless if everyone adopts The Force as our way of life.

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Suddenly I felt strong and powerful - like a recharged Jedi after receiving illumination. I suddenly sense that I could move events and things with these new, untapped potential inside of me. I was so excited with this profound state of existence and self-belief, I swear I could magically hold pee for three days.

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Damn. The milk's finished and milk bottle's on the table. Which got me to move my butt to reach it from where I was sitting.

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Singapore Idiot/s.
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While sipping teh-O at a Kopitiam late night yesterday, we came to two qualifying truths about the Idol competition :
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1. That people who actually bother to vote are primarily female teenagers who vote for male contestants. Which explains why No Woman ( No Cry ) will ever win Sg Idol.
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2. That people who actually bother to vote are primarily concerned with how good-looking the contestants are, and not how good-looking their vocal cords are.
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Another possibility for sideshows Joke-akim and P. Overdahill still remaining in the competition is that they are intended as probable laughing stocks of the nation at the end of it all, consideration how successfully they butchered songs week after week with great finesse.
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With only that much talent, one is forgiven for thinking of them as the greatest errors of any talent shows ever televised on national TV - after Jerry Ong. A friend quoted that seeing the weaker ones survive yet another elimination round is like "a heart-wrenching nationalistic fervour felt by every dutiful citizen upon the news that aural pain is going to be extended for another week".
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And another week.
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And probably another week after that.
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It is sheer mockery for the Competition that good singers are leaving the show each week, leaving the platform for a couple of jokers to endure another week of the Nation's wrath.
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I think The Idol platform will never be seen as a serious talent-spotting campaign ever again.
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I also think there should be a day for mourning if either one of Da Dynamic Duo actually win the competition, because then Talent is Officially Dead in Singapore. Fatalistically wounded by superficial physical features like messy hair and twinkly eyes that sparkle in neon spotlights.
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Oh well, let them be. In a Pluto-less solar system, resign'd to thy stars thou shalt.
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Be Happy. With What You Have.

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Doesn't it make sense that, if money purchased happiness, the richer the country, the happier its people? One has to wonder then why surveys in our wealthy country consistently show a decrease in life satisfaction and an increase in depression and stress level.

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We can speculate all we want about whether money will bring happiness into our lives. But one way to find out is to ask people who have it.

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If you somehow managed to ask our island's richest people if they were happy with their lives, using a scale of 1 to 10 ( 7 being completely satisfied ), none of us would be surprised to learn that they could averaged a 6.

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What is interesting though is that probably the dung hut-dwelling Masai people in Kenya and the shivering Inuit people from Greenland are right up there, scoring as high as the country-club set.

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Maybe -- just maybe -- it isn't money after all that ensures happiness.

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Once basic necessities are met, the luxuries we are supposed to want may bring us many things, but it won't make us a real-life smiley face.

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Economic success falls short as a measure of well-being, in part because materialism can negatively influence well-being, and also because it is possible to be happy without living a life of luxury.

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If I've learned anything about 'happiness, it's that it is inextricably tied to the quality of one's intimate relationships.

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You want to be with somebody who cares about you deeply without suffocating youself, who respects you by thinking about your feelings and needs, who is empathic enough of the time and apologizes when they misunderstand, who says you are the most beautiful person in the world even if they don't mean it.

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Money can never buy any of these things.

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Once one's basic necessities are met, happiness derives from the following: Work that is satisfying, a sense of meaningfulness in life, affiliations ... and good relationships. Take a cue from Maslow's hierarchy of Needs.

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I think we can all intuitively grasp these truths. But so often we do forget them as we become gripped by the fantasy of a bigger and better life through stuff.

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In other words, we lose perspective. Sometimes life needs to intervene to readjust our priorities and teach us what is really important.

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An accident that comes within 5 inches of crushing the life out of you.

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The near-drowning incident off East Coast beach during a canoeing session.

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The loss of limbs of an uncle in a horrific workplace accident.

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The close shave of you nearly knocking down a person while testing out your dad's Beemer on your first day of getting your licence.

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Or, perhaps the most tragic life intervention of all, losing a beloved family member to premature death.

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A friend recently shared with me a piece of philosophy about money and happiness that has taken on a new meaning for him: "Debt is bad. Saving is good. Giving is fun. Stuff is meaningless".

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Ask yourself, as I am sure my friend has, what is really so important now?

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The Manual of Life. For A Guy.
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Three students of mine gave me this book.

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They told me since they 'grew up in a nunnery for 10 years, buying presents for the opposite gender weren't exactly their forte', but nevertheless it was a pleasant surprise.
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How nice.
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The book was divided into fifty subchapters ( duh ) with topics ranging from the mediocre know-hows to the absolute ludicrous.
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And everything else in between.
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There are some relevant things inside which might be important in the near future, like How To Improve Your Golf Game With Children Golfers, How To Win A Fight With Someone Bigger Than You, How To Travel Cheaply, How To Handle Being Molested (?) and How To Survive Time in Prison.
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I was excitedly looking for a chapter that says 'How To Argue Out Of A Parking Summon With The Carpark Auntie', but to no avail.

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There was also an additional bonus topic that explores the possibility of guys being pregnant under the chapter of How To Detect That Your Morning Sickness is Not Just Morning Sickness.

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Haha!

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I was just curiously amused that the publishers didn't bundle along a customised male pregnancy test kit to go along with the book.

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Thank you, three nice students. And good luck for the exams. I should have gotten you gals the ultimate manual of 50 Things Every Girl In a Ten-Year Nunnery Should Know About 50 Things Every Guy Didn't Know About Nunneries.

It's Pretty Obvious, Isn't It?
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With all the candid fake-customer approach everywhere on media, endless campaigns and public polls to test our retailers and providers' patience in the search for the elusive Good Service model, doesn't speak it volumes that general service on our island still leaves much to be desired for?
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Our people even need to be reminded to smile come September.
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I guess the only way to go is up.
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I forgive you, you rude Takashimaya salesgirl at the Men's section at 9.17 pm yesterday.

Very Titrating One!

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My chemistry practicals were the pits.

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Back during secondary school days, I could never clearly understand the objective of titrating liquids to find the equilibrium end points and what-nots.

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Even till college I was still chasing vapour trails and mysterious odours of gases called X and Y.

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Friends can attest that I find great pleasure in squeezing the rubber pump of the pipette more than pipetting stuffs.

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I really did what I could back then, but it was too much uninteresting stuffs to cope with. Bad mistake - I should have learnt to like the subject and query my teachers.

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Everybody looked super busy in the chem labs back then. Everbody knew where to take what apparatus, knew what gas to look out and knew how to calculate those lifeless mole equations in those darned practical books after that. Except me, I think.

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Everyone was so mechanised.

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Raymond was ever ready with an arsenal of litmus papers, limewater, glowing splints and every other imaginable pseudo-appendages on his fingers and palms. Jason was busily calculating digits beyond the depth of human possibility. Jay was titrating stuffs again and again, just to reinforce his results. I was busily twirling pens with my fingers.

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While everyone's nose was on the lookout for ammonia and any other famous, pungent, death-inducing gases, I was sure I sensed Famous Amos in the air instead.

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While some of us were discussing hydrocarbons and the important bonds present in them, I was playing Bond with my test tubes and a modified funnel.

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If Robert Bunsen didn't kill me with his heat, the tense atmosphere in the lab would have got me otherwise. My physical molecules were waiting to be rearranged and scattered across the universe.

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Chemistry ain't my thang, that's for sure. There's really no chemistry at all.

Achtung!

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The European Commission has just announced an agreement whereby English will be the official language of the European Union rather than German, which was the other possibility.

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As part of the negotiations, the British Government conceded that English spelling had some room for improvement and has accepted a 5-year phase-in plan that would become known as "Euro-English".

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I imagined a scenario like this.

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In the first year, "s" will replace the soft "c". Sertainly, this will make the sivil servants jump with joy. The hard "c" will be dropped in favour of "k". This should klear up konfusion, and keyboards kan have one less letter.

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There will be growing publik enthusiasm in the second year when the troublesome "ph" will be replaced with "f". This will make words like fotograf 20% shorter.

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In the 3rd year, publik akseptanse of the new spelling kan be expekted to reach the stage where more komplikated changes are possible. Governments will enkourage the removal of double letters which have always ben a deterent to akurate speling. Also, al wil agre that the horibl mes of the silent "e" in the languag is disgrasful and it should go away.

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By the 4th yer people wil be reseptiv to steps such as replasing "th" with "z" and "w" with "v".

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During ze fifz yer, ze unesesary "o" kan be dropd from vords kontaining "ou" and after ziz fifz yer, ve vil hav a reil sensibl riten styl. Zer vil be no mor trubl or difikultis and evrivun vil find it ezi tu understand ech oza. Ze drem of a united urop vil finali kum tru.

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Und efter ze fifz yer, ve vil al be speking German like zey vunted in ze forst plas.

15 Things You Probably Never Knew or Thought About

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1. At least 5 people in this world love you so much they would die for you.

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2. At least 15 people in this world love you in some way.

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3. The only reason anyone would ever hate you is because they want to be just like you.

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4. A smile from you can bring happiness to anyone, even if they don't like you.

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5. Every night, SOMEONE thinks about you before they go to sleep.

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6. You mean the world to someone.

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7. If not for you, someone may not be living.

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8. You are special and unique.

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9. Someone that you don't even know exists loves you.

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10. When you make the biggest mistake ever, something good comes from it.

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11. When you think the world has turned its back on you, take a look: you most likely turned your back on the world.

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12. When you think you have no chance of getting what you want, you probably won't get it, but if you believe in yourself, probably, sooner or later, you will get it.

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13. Always remember the compliments you received. Forget about the rude remarks.

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14. Always tell someone how you feel about them; you will feel much better when they know.

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15. If you have a great friend, take the time to let them know that they are great.

Listen With Prejudice

Every now and then, you hear a song on radio that suddenly plugged you into a frenzied awakening. You tell yourself you're so sure the singer's singing out her life before you in that song.

You can sense it - through the lyrics, the lilt of the singer, the intonations, the feel.

I think Sheryl Crow's Always On Your Side is one of those songs.

Sometimes in great personal pain and moments of difficulty, songwriters get inspired by these crestfallen nadirs. They take these nuggets of experiences to jumpstart their life back again - via music - and breathe life and soul into it.

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Simply because music can never be put into proper complete sentences.

And because music can never remained silent.

Listen to some songs and maybe you'll see some lyrics reflecting your own personal tragedies.

By that, I do not mean renditions done by the Singapore Idol finalists.

There are some songs that grabbed you and catapulted you back in time - to a moment of previous pain, contemplated happiness, cherished history and near-forgotten past.

See if you can figure out that the words in them really meant something for you. In you. From you.

Then you'll realise that maybe, just maybe, you were right about the song. Because the feelings you felt were probably the same as the songwriter's.

And then you realised that this was going to be The Song for you, no matter what happens. Because the song is now You. And you're living it out while the notes serenade your existence in the background.

How melancholic.

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You could have Bookmarked this song in your life after all.

Install This.

I think installation art is really an extension of oneself - and not necessarily an artist's - to use the environment as an excuse for his alternative canvas.

Pieces of newspapers, used plastics, broken glasses, animal intestines, bread.

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Like the guy who splattered white paint on a picture of a hammer and entitled his art - aptly enough - Governance.

Or the guy who hangs colourful condoms from the ceiling of the exhibition room and deemed his work - get this - Protective Drops from the Seminal Vesicle.

Mine was much, much simpler. I merely used the allocated wallspace and prodded up my stuffs.

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I guessed most of us, including myself, don't usually criticise others' work at a deeper level other than the superficiality of the works themselves.

Given the short time to produce this installation, I guessed I was even lucky enough to have been given a space to exhibit mine.

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I think I was prepared for a major calamity for exhibiting a lousy piece of installation on a bare wall, let alone induce some sort of hypothetical attraction amongst the chauvinistic art connoisseurs around. It was a good thing not many critical people were around when I was.

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Usually I'll try to go deeper than that. But with not much success anyway, because art criticism is really, really subjective. And interpretating a background schemata for a human foetus could be damning because the artist really could have meant it as just an accidental spherical blemish.

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Duh.

I'll admire the Mona Lisa as it is - the curiously half-smiling, half-smirking woman who is still a mystery to many. And not because others believed that it is a gender representation of both man and woman.

Hey. It's art. You see what you want to see. There's no hidden codes visible only under ultraviolet light - so don't bother looking deeper if you can't.

Creepy

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Thinking about this still gives me the goosebumps.

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While waiting in my car at the carpark yesternight for a friend to come down, U2's Vertigo on the iPod got me crazy enough to play the invisible drums on the dashboard. As I gradually grew manic over time, I didn't realise that the car beside me was occupied - a chinese lady with long hair - who was staring at me through her tinted window throughout the whole time i was hysterical, until much later.

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It didn't help that she was quite strange-looking and was wearing a white blouse.

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Lesson learnt : Look out for the cars around you even when you think you're alone in the carpark.

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Especially when you're with an iPod.

To Les and Pau
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Thank you. For believing in me.
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:)

Ka-ching!

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I got a first taste of how the jackpots at the upcoming Integrated Resorts will be like.

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After finding out that the parking at DBS building in Tampines is still primitively based on cash and parking tickets and not cashcards, I dug out my pockets for coins to pay the exit fee of $1.50.

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I could only find a piece of ten dollar note, however, which I dutifully inserted into the machine.

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Imagine the excitement of seeing a combination of ten cents, twenty cents, fifty cents and dollar coins jiggling down onto the collecting tray, clanking around and making such a din that everyone around me thought I struck lottery at the carpark paying outlet. Or either that, a very stupid vending-machine vandal in broad daylight.

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As I scooped out the coins into my pockets amidst curious eyes, I realised it was the heaviest $8.50 I've ever had in my pockets for a long, long time.

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In fact, it has been some time that I have seen coins that much in my hands in these wired, cashless times of our lives.

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I jingled the coins all the way. Oh, what fun it is.

True Life

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I believe Abigail Chay is a true hero, in every aspect of the word.

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No actor has ever played himself as the main protagonist on screen and act out his difficult moments all over again for others to reminisce and dwell upon.

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Abigail Chay has taken the lead.

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I think it's speaks volume for her capacity to come to terms with her life, and lay it all out for us to understand her turmoils.

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I guess looks aren't really everything, because inner radiance will shine through in the end.

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It's all inside.

Really Scary

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I just had a really bad dream.

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In it, I was the sole judge for a Singapore Idol episode, and the auditorium I was in was completely darkened - save for a glaringly white spotlight - get this - focused ON ME. There was no visible audience, or any signs of physical human presence, but I could distinctly hear monstrous roars of applause and raptures from the invisible crowd. I looked down - and was horrified beyond words when I saw that I was in a sarong, fake Crocs ( a major fashion faux pas ) AND a white turban with a tiny purple bear sitting on top of it.

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Gasp.

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What came next was an absolute spectacle in surreal horror.

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A Mathilda-lookalike suddenly appeared behind some curtains and started to sing Majulah Singapura in - get this again - alternative heavy-metal rock fashion, amidst some really bad, ear-deafening, eardrums-exploding minus-one background music.

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It probably proved too strenous for her vocal cords, because, at the end of her monumental virtuoso, I saw something sticking out from her rear end - and it turned out to be her rectum.

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I didn't remember giving my opinion of her performance, but I believe she felt rather shitty about the whole thing.

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***********************

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Scary indeed. Maybe as scary as dreaming of Darth Vader in a hello Kitty outfit.

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Argh.

Arrogance

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I met an arrogant woman today.

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At first glance, I didn't seem to find anything wrong with her, until it was perceptively her way of talking that gives the impression that she was one who didn't care about what others thought.

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What's wrong with being humble and listening to other's views for a while?

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I met an arrogant man today.

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At first glance, he was noticeably quite distinguished and very gentlemanly, but then he degenerated into an obstinate man who refused to believe there were better ideas than his.

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What's wrong with being humble and showing that sharing is worth the while?

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I met an arrogant student today.

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At first glance, she was reticently silent and very obedient-looking, but then she gave this hurtful facial expression that reeks of upper class pedigree, and everyone else a lesser mortal than her.

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What's wrong with a smile to make it all worthwhile?

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Do you really believe that arrogance will lead you somewhere? Sheesh.

A Deconstruction of Snapshots

I think the shot below says a lot of things about ourselves.

It was taken some time back at the Botanical Gardens - our heritage of flora ingrained from the colonial past. In spite of the alluring greenery and nature presiding over acres of fertile soil, most of the signs clearly emblazoned our desire to escape from it all - to a place of possible concrete refuge, cemented safety, aircon comfort and mortar-and-brick walls.

How ironic - a signage like this existing smack centre in a National Park.

The next shot was clearly epitomizing Dante's Hell.

The rowdy-looking wet mounds on the outer bark of the Heritage Tree look like muddied souls trapped in a convoluted vortex of desperation, possibly trying to pry away from the clutches of eternal damnation.

Well, it's amazing how reading an Arts Catalogue the night before can have its' impact on your visual acuity - and distort it.

This is possibly the shot with the most interpretations :

A shrouded figure with its' back facing the curious eye, illuminating from a tombstone-like altar. ( Curiously, all other panels have facial representations - quirky ).

I find this shot rather immaculately coiffed in my mind for reasons unknown. I have not eaten fish-head curry for some time, and fishing for garoupas is beyond me, yet something is stirring, provoking me with a surreal sense of deja vu...

...until I realised this.

Another piece of work which I did some time back - and greatly inspired by Nick Bantock. A man whose nose is clipped by a fish, possibly a surreal version of the coelacanth.

I could have lay down all other intrepretations to paper, but then it always work wonders if I seemingly deconstruct them at my own whim.

Or either that I am just being curious of all things around me.