Having never had the fortune to catch Phantom of the Opera in musical form, I finally caught in on film.


No more talk
of darkness,
Forget these
wide-eyed fears.
I'm here,
nothing can harm you -
my words will
warm and calm you.
Let me be
your freedom,
let daylight
dry your tears.
I'm here,
with you, beside you,
to guard you
and to guide you . . .

Say you love me
waking moment,
turn my head
with talk of summertime . . .
Say you need me
with you,
now and always . . .
promise me that all
you say is true -
that's all I ask
of you . . .

Let me be
your shelter,
let me
be your light.
You're safe:
No-one will find you
your fears are
far behind you . . .

All I want
is freedom,
a world with
no more night . . .
and you
always beside me
to hold me
and to hide me . . .

Then say you'll share with
me one
love, one lifetime . . .
Iet me lead you
from your solitude . . .
Say you need me
with you
here, beside you . . .
anywhere you go,
let me go too -
that's all I ask
of you . . .

Say you'll share with
me one
love, one lifetime . . .
say the word
and I will follow you . . .
Share each day with
me, each
night, each morning . . .

Say you love me . . .

You know I do . . .

Love me -
that's all I ask
of you . . .

(They kiss)
Anywhere you go
let me go too . . .
Love me -
that's all I ask
of you . .

(CHRISTINE starts from her reverie)
I must go -
they'll wonder where I am . . .
wait for me, Raoul!

Christine, I love you!

Order your fine horses!
Be with them at the door!

And soon you'll be beside me!

You'll guard me, and you'll guide me . . .
(They hurry off. The PHANTOM emerges from
behind the statue)
Moral: It sucks to be a phantom cause you always have to hide.


A response

I just logged on to my blog the other day and I saw all the comments. In all honesty, as you may see, I haven't been updating my blog. It's perhaps better like that.

You know, in the army I recently handled a case where someone posted his frustrations regarding the army on his blog. And since he was already in trouble with the army, they decided to add that as a charge again him. Personally, I felt it was ridiculous to fish something out like that but you can't argue with the fact that it was on the net and on public domain. I still feel it's ridiculous though to fish these things out when you're not even meant to read them (so why is it on the net? i will come to that later"

Ok, I guess it's right for you to question why I should bare my "innermost" thoughts and feelings on the internet. But before that, I guess I should have a bit of perspective. I can count the number of people who know my blog address on one hand. Ok, except for the time when I used this website to post details about the Bali trip. But I didn't expect them to return, after all, there shouldn't be anything of particular interest about them. Apart from that, I only told Clarence my blog address, lip knows from the bali thing, and maybe i told michelle, the rest happened to blissfully stumble upon it, i think, and alex added a link to my blog which i don't approve of (do you see any links to other blogs on my site?) if i have left you out, do let me know. and if you notice i write a lot of stuff for my own reference (you can't have understood the camel entry) and i just happen to prefer typing than diaries which i never have the patience to sit down to write, and it being on the net... well. i can access it anywhere, and it won't go with my hard drive. fine, excuses, whatever.

If you ask Clarence, my close friend, I have always had reservations about blogging. I like writing, but myself I have experiences of reading other's blog's and it's uncomfortable. Especially when you know some people well, and you read emotions and stuff or the stuff they do and you think, gosh that's complete bullcrap, or you just don't agree with what they say.

Sometimes it's too much info. you don't wanna think about say your nice friend who's all nice and all who's really a slut in bed and you wake up and think about them being fucked from the rear like a real slut. (it's a bit of an exaggeration, but yes i do think this way) But these are all dramatisations, reactions, and sometimes we attach a bit too much imagination to it.

Because in all honesty, we are strangers to the emotion that is written. We see the sex is written, but we cannot feel the love that exists between the amorous pair, the emotion that elevates it from crassness to beauty. We are not part of that link, we are shut out of it, and we are left with the desolate mindscape of whatever emotion it is that exists that gets us to read other people's blogs and we imagine the worst. When the only think that is bad about it is that I don't understand, or I cannot feel what you feel.

If my posts are broken-hearted, I apologise. I do not feel they are. They are sentimental, I feel. That's because some of my fantasies are of the past. The past is an easy place because everything happened so well, and I needn't have to worry about it. If it's a distinction that doesn't make sense, fine. and i feel, that i am a slightly quieter person than others, though you may be quieter than me (i don't know). and there are times when i feel alone, and sentimentality fills those little cracks. i'm glad for my friends and i'm glad that i'm not falling into a crevasse of loneliness.

even shakespeare's antonio's (merchant of venice, tempest), know not why they are so sad. not the portly argosies, but i guess some weird choler sometimes. that's why it's melancholy sometimes.

But I have always endeavoured never to tell people, "I am lonely", "I am sad", leaving them with little other response such as "oh, i feel your pain", or "hey, it's ok, try to be more happy". Many of the quotes on this blog I have posted because they portray an emotion so well. And all of us feel emotions, regardless of the enormity of the cause of them.

I do have happy emotions, don't I? wow i'm sorry if i don't laugh on my blog.

Am I exhibitionist? If I am, then perhaps all of my work in becoming the cool, calm person who betrays little emotion is coming to nought, in which case I had better work harder. Okay. maybe in writing, I do feel I am slightly better in writing (in English) than others. Allow me that, to compensate for the various fields in which I feel rather inferior in.

It would be very unfair to say my loved ones don't see the genuine/raw side of me. Yes, I hide so much. when you see a dying person, you maintain your happy face and don't wonder aloud how much suffering they are going through. you let slip sometimes, but other times you're playing a role. my parents see me as i am sometimes and they are happy, or they are sad, and maybe they would slap me if i got out of hand. I ahve always maintained a respect for my parents, and knowing I live with them everyday, don't wish to offend them, otherwise i would have walked out of the house so many times. I don't wish to offend them, i don't feel i love them less.

and i do some things which disagree with them which i find agree with myself. some things i can tell, some things i don't, because it would lead to so much ill-will, for things i find really trivial.

I'm sure you mean well in your criticism, and you were wondering aloud. I hope you don't let my blog get to you, and i'm not going to post much anyway

about my writing. first. it is unfair to say antoine de saint-exupery is "incoherent". It's "incomprehensible", if you don't understand french (fair enough), but incoherence is a charge which betrays the huge amount of time taken to write that para for him, i guess.

secondly, yah... all the stuff you think about the boot is cool, but i don't watch alias and people who know me know i don't idolise spies and stuff. i like clerics, thieves and mages, and uma thurman, and jackie chan. and young as restless, cliche as it may be. I am simply the heroes I worship in these things. it would be cool if you were in the boot and thinking those thoughts, but it was me and that was what i idealized myself to be. but in reality, i was a sweaty, stupid, silly guy, but that is in no way appealing to me.

lastly. my blog represents only a small part of what i am, and a certain time (usually when i am free enough to come back to blog). it captures not the moments of me being stressed, or half or quarter or and eightieth of what i think about every day. so you can judge me based on it but it's not fair. and i'm not the kind of guy who doesn't care what others think of me. a bit, sometimes, but i do.


The war years did little to change the city of Bandung, but in 1946, facing the return of the Colonial Dutch to Indonesia, citizens chose to burn down their beloved Bandung in what has become known as Bandung Lautan Api, Bandung Ocean of Fire. Citizens fled to the southern hills and overlooking the "ocean of flames" penned "Halo Halo Bandung," the anthem promising their return.


'Vous �tes belles, mais vous �tes vides', leur dit-il encore.
'On ne peut pas mourir pour vous. Bien s�r, ma rose � moi, un passant ordinaire croirait qu'elle vous ressemble. Mais � elle seule elle est plus importante que vous toutes, puisque c'est elle que j'ai arros�e. Puisque c'est elle que j'ai mise sous globe. Puisque c'est elle que j'ai abrit�e par le paravent. Puisque c'est elle dont j'ai tu� les chenilles (sauf les deux ou trois pour les papillons). Puisque c'est elle que j'ai �cout�e se plaindre, ou se vanter, ou m�me quelquefois se taire. Puisque c'est ma rose.'


I just had the most fun in the world climbing into a boot and hiding there. It was hot and it turned pink whenever the brake lights are on. I could just imagine myself as some vagrant tripping on marijuana while listening to Pink Floyd. Talk about perspective. There's nothing like being in the back of a car. It also reminds one of Uma Thurman trying to bust out of her grave.

Alas, other fun experiences include sitting on the car roof as it was driving off, and hanging on to it subsequently. I am Jackie Chan! It's the kind of stupid, lousy thing you do just because you're young. And feel like being young and laughing your head off hahaha.

I must have sex in the car one day.

Climbing out of the boot when you reach our destination is also another "what the fuck" moment. Observe the priceless faces of the passers by as you climb out of your boot sweaty and bothered.

Light a cigarette and wind down the windows, flick it out the window. We are young, restless vagrants for a night! And tomorrow, back to our futures.

P/S I also fed some cats last night!


Back from Bali. I doubt I'm really going to write about it, trying to find a nice site to put up pictures with captions which I guess would say it most. I did take a picture of the sunset.

On a lesser note, mood isn't too fantastic. One of those where you feel that you're floating about and everyone is floating away, there's no wall to push off and inter gravitational forces are too minimal and the moon is drifting to outer space.

I'll never be able to reduce everything in my life to one or two things at this rate. Anyhow, the less you care about it, the better.

Everything's fine!

To that day


Sorry I'm finding this fun

Un jour on se rencontrera

One day, you'll see
We'll meet
some place, anywhere
led by coincidence
We'll look at each other
and smile
and hand in hand
through the roads we shall go

Time passes, too quickly
the night will hide us well
our hearts, like two little thieves

And we'll come upon a dark place
where the cobblestones will be gentle to our gray souls
there'll be a ball,
albeit poor and banal
under a misty sky
of melancholy.

A blind man will play
his pipe organ
the melody in the air will be for us
full of grace, full of beauty

Then I'll ask you to dance
take your waist
We'll dance quietly
far from the maddening crowd
We'll dance, love, my eyes deep in yours
towards the end of the world
towards the depth of the night


Maintenant je sais

Okay managed to translate the lyrics from the French, not entirely literally though, just probably what it means. Please help.
It's by Jean Gabin... nice French crooner

"When I was young, the height of 3 apples
I spoke confidently, to be a man
I said, "I know, I know, I know"

It was the first time, it was spring
And when I had my eighteen years
I said "I know, there you go, this time, I know"

And now, the days, they return to me
I look at the earth, where I took a hundred steps
And I still don't know how it turns

For around 25 years old I knew it all
love, the roses, the high life
Damn right, love had made everything turn
Fortunately all my lovers
had not eaten all my bread
in the prime of my life
Still I learnt
What did I learn? It's held in three-quarter time words

The day when someone loves you
It's beautiful
I cannot put it better
It's beautiful
Me, who's in the autumn of my life

One forgets so many nights of sadness
but never a morning of tenderness
All my youth, I wanted to say
"I know."

Only, the more I sought the less I knew
As 60 blows strike on the clock
I'm still at the window, looking, asking myself
Now, I know, but one never knows!

Life, love, friends, money, roses
One never knows the noise nor the colour of anything
This is all I know, but that I know well."


laws, rules and regulations can be irritatingly frustrating. just ask clarence. it's a bloody hassle, but i don't know. that's what comes of trying to be all comprehensive and complete.

conducting summary trial tmrw. should be a quick affair. all nice easy light sentences commuted into fines. but it's really a bitch trying to be nice about it after all you're wasting their time. you may think well they're wrong so it's all right to waste their time. well. but really. for transactional offences.

the law's really there to scare you. i can see how it's noble, when you try to find this regulation to charge him under so really there's less harm done. but on the contrary, sob's want to fine the worst possible thing to nail you with. so good, it's adversarial. and so many shades of grey.

little niggly things, little niggly things.


I saw a morbidly obese person today gorging on ice-cream at McDonalds. Urgh. He isn't even trying. I've nothing against obesity, but I'm just saying what I felt, probably like the guy in Seven who wanted to kill the personification of gluttony.

I can't always be Mr Friendly, even at work. To my friends, at least, nowadays, I'm trying to be happy, although I may strike you as slightly insane, like sometimes I say things I don't really mean anymore, but just cause they're interesting and it's easier to say them than not. But I guess in the company of the rest I'm still reserved and I better not say some crazy shit lest they misunderstand.

Not much to be worried about. Just perhaps that dad's being all worrisome about future studies and stuff, always wanting perfection, but I just wanna settle down and know what I'm going to do. And other than that I guess my enthusiasm isn't expected to last the whole year, I probably need some time away to charge my batteries. I think I shall be disconsolate and disappointed for now, because people let me down. Oh you silly people. Why don't you all just love me.


Right now if I had my way I'd be able to populate my mind with lots of wonderful inimitable stories which would take on a life of their own.

Unfortunately, I can sense myself snaking down to some dull quotidium. And I'm currently pretty anxious I guess about the future and everything and I guess, from time to time, I have to wind down my spring.

It would be wonderful if one could will oneself into chirpiness but it doesn't always happen, there are days when you wake up and you don't feel like brushing your teeth.

Seeing the pretty people who used to play so long ago! Will we ever be the students so in love with literature or poetry or just carrying that next line. Think there's a lot of work to be done now.


It hurts me sometimes when I'm not the person people want me to be.

In general I'd like to be. No matter how much cathartic relief it affords me, saying "fuck it" is just that, "fuck it." I won't pack my bags and fucking fly to Australia and start a farm there.

Logically speaking, there isn't anything wrong with just fucking it. It would probably overstate my importance to the world, that if I decide to laze around and do nothing, that it would cause people around me a great sense of loss. Sure, parents will be disappointed. They'll get over it, and they'll love you anyway. Maybe they'll even love you more.

I'll be honest. Your feedback matters. It hurts when I'm rated 1 on a scale of 1 - 5, where 1 is unsatisfactory and 5 is very good. Is it better than if you shaded 3's all the way? I don't know. Any feedback/comments? I'd follow it. In some ways, I judge myself by other people's standards. I'm always helping other people rate myself. I mean, if you criticize my character, of course I'm not going to change in front you straightaway, lest you feel that berating my character gets you somewhere, but deep down gosh I'm just bloody ruined and I wanna change, albeit slowly, because I don't know I just don't lurch from side to side.

There are some things I will never be. I think I realise that more acutely now. Like if I'm a quiet person, that can change. It's merely a change in quality, and requires probably that bit more energy. Can be done. Not enough initiative. Okay, work harder, can be done. Insufficient eye for detail. Can be done, of course with limits to the way my mind has been trained to operate.

Be more aggressive. Well. Let's see. Okay. I'm no pacifist. If you raped my sister I would shoot you. Okay even if I don't really hate you I would still shoot you under some circumstances.

I see it in me sometimes. When playing soccer, I guess I hate to lose and I tend to get really pissed off in games. And if I'm in game mode and I need to do something then well I do it.

It's when the reality between game and life is blurred. The notion that life is a game, that we must compete and win. Gosh, I'm not saying that I'm all Mr. Take - It - Easy, Mr. Oh I don't Really Give a Fuck, Mr Cool, Mr Natural. I'm just saying that in a cut-throat world, I may not survive. If you put me in a communist world, where eveyrhting was subsumed to one ultimate aim, I would probably be quite a good bureaucrat. They may probably give me a few medals to appreciate my contributions to the Fatherland.

But it's when it comes to proving I'm better. I can't do that. I can't write an essay selling myself to save the world. Take my blog. Show it to any prospective employer. It'll be like oh shit this pussy wimp can't even take care of himself. Sometimes I wonder what life would be if I didn't read so much.

I've been so sold into dignity and human worth and blah blah that I no longer believe it matters to prove you're better than the next person. To tell the truth I don't really like competition in real life, how it makes some people behave. I'm just turned off sometimes. But I mean who likes feeling lousier than others. The trick is to win right? But I can't shed this BHB thing about winning, and I think maybe it's too much shit in the bible about rich people going to hell and last going first that I have a mentality so last is ok?, underdog is ok?, and I pay less attention the the fact that maybe winning really matters in this wortld? That you get the girl if you have a bigger cock or you don't curse so much. And if you loved her more.

Am I fucking wrong or what? Cause if I'm misguided tell me. I really just feel like turning into a big fat fucker who doesn't really care how you feel. But I'm just saying it. I'll never be it. You can't fucking fight 19 years of naivety. I just feel like I've got cum in my eye (though I'd really like to know how that feels, but it just sounds so wicked ain't it.) I think I'll reserve that phrase to sub "too much of a good thing". You're so fucking stim that you cum in your eye. yeah haha. cursing makes me feel macho and less androgynous. oh yeah feel my muscles. my biceps. i need to rut now. where's my damn heifer.


Bali: the reckoning

Okay. it's $358 for 4D/4N at Legian express, a 23 room budget hotel in Legian, near the shopping district. Air-conditioning, set in 0.25 hectares of Balinese gardens, and with pool and massage facilities. Rooms come in cottage style. Go look it up. 10 mins from Kuta Beach

$393 for 4D/4N at Legian Paradiso, slightly better facilities and closer to the beach.

Airport tax about $60. Package includes half day tour to Ubud and return airport transfer

Flight on Wed night 1930, return on Sunday evening about 1800.

Will be borrowing Lonely Planet: Bali from a friend, so can plan which places to go too.

Okay. so following flight dates are available:

8th Sep ( A bit rush)
15th Sep (Still a bit rush)
22nd Sep
29th Sep
6th October
13th October
20th October
27th October

If you go too late in October the rains start to come and that's not fun.

Need to confirm 1. who's going, 2. when everyone's free. any questions, ask. a lot of details, i can't type everything here.

must act fast. tickets and rooms limited.


Complainte de la butte

La lune trop bl�me
Pose un diad�me
Sur tes cheveux roux
La lune trop rousse
De gloire �clabousse
Ton jupon plein d'trous

La lune trop p�le
Caresse l'opale
De tes yeux blas�s
Princesse de la rue
Soit la bienvenue
Dans mon coeur bless�

The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh
While windmill wings of the moulins shelter you and I

Ma p'tite mandigote
Je sens ta menotte
Qui cherche ma main
Je sens ta poitrine
Et ta taille fine
J'oublie mon chagrin

Je sens sur tes l�vres
Une odeur de fi�vre
De gosse mal nourri
Et sous ta caresse
Je sens une ivresse
Qui m'an�antit

The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh
While windmill wings of the moulins shelter you and I

Mais voil� qu'il trotte
La lune se flotte
La princesse aussi
La la la la la La la la la la Mon r�ve �vanoui

Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux mis�reux
Les ailes des moulins prot�gent les amoureux

performed by Rufus Wainwright

quite sad today lah. boo hoo. don't know why. cause the song just ended. follow this by "Across the Universe" and you're fucked. it kills me every time.

hasn't been a bad day by any standard, good, productive day at work, and nice to finally get back into the camp groove of things. also saw hok him for the 1st time in a few months and he's so cheerful and loud! but he destroyed his knee meniscus so I guess no more conducting of range for him. and can't run with him for AHM. Okay I guess I can get through this pretty well, this year has been pretty good so far.

but what do i do? i go home and listen to a song about pretty princesses bathed in moonlight, drenched in desire and destroyed dreams. not that it affects me. it's so stupid and sentimental. okay i guess i'm not sad. whee!


Information on Bali



Hi, to all looking for information on the trip to Bali. Bali is a wonderful sunny tropical island set in the Sea of Java. Our plan is to getaway there for 4 days, 3 nights. Date of departure is either 1st or 8th September(at night). The reason tickets are cheap is because its a night flight. It may make more sense to leave in the day but that means we have to fly SQ or Garuda which will be much more expensive than the extra night. And at least we can start the next day fresh. Please raise objections now, so I can find another date if too many people can't make it. It's over the weekend, so shouldn't be a prob. Please comment using the comment function=p.

Currently the deal I have is $328/pax. We get a 2.5 star hotel(not bad really) and easy access to beaches and places in Kuta Beach, the most happening part of Bali. For 3 star add $30/pax, and 4 star add $40/pax. Rooms are twin share. Flight will be by Australian Airlines, departing on Wednesday, Friday and Sunday nights. It is a full-service airline with meals (not a budget airline) but slightly cheaper than Singapore Airlines/Garuda, because you cannot play video games on board, and I think they don't give you free playing cards. Still, it's only about a 2 hr flight, so shouldn't matter. It's a spinoff from Qantas actually.

Departure is on Wed night and return on Sun night, so it's actually 4D/4N. Free & easy.

Depart 1915, Arrival 2145(2045 Indon time)

Don't really wanna plan a detailed itinerary yet. Here's a preview of what you can do. We can rent our own car, about 200,000 Rp a day, or about 30-40 bucks for a nice jeep, that can fit a lot of people. Petrol is like water to Indonesians, and Indonesians have a lot of water, so don't worry about that.

Stuff to do:

1. Beach bumming
2. Watersports. Learn to surf. (Nusa Dua, Kuta Beach)
3. Laze around in hotel
4. Clubbing in Kuta
5. Traditonal Balinese massage
6. Check out Indonesian way of life.
7. Shopping in Denpasar
8. Half-day cultural tour of Ubud
9. Trip to North of Island to check out volcanic caldera and beautiful padi fields to take photos.
10. Watch the sun set at Hindu temple of Tanah Lot.
11. Try to find hot Indonesian girlfriend.

I will update this list as I talk to more people and find out more about what Bali is like.
Basically, Dutch sailors looking for spice in the East Indies found this island, and they decided what the hell, let's quit our jobs and they stayed there for a long time. So. Who wants to go? Also planning to go recce some more tour agencies this Sat, so whoever's interested can come along. So far tour agencies can get better prices than priceline.com.sg because they purchase in bulk. Please comment!

For the second consecutive day, I've woken up to an empty house, without a need to get up, shake my eyes, prep myself for another day. Sit up, turn off the air-conditioning, wait for life to flow into my aching back and limbs again. I must have slept with the whole world in my dreams. And there's no one beside me. Hmm well what was I expecting. Finished Norwegian Wood last night.

Almost have forgotten how to live like this. When was the last meaningless holiday I had. I hope someone humours me with lunch.


This is good shit.

" Midori and I wandered around for a while. She said she wanted to climb a tree, but unfortunately there were no climbable trees in Shinjuku, and the Shinjuku Imperial Gardens were closing.

'Too bad', said Midori. 'I love climbing trees.'"

more good shit.

"I can't just walk ip to anyone and say, 'When you wank tonight, will you please think of me for a second? It's because I think of you as a friend that I'm asking'. "

(Midori & Watanabe have just finished a porn movie)

"That was fun," said Midori. "Let's try it again sometime."
"They just keep doing the same things," I said.
"Well what else can they do? We all just keep doing the same things."
She had a point there.

Outside again, Midori said she wanted to climb a tree.
"There aren't any trees around here," I said. "And even if there were, you're too wobbly to be trying anything."
"You're always too damned sensible. You ruin everything! I'm drunk cause I wanna be drunk. What's wrong with that? And even if I am drunk, I still wanna climb a tree. Shit, I'm gonna climb to the top of a great, big, tall tree and I'm gonna pee over everyone!"
"You wouldn't happen to need the toilet would you?"

Maintenant je sais

Now you can post comments. I guess I got sick of the old plain look. It was nice, it has served me well, but it has to make way for progress.

It was National Day yesterday, and I guess it was the climax of all the hard work for a lot of people. Of course, looking at it from the general public's point of view, we've come to expect a few things, such as a pull-out supplement from The Straits Times & the basic programme of the parade, and live telecasts, and Singapore Idol. Oh wait. That's new.

It was moving, to see the wonderful reception accorded to our outgoing PM and of course the tributes flow in. He's not horribly charismatic, it's like, ok, i'm going. Bye.

I mean parades. Geez. But the day it goes away, I guess it'll be missed. As with most taken for granted traditions, there'll be a certain bit of nostalgia if it every goes away. Personally, after all the build up, I wasn't feeling especially enthusiastic or patriotic yesterday, compared to earlier rehearsals.

It may not be horribly exciting to be a Singaporean, especially when no issues really divide or polarise us. We're still a stratified society, but basically we're all stuck on this island, so there's less divisiveness especially since we're taught to be united in order to be nimble and agile.

Contrast this to what is increasingly a more divided America. Fahrenheit 9/11, by Mr Michael Moore, is a 2 hour long campaign ad. It looks unlikely that any of the candidates are going to have the same sort of cross-party reach that Mr Reagan and Mr Clinton possessed. Both were exceedingly charming (easier to get things done, we're suckers for charm), and Mr Kerry is not. Mr Bush is slightly more endearing, but doesn't come across as very intelligent.

Mr Reagan proved what was right about the Republicans. Simple world view, achieving stated national security aims. I disagree however, that the end of the Cold War can be attributed to him. It was also a remarkable act of foresight by Mr Gorbachev to start liberalising the U.S.S.R so maybe Mr Reagan got too much credit for simply spending more money on arms than Soviet Russia. Okay. He cut taxes and liberalised the economy. Sound economic policy, but bad for the current account. Mr Clinton got that right. America in good shape.

Much is made about the CIA supplying Osama in the first place and how America tries to meddle with everyone. I thought, okay, war in Iraq is stupid, but maybe there is reason to believe Bush and Blair did it with a sincere heart. It's in the motive. If the Republicans are just a bunch of corrupt cronies, and say stupid things, I hate them. If they sincerely believed in getting rid of Saddam, and they do it in the best way possible, fine. But some of the things they do in the name of the 'war on terror' are just lame.

I believe in the political right. Although they have stupid thoughts on religion and stuff (imho), yet they ensure liberalism doesn't lean too much to the left, producing a nice centrist feel to the government. A bit of national security, a bit of welfare, and a bit of laissez faire. Moderation is good. Very W. Somerset Maugham

I like to believe I see things in shades. Pretty, not so pretty, average. Look beyond the veneer. Look at both sides. That's who I would like to be. I like pretty shiny things, but I like old things, symbolism. That bit of hope I guess is that you could love anything as long as it was unique. The trick is to find that bit of uniqueness, which for some people you can dig out pretty quickly, but for others it takes a lifetime of living.

I'd like to believe that I can choose not to apply standards to friends, which probably indicates a lack of standards on my part. Is that true? I guess I'm not much of a sticker for rules, but the fact is that I follow a lot of them. Wear my seat belt, don't piss people off, be generally nice and not grab things that don't belong to you. But really. Maybe I believe too much in personal rights. So it's okay if you're into ketamine or sleeping with women, I love you anyway.


National Day Special

Post more!

The last few months have went by in a flash, working late nights, settling stuff and added workload thanks to the National Day Parade. The cliched picture is of course a night cityscape or the interior of a club with the slow-sync turned on and long exposure. Little yellow fireflies.

All the things I do. Learn French. Want to do. Go to Bali, or some wide open expanse of land like Siberia. Learn other languages, communicate with other cultures so I can understand why they're so pathetically poor why we make so much money. Maybe like the damn dutch sailors who discovered Bali, it was like fuck spice, lets stay here forever and never go back.

I'm growing into adulthood. Driving cars, listening to Cai Qin in the middle of the night. Being my dad, because probably, my dad's memories are part mine. My memory of dad is dad 30ish, 40ish. It's still a little early to be using whatever he has taught me in deeds and action.

Spread roots, and be grateful to the soil. Follow a philosophy of life which I think is right but is of course imperfect, but perfecting it would kill me. Be honest and free.

It would be a gratification if you had a chick who could wank you off instead. Like oh, needs, and let's get it over with, it's just you wanting to cum.

And being that loner guy, saves you the trouble of dealing with envy and stuff. Oh wait, kill envy. That's why.

I'm tired. Tomorrow: Politics and Nationalism. Redemption for stuff which didn't really make much sense but just needed to go through the motions of writing weird undecipherable stuff on blog. I'm glad you wasted your time.

"Two drifters, off to see the world
There's such a lot of world to see.
We're after the same rainbow's end
Waiting round the bend
My Huckleberry friend
Moon river and me"

Moon river, off Breakfast at Tiffany's. Before how gorgeous and elegant Audrey Hepburn appears steals the topic of conversation, we must divert unfailingly back to the point.

Two can be such a lonely number. It's not just about two couples in love. But knowing someone, who knows some certain aspect of you, can be an overwhelmingly lonely thing. If no one ever knew you for who you are, you could attribute it perhaps to the general unfairness of the world, or a certain tragedy we all must face. But knowing someone who knows you, at one moment, that moment can be rather lonely one when you realise 6 billion other people fade into oblivion, and that the world isn't that unfair after all, yet one other is all you have. But that's just romanticising it. Was just thinking about it when me and my boss were frustrated at the National Stadium on Saturday, and thinking that only we could feel each others pain. That's rubbish of course.

"There are place I'll remember all my life
Though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone, and some remain.

All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I can still recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I'll love you more."

McCartney was the more sensible beatle. Life soon settles into its regular dose of familiarity. Quotidian rituals exercise their rightful role, to remind us that we have to work, play, achieve certain set goals and objectives. Coffee symbolises a lack of time. Put aside all these ragged thought-to-death thoughts, so one can truly function in hope and in want.

Nostalgia rushes in like a void when one is empty. Life wants to be filled, with purpose, with addresses, with lovers, with breakfast, lunch and dinner, with work and fax machines and Apple computers.

Are we hip and cool? Are we 90's chic? Are we the children of the revolution? What is our generation looking for? Do we go pack-hunting for purpose in life, or are we all too damn selfish anyway that we'll get our fix anyway we can?

Across the universe from here, there's some neighbourly divine being way too far out of reach. The problem is, my home's a little too comfortable. Ages 19 & 20 are important ages in maturity. I'm a late bloomer. Best not to ruin myself. We all live in a yellow submarine. I'm hopefully still the same.


"Half of what I say is meaningless
But I say it just to reach you Julia"

Just helped to clear out my mom's place today. One last look at #03-16, and 11 years of eye-treatment. It goes in cycles of 11 years, 82-93 at Orchard Plaza, and 93-04 at Lucky Plaza. There goes dusty lenses, cardboard boxes of saline, a ladder and other concomitant rubbish.

Won't have excuses to eat River Valley Nasi Lemak and probably I'll only ever visit Lucky Plaza again rarely for pool at Mambo or something. Okay.


Motor Cars, Handle Bars
Bicycles for Two
Broken Hearted Jubilee
Parachutes, Army Boots
Sleeping Bags for Two
Sentimental Jamboree

Buy Buy
Says the Sign in the Shop Window
Why Why
Says the Junk the Yard

Candlesticks, Building Bricks
Something Old and New
Memories for You and Me

Buy Buy
Says the Sign in the Shop Window
Why Why
Says the Junk in the Yard

That's Junk, by the Beatles. Before I come to that.

My cousin is in love. It's the only thing that could have gotten me to damn write on this blog again. It's not the most shocking, nor the most significant thing that could have happened in all this time. But it created a certain mood, a 'sentimental jamboree' if you would.

I guess it was an effusive sort of ebullience, wrought by the sheer happiness of someone else. Usually when other people are too happy, it sort of scares you, or even makes you feel sick and jealous, but I guess this was someone I knew, and there was a sense of sincerity of emotion associated with all of it.

Joy, tempered by tinges of anxiety and fear. When it happens to someone else, I guess unabashedly it's so much easier to comment about it, no guilt about self-indulgence or self-pity and it was just so uplifting to hear the words of someone who well believes in what they say.

About how she was so sure yet unsure about the whole thing. The quiet self assurance, knowing that yes, it was probably her he liked more of the two, but even then, would you take the risk? The meeting. The anxieties about the future yet foretold. And yes the anxieties about being continents apart, about being of a different social class, about not being good enough, and about how lucky god made her feel.

In the context of me having a stiff neck and a bad past couple of days, in the context of my previously loudmouthed in private yet really pretty quiet in public cousin, and the serendipity and unexpectedness of the whoel situation.

So much food for thought. Do people actually do worry about being from the same social class? Hmm yes of course, this world and generation is still quite conservative, especially for Indonesian Chinese. Of course, its a different world, and one could really break free of conventions and everything for love but a great deal many people actually factor in their parents thoughts and considerations in everything and watching them juggle all these potentially stressful thoughts in the midst of what must be happiness, its just like watching something you could believe in. The worst fears haven't happened, and do pray that they won't.

It's like watching what could be my future. Stop, look around, and think again. Why then, Junk?

it just made me feel so optimistic and rosy about the hazy thing called love again. I'm no emotional wreck, or sentimental fob, I guess, no matter how much sad songs and films try to convince me otherwise. Deep down, I am perhaps a legitimate, clear thinker, with a tendency to cling to childish habits to think that I somehow am sublimate from this world from time to time with certain special traits in this ethereal one. Yet I know, with much certainty, that many people feel much more than I do or reason better than I do.

With this tricky thing called mortality, and the vagueness of an afterlife(in these days at least), we're all compelled to make the best we can of this life, improve ourselves, for our sakes, for our loves ones, as we grow up, start to be repsonsible, earn enough money, make little gestures of kindness. If we didn't already do these things in childhood on a consistent enough basis, the rigour of adult, mature thinking will ensure you do.

That's my future. I guess I want to be a dependable guy and everything. I also want to be the quasi-enigmatic silent rebel who smokes marijuana and cigarettes from time to time, doesn't drink, and doesn't really enjoy loud social pursuits and maybe can write a book or two. Be moderately successful and vote Socialist. And practise these little beliefs in real life.

And it's Junk. I'm enamoured with little histories, simply because they present themselves in nice completed versions for you to tell stories with. Photos, stories, letters of commemoration. Even doing little commemorative efforts for things like NDP and school. It doesn't damn matter sometimes, who reads this shit, and all the photos are the same when you look at them too many times. But it's the first time you read. That's when you get bashed over the head, like the SARS coffee table book (what irony, we can drink coffee now) which is really a good commemorative efforts. At least save it from floating away into the ocean and being caught in a fishing rod of a boy on the other side of the world.

It's Junk. It's reality. It's not knowing whether the girl I love will ever know why Elia Kazan fell out with Arthur Miller over Marilyn Monroe, not knowing if my attempts at understanding will ever penetrate the myths, songs and stories she heard as a child, in some foreign family. It's the happiness of obscurity and the acceptance of insecurity, which as an individual, one can never tolerate. It is the individual which expects perfection of itself.

It's packaging. Not slick hair or nice clothes packaging. Bubble wrap or cardboard? I like bubble wrap because I love hearing the sound being popped and if I give that much joy to people, it's good. It's slightly bad for the environment and it hurts to be popped.

Buy, buy. I could turn this into a relentless tirade against capitalism but I know it's sensible.
Why why, why try ask the Junk? You never have to do anything or buy anything again. You could fashion a life out of all the junk you have here. But it'll never be enough for you. Or at least, I want to have more junk when i'm 85.


Frustration is one of the hardest qualities to put onto paper. For melancholy, you have a palette of greys and blues, rainy skies, jealousy's green, passion red, purity white, happiness a mix of oranges and yellows.

Frustration is the paper with your tiny handwriting crumpled and thrown into the paper bin.


Nothing much to contribute today. Just a nice afterword by Camus, on his own work, "L'Etranger". Listen to the argument and see if you agree.

A long time ago, I summed up L'Etranger in a sentence which I realize is extremely paradoxical: 'In our society, any man who doesn't cry at his mother's funeral is liable to be condemned to death.' I simply meant that the hero of this book is condemned because he doesn't play the game. In this sense, he is an outsider to the society in which he lives, wandering on the fringe, on the outskirts of life, solitary and sensual. And for that reason, some readers have been tempted to regard him as a reject. But to get a more accurate picture of his character, or rather one which conforms more closely to the author's intentions, you must ask yourself in what way Meursault doesn't play the game. The answer is simple: he refuses to lie. Lying is not only saying what isn't true. It is also, in fact especially, saying more than is true and, in the case of the human heart, saying more than one feels. We all do it, every day, to make life simpler. But, contrary to appearances, Meursault doesn't want to make life simpler. He says what he is, he refuses to hide his feelings and society immediately feels threatened. For example, he is asked to say that he regrest his crime, in time-honoured fashion. He replies that he feels more annoyance about it than true regret. And it is this nuance that condemns him.
So for me Meursault is not a reject, but a poor and naked man, in love with a sun that leaves no shadows. Far from lacking in all sensibility, he is driven by a tenacious and therefore profound possion, the passion for an absolute and for truth. This truth is as yet a negative one, a truth born of living and feeling, but without which no triumph over the self or over the world will ever be possible.
So one wouldn't be far wrong in seeing L'Etranger as the story of a man, without any heroic pretensions, agrees to die for the truth. I also once said, and again paradoxically, that I tried to make my character represent the only Christ we deserve. It will be understood, after these explanations, that I said it without any intention of blasphemy but simply with the somewhat ironic affection that an artist has a right to feel towards the characters he created."

Spoken like a true goalkeeper. Yes. Veritas. What is truth?


"High on diesel and gasoline,
psycho for drum machine
shaking their bits to the hits,
Drag acts, drug acts, suicides,
in your dad's suits you hide
staining his name again,
Cracked up, stacked up, 22,
psycho for sex and glue
lost it to Bostik, yeah,
Shaved heads, rave heads, on the pill,
got too much time to kill
get into bands and gangs,

Oh, here they come, the beautiful ones, the beautiful ones"

- Suede

lalalalala. what if i don't like you because you're so excessively happy & deliriously mad! we should all be completely rational and sit down and talk about it like grown men do, only then will you know all the love i have for you.

break my heart baby like the little glass cherry from the ornamental shelf in the monumental room.

and while you're at it baby just scream at everybody and drift your brain away to some blue lagoon.


Related: Vertebrates, or animals that actually have a backbone.

hoofed ruminant (mmm chew chew) of the family Camelidae. The family consists of three genera, the true camels of Asia (genus Camelus ); the wild guanaco and the domesticated alpaca and llama (who spits) , all of South America (genus Lama ); and the vicu�a , also of South America (genus Vicugna ), otherwise known as the evil fake camels. The two species of true camel are the single-humped Arabian camel, or dromedary, Camelus dromedarius, a domesticated animal used in Arabia and North Africa, and the two-humped Bactrian camel ( C. bactrianus ) of central Asia. Some wild Bactrian camels exist in Turkistan and Mongolia. The humps are storage places for fat. Camels range in color from dirty white to dark brown and have long necks, small ears, tough-skinned lips, and powerful teeth, some of which are sharply pointed. The camel uses the mouth in fighting, so don't piss it off. Adaptations to desert life include broad, flat, thick-soled cloven hoofs that do not sink into the sand; the ability to go without drinking for several days!!!�or longer if juicy plants are available, yum!; and valvular nostrils lined with hairs for protection against flying sand. Horny pads help to protect the chest, knees, and thigh joints against injury from the hard surfaces on which the camel sleeps. Strong camels usually carry from 500 to 600 lb (230 to 270 kg) and cover about 30 mi (48 km) a day. Some Bactrian camels can transport 1,000 lb (450 kg). A light, fleet breed of dromedary is used for riding and not for bearing heavy loads. The name dromedary was formerly applied to any swift riding camel. Geologic findings indicate that the camel originated in North America, that one group migrated to Asia and the other to South America, and that both became extinct in North America probably after the glacial period. Camels are classified in the phylum Chordata , subphylum Vertebrata, class Mammalia, order Artiodactyla, family Camelidae.


I am so tempted, on a night like this, to say something controversial like "Sometimes, I just don't understand love."

It's a quote which may have come from some famous 1940 movie, that people are still talking about even today, because they so disagree with it, because they are so charmed by it, because those with the stone hearts are vindicated by it and those with the hearts of velvet are so offended by it, that they consign the said hero involved to the dustbin of their pity.

Could I be less subtle? No. If I were to romanticise it I would be born in the shadows, blind even, like the cobra. And whatever plans the charmer has for me, or how my every movement is cued, is a secret which vanishes in the cavernous minds of ancient Indian ascetics as they are slaughtered one by one by the heavy hand of death. And soon they will have no sons to pass it too, for they have long forgotten the joys of parenthood, and will weep for lack of descendants to pass their ancient skill to.

I'm tempted not to care, knowing you could survive without it. In fact, you'd probably survive in spite of it. Ooooh magic & secrets, magic & secrets. I will draw your hand for you.

Hate, annoyance, spite. Do I have the ability to make you close this page right now. Be irritatingly fascinated by it, because you detest me? My paranoia has 4 walls, and they are closing in on me. There is a hidden lever in the side of the room, which, if you pull, will offer you an escape hatch that will plunge you out of this room and into the next level. The easier way, of course, would be to rearrange the bricks with your head.

You know of course, that all this is possible, that its mental tricks that will stop you from the evil one who would love to make you all insane. That said, it's not really that different from the sanitorium.

Like Fiona Apple reminds me of Delirium. Maybe she isn't. Maybe someone would smoke herself to death and happy herself to death and jump jump jump away to her death. I am a rubbishy person. My parents always taught me to study hard or I would be a rubbish collector. Rubbish collectors are icky people doing a noble job which no one else does. It's like when I have chewing gum on my hand. eww. but when I'm in the jungle I don't mind mud on me. Just that I'm in my house now and I'm nice and clean and I don't want to have chewing gum on my hand. Ban chewing gum. I like chewing gum.

The beautiful game

I'm sitting here, on a Monday afternoon, feeling that I should be doing more important things. After a week in which I felt there was little time to spare, I finally have some breathing space, and I suddenly have no idea what to make of it!

Boys and their fascination with little games. To be frank, I love soccer not because it's the best game in the world, or has the most emotion, or anything, but because I play it, and generally when you're involved in something even watching it satisfies you somehow, or gives you the urge to lace up your boots and play. Unfortunately, on Monday afternoons, most other guys are probably working.

The point anyway, is to write about soccer today. Because my memories are not about just who loved me, who I loved, or big important issues of life and death. I am sure the games of my youth have an equal significance or some chance bearing on the rest of my life. Something like "Rosebud". And because EURO 2004 has been in earnest for the past month, and faced with a sudden void of matches for the next 3 days, I do something irrational like this.

You'll never walk alone

There never used to be live telecasts of matches every week, if my memory doesn't fail me, and perhaps my earliest memories of watching soccer was "the history of the fa cup", where we would see the great feats of teams such as liverpool and everton. Live telecasts were probably of the FA Cup too, and my dad and my grandpa would go "jip" when someone scored.

Liverpool in the 90's was a declining force but they had the support of people like ym dad who saw them through the all-conquering days of the 90's. There was no S-League then, but all the same, our national team was wearing red and it was fashionable then to support teams wearing red "Arsenal, Man Utd, Liverpool, and our Lions." Apart from memories of the Malaysia Cup and Sea Games, perhaps liking Liverpool was more an adverse reaction to people who supported Man Utd, plus Robbie Fowler was probably the best damn striker there was. It was an age where I still loved the underdogs, where I would even hope for Utah Jazz or the Phoenix Suns to beat the Bulls.

My first major tournament was WC 94, when we loved Brazil. I was still in badminton then, and I remember training and there was this TV outside the hall and I would be distracted by Emmanuel Ammunike scoring against Bulgaria. (i think). Eventually, it led to me not playing badminton and joining soccer, where I started out as a left back because I hadn't much pedigree yet.

I soon progressed to left midfield, or sometimes the left central holding role, not because I was naturally left footed, but at least I could use both feet. It was frustrating however because I didn't feel I was contributing much in terms of creativity because I'm not used to surging runs or dribbles.

After some time though, I was lucky to be able to advance to a forward's position because I started shooting a lot during matches and somehow they went in. I liked that more because it was easier for me to play without the ball, to make runs, to shoot, and generally have a few neat touches, and let the playmakers have a field day.

I enjoyed these youth tournaments a lot, even the street soccer ones, and they'll stay with me.

Football is leisure now for me and sometimes watching soccer's lost some of its appeal, especially when you've watched it for over 10 years and sometimes few things surprise you. And yes I do bet, so I'm not all for the "purity" of the game, but I guess its just another addition to my interest, trying, foolishly sometimes to analyse how games go, because sometimes a game just doesn't kick it for me anymore. Then, now and again we're treated to something like Holland vs Czech Republic or England vs Portugal. Of course, the games that would stay in your memory are those that really mattered to you, whether it was Liverpool's FA Cup comeback against Arsenal, Singapore's triumph over Pahang, or even that match where you lost a hundred bucks on Italy. Or, to end off on the winning note, recouping your losses on the final. Heh. Good luck brothers.


living is easy with eyes closed
Haven't been updating. Maybe it's EURO 2004. Compare this to the rest of what I wrote this year. It's absolutely horrendous. It's me taking 3 steps back.

When you called me, I was thinking one thing. "Maybe this is what guys are meant to do."

Well , of course, maybe I knew that all along, just that my personal philosophy differs.

Anyway. There you go. You took the trouble to call me up, I'll respect what you have to say. Perhaps you don't know my personality or anything and you never have to know, all i can hope for is that its reciprocated.

It's sometimes sad to think that there are so many lives. Inevitably, few matter, and the rest recedes into noise and static.

Strong words and firm action save the day. I'm very pleased with it. Then you will learn that personal suffering counts for little. History counts for little, and everything else has to count for little, for something to count more.

And A telling me about the person on acid who thought he was an orange. He took the kitchen knife and started peeling his flesh. Are we always so 'a-peeling'. cut things up to put them elsewhere. cut and paste.

Your all is partial, Prospero
My will is all my own
Your need to love shall never know
Me: I am I, Antonio,
By choice myself alone.

But my humour is not my own! I try to share it with all of you!

One note is jarring, Prospero,
My humour is my own
Tense Trinculo will never know
The paradox, Antonio
Laughs at, in woods alone.

Alone, alone, alone. Nothing better to say is it?


Mailman, bring me no more blues

I would have just gone to sleep today because I've just finished my last driving lesson (yes yes!) but I got an interesting mix of mail today.

Okay hrmm study in UK stuff from the British Council. GEPAA letter, and an interesting cardboard backed envelope that looked like most of the sponsorship ads i've been dealing with the past few weeks, cept that this was addressed to me.

Okay cool man. Whoever did this thing was guilty of a lot of effort. It's like wow, I wish I had this little knack of doing little things like this to make me happy. Really love it.

So of course, this is more or less a thank you but being the person I am, I always doubt a lot. Haha. Who the hell sent this to me. Suspects range from my sister to others... anyway... haha also felt a certain obligation to reply in some sort, as well as express the fact that yay!, but I'm still misconstrued, oh but maybe you know me more than I do myself, but just goes to show that what you like about yourself isn't what others like about you.

It's half hilarious and half spooky how the faces are blacked out and stuff... i don't know maybe because it's cause i always see these things in b grade hollywood thrillers... not to disparage the work, but anyway, enough already.

that's all i had to say, i had nothing further really.



I'm very moved by this whole spectacle of D-Day. You see, I'm sure all the dead people on Normandy's beaches, if you gave them a choice, would like to live rather than have this little spectacular celebrating the worst day of their lives. But glory is often thrust upon those who shun it.

You see, for many reasons, this event really could have had no significance to me. The war could have been won anyway. Maybe what would have affected my life more would be some landing on Japan which liberated my ancestors. But who knows. Maybe the factor that lost Normandy was that Rommel decided to return for his wife's birthday and Germany lost one of their most talented generals when they needed him the most.

Maybe it's the scale of it all, that it's probably one of the greatest beach-head landings and we'll never see millions shedding blood to invade people like that ever again, not in our time, nor would we want it. So it's a great sacrifice we all commemorate, the great stories. It calls back heroism on a large scale from a pretty much bygone era. It's a combering realisation that life is not all MTV and fun and games, and we should be grateful if it is.

And when the vestiges of the free world decide to send the finest of their generation to try and try again till they get their beach-head, still life must go on. Through all the darkness of war, Rommel still has a wife who has a birthday.

I'm always very delighted when people can describe the little things that make them happy. It makes me feel that they've all grown up, they can see past the immediate feelings and emotions that they have or realise that they have all this different emotions and feelings. That people are happy.

Back to WW2, I never took history past sec 2. I'm glad, that though i disagree with my father about many things, that he has still at least imbibed me with some sense of history. Maybe he left books about Stalin, Hitler and Churchill's own memoirs of the war lying around for that very purpose. More likely than not, he himself had an avid interest in history. Think about how much the English Language opened up for him, and for me.

I mean, just imagine the terror of facing a German heavy-machine gun. If you even get to see it at all when you've stepped out of a landing craft. It's something no amount of training's ever gonna achieve. But it's still important, to hone awareness about terrain, drills, and drills are what you fall back to when you're terrified.

And this ceremony probably helps Bush a lot. Reminds people that when you've made a mess, your job is to go out there and clean it. Did the US go to Iraq for oil?

Think about it. Bush may be horrible with economics, the environment, and general diplomacy. He lacks a lot in finesse and the media hates him, and probably a lot of other people because he's brash, rude and shouldn't be the U.S President cause there's probably someone smarter.

But in retrospect, I must say that going to Iraq was right. Yes on the record. There is nothing more fucked up than going to war and being betrayed by people at home. Ask the French at Dien Bien Phu, who got dud grenades with "vote Communist" on them.

You see, doubt the motives for going into Iraq. Oil, or just more tiresome U.S meddling in others affairs. Or what, Bush is just some daddy's boy who's playing around with other people's lives for his own glory and prestige.

Wait. what glory and prestige. Isn't the whole damn world against him? Think about it. He's the President of the United States. Sometimes that job involves having to sacrifice innocent lives.

Now I believe he's really in Iraq because he really means a difference. The reason why everyone hates him is why Iraq? It's like going to Vietnam to do community service on a 10-day overseas trip but doing nothing at home. But his thought together with the neo-cons...

Still won't vote him if I'd the chance because anyway, someone else could handle post-war Iraq better.
This sounds very strange, but recently its as if I've lost the ability to be dissatisfied.

I can be pissed at some thing, but generally speaking I'm rarely dissapointed. Like, no matter how hard I try, its pretty hard for me to be depressed about something. Probably because I keep having things to do aah well so its no loss.

I don't know. I wrote in February how indelibly happy I was and I don't know it seems the same now. I'm just trying to figure out why I'm just generally happier than i was in general over the past years though it doesn't really seem that a lot has changed. Still no chick, no fame, no success, no glory. Hmm.

It's weird to be even talking about this because of cause there's the "commentators curse" Gosh. But maybe I'm trying to prevent irrational exuberance.


I felt remarkably insane as I tried to sleep. I was unbelievably happy and brimming with optimism at 2345 hrs after reading some criticism or something. I think it's been developing since Thursday when some things my sister said about our society got me pretty depressed and unhappy. When I saw those wunder-kid soloists with their parents having their portfolios they didn't seem little bundles of innocence anymore.

But anyway! Mull mull mull. Then I realised, as I lay down, on a personal level, what could change. Many of us are disenfranchised or disenchanted with the system, want freedom, and its all brimming. Its either us or the next half generation that's gonna have the revolution. That's right, look out ladies, the times are a changing.

So life is shitty now. (Not really, just could be better). Never mind. I guess we're "it". As Philip Larkin put it, "sex began in 1963". We're the generation that's gonna be hippy, cool, or at least we're gonna let our children do it. The dropout generation. Paris in Summer 1960. Walk out of the ecoles. Jai Guru Deva Om. World Peace. Life began after the Beatles.

I don't know. Woohoo. I was crying. Gee whish. Why not me. Why can't I be in Singapore that has hallucinogenic drugs and legalised cannabis. I could be so much more than I am.

Haha. So nmind. Let my children do it. Give em enough money to spend. And when their hippie ways are over, they'll switch over seamlessly to yuppie lifestyles which their creative childhoods have prepared them for.

"You say you want a revolution yeah eh..."
"So I'll start a revolution from my bed"

I'm crying. gee. Sort of. Who the hell will see what I see. They have their own fantastic visions. I goddamn love em all. "All you need is love!"

Work on it. Phish. Who wanna make my babies? Ladies please watch out.
Much inertia... thoughts disorganised... need time for order... let me settle this for you... hope you like it...

"If there's a gun in Act 1, it should always go off by Act 2 Scene 3"

-Anton Chekhov or smth, not verbatim


Une Saison en Enfer?

My belief in hell is a shaky one, given that it's so scary that it's hardly ever possible to imagine anyone remotely compassionate having to dream one up.

Unlike Rimbaud, I wasn't sodomized in the ass. I don't suffer from the same wounds he does, nor is my life governed by different poles of delirium or despair. I'd like to believe though, or at least that some things are the same. Like the terror of dying is the same whether or not you dream it or not. And the eighteenth level of hell was never scary because it was so fake.

I say this because at some point in time (JC) or so, I began losing this notion of individuality that I held to for most of my secondary school life, which seemed then like a method of survival. I was horribly inferior to most other classmates in different ways, so I just had to feel that well, I guess I felt more than them and was just horribly distracted and would eventually come good.

As I grew, I realised people are driven by very much the same needs and desires. To a certain extent, people feel the same way. Sort of realised this when I realised succesful people were more or less equally distracted by the same things and display the same vulnerabilities such as anger or rage or anything its just that they have this annoying way of timing them so that everything comes good.

That's not to say everyone's the same. I now believe other people, in fact, seem to be capable of feeling so much more (uh-huh), and I'm a cold rational person by the side of them, who happens to have some artistic sensitivity.

I Miss

Past is Prologue -Shakespeare?

In the beginning there was the Word.
The Word was made Flesh.
And Flesh brought desire.


One of my strongest feelings... but why is it always associated with the present, and wanting things now? Desire can wait, and it can snake its way to the past and present itself to your subconcious in the most insidious of ways.

Life of 852 and of Tierney's Gourmet, where the very route spoke of the past. Past RI, Past Mt Alvernia's, past Serene Center when my friend asked me if I knew that I could get the best Portuguese canned sardines and Tierney's for 2 dollars a pop. Medicated oil, feng you smell.

I miss the little transactions of friendship. Cycling to Adam Road Hospital to interview a psychiatrist. Pretending to look at cans on a shelf. Waiting for someone at Macs.

Transactions nowadays are more complicated. Because things are worth more, they cost more. And you know, I really could do without the frills. Like fucking someone from the rear, or something like that. I don't need that. (sure you don't.) No, I'm a sexual creature, the same, but its traumatic, when the cost of that is to preen and act like you've the biggest dick around, mainly because it's the size of your head, be alternately sweet and yet be able to mark out your territory by peeing around it in a circle. Like I know, it's essential for evolution, that's why it sounds horrible in words, but I guess in reality actions are the evidence of impulses. cause and effect. and that's how you know.

i'd be fine with happiness, but who knows, I might bring in a squad of hitmen to kill you all because it would be good for you. Gosh why was Uma Thurman just rolling about on the floor crying "Thank you, thank you." It was to thank Bill for being the biggest bastard he could have been. It's what she deserves.

I'm no less eccentric or emotional. I don't really commit many social faux pas. I don't know what best friend means, cause I couldn't rank it if I tried. Maybe my best friend is someone who's a bastard for the best part of my life but who comes for me when it really counts. Can you count like that?

In sepia, pan to the sea.

Fishing, and the sea, and why it attracts old men.

I'm amazed by the wonder of nothingness. That so much nothing can exist. Granted, when you fish, you see the concomitant distractions, sailors and sailoresses from VJC, gigantic oil tankers. There's the sea, and my lousy fishing skills. I'm in charge of catching small ones for bait to catch big ones.

It's fantasy. The sunlight, "ai mai ai mai", want to shine don't want to shine. Cannot have a tan. You can indulge in your own fantasy. The thing in front of you could be a scene from your trip to Siberia next year, smoking into the nothingness in the biting cold.

Plenty of time to think and dwell, but your mind can only fix upon one thing at a time. Maybe I should buy flowers. Oh what the fuck. Just wait till I go to London and I can start afresh. Now and then, now and then is just a time to enjoy myself. All the little things, the minutiae, which are of little comport.

I could blame thousands of people. I could conduct the silent criticism I always reserve in my heart, only to rebuke it later. Fuck off from here if you don't like it, why bitch to me. Why don't you change things. Whatever. I'm staying here. I like the roads here, and all they remind me off. The roads elsewhere are empty. Blame the older generation for being so scary. I was really scared of them. Maybe they changed my destiny.

with the aged and empty streets too dead for dreaming...
hey mr tambourine man play a song for me
i'm not sleepy, and there is no place i'm going to.

Good luck to you. I hope some of my cynicism has brushed off on you. It's all that I could give you. I hope some day you'll thank me for it, but it's too much to ask.


Fast Car

you got a fast car
and I want a ticket to anywhere
maybe we make a deal
maybe together we can get somewhere

any place is better
starting from zero got nothing to lose
maybe we'll make something
but me myself I got nothing to prove

you got a fast car
and I got a plan to get us outta here
I been working at the convenience store
managed to save a little bit of money
we wont have to drive too far
just 'cross the border and into the city
you and I can both get jobs
and finally see what it means to be living

you see my old man's got a problem
he lives with the bottle that's the way it is
he says his body's to old for working
his body's young to look like his
my mama went off and left him
she wanted more to life than he could give
I said somebody's got to take care of him
so I quit school and that's what I did

you got a fast car
but is it fast enough so we can fly away we gotta make a decision
we leave tonight or live and die this way

I remember we were driving driving in your car
the speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
city lights lay out before us
and your arm felt nice wrapped round my shoulder
and I had a feeling that I belonged
and I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

you got a fast car
and we go cruising to entertain ourselves
you still ain't got a job
and I work in a market as a check out girl
I know things will get better
you'll find work and I'll get promoted
we'll move out of the shelter
buy a big house and live in the suburbs
you got a fast car
and I got a job that pays all our bills
you stay out drinking late at the bar
see more of your friends than you do of your kids
I'd always hoped for better
thought maybe together you and me would find it
I got no plans I ain't going nowhere
so take your fast car and keep on driving

you got a fast car
but is it fast enough so you could fly away
you gotta make a decision
you leave tonight or live and die this way

Tracy Chapman. Dreams can be so simple.


I remember Little Hanna, in "Emporte Moi", sitting in the cinema watching an old black and white reel of "Vivre Sa Vie", and being enchanted with Anna Karina, and her smoking her cigarette through the filter, and how the grayish smoke would play on the lovely bromide tinted lens.

Any shot of her from this movie would be of her smoking, and pensive. Her face would speak of glamour, and even her black hair would suggest something about how fiendishly dumb blondes are.

Is it possible to "vivre sa vie?" Let's hear her argument: "I think we are always responsible for our actions. We're free. I raise my hand, I'm responsible. I turn my head, I'm responsible. I am unhappy, I'm responsible. I smoke, I'm responsible. I shut my eyes, I'm responsible. There are times I forget I'm responsible, but even then I am."

And so she goes down the road of tragedy, a road that a lot of us eventually seem to end up in, mainly because we cast ourselves as victims in the gargantuan, solipsistic life we choose. And then we ask ourselves why, why , why, when I guess, we are responsible.

Everything means something. The smoke gives a feeling of peace, of languour, of defiance of time, of the minutes it takes off our lives? To smoke to spend quiet, lonely minutes so that we have less quiet, lonely minutes at the end of it.

How can you think that way? It's rather immature, or childish, or only looking at the surface, or lacking any deeper meaning, or downright cynical. But, to someone who wants to "vivre sa vie", I guess this would sometimes mean living by one's beliefs, no matter how misguided you think they are. Because you yourself are "vivre sa vie"ing and you have your own values, which may or may not be misguided. People live because( at least I do) they care about what their friends think of them, or maybe what their spouse thinks of them, or the worst of all what they think of themselves. And the only way not to think about it all is not to think, which is basically not to give a fuck, which i guess would be a belief system in itself. it's hard not to give a fuck though, so often there's an impression given that we don't give a fuck.

mirrors and mirrors and mirrors and mirrors. The infinite image seen in the 4 sided silver mirrored elevator is really just you.

"nothing's gonna change my world. nothing's gonna change my world. jai guru deva om."


For the slim girl of 20 in the long-sleeved white pullover of incomplete opacity, with hints of black.

He, being typically strong and bold; flanked her italicised flair
with himself, dark and handsome; while she, wearing white for purity
told him,sotto voce; that her beauty wasn't everything, that her bleached whites concealed hints of black.

His small angular face;was, when smiled to
intermediately attractive.
as attractive as legs riding up pillion on a little vespa.

together they said, "we are in love because we are in dreams."
"i never played enough fighting games";"nor did I play much Barbie"
and they clicked in their common androgyny,
until, blended in one identity,
they could do no more, but ... wait.

for him to grow into his charms;and her silently sinuous
both hating easy crossword puzzles
and loving to look for wally.

(kepttogether by circumstance)
separated by
. punctuated pauses in conversation .
but never too far from joy!


i sometimes wish i was writing to someone. pour quelq'un. that the songs we listen to will cause us to stop and weep.

i don't get drunk often because i don't drink. when i do, i inevitable do become all out of kelter. i don't say rubbish. i think i think and feel rubbish, and it's an orange haze and just feeling out of sorts.

so you see, i went to law bash on saturday. saturday nights are event nights, or something, because nowadays everyone's only really free on weekends. it isn't really chilling out. going to a night, i realise, can be a really well choreographed routine.

i must confess i was bored. smoke in the room. in the middle of the dancefloor, and suddenly you can think about what would happen if the room blew up, or exploded into flame, like maybe some Israeli youths in a club in Tel Aviv. The bouncer would die. I would die. The happy people would die. The guy at the side laughing at the others would die. My friends would die, my strangers would die, the bar people will die, the DJ will die, the flirty one dies, the shy one dies.

3 am. Cab back, no supper. No time to write. Just sleep.

And the long languid Sunday. of which half disappeared because i chose to sleep till noon. and the prospect of the routine of another week. going to work, going for French, writing this blog.

And my contact with people feels diminished. How so? I am still going with my friends. I go with my colleagues at work. And there are these words. There is fishing and the sea, the big big sea. I have the stories and the well-meaning advice people tell me.

And not to think about it. To think that everyone is suffering equally.

Pause. Repeat. Think. Think of only the mistakes you have made. Regret and nostalgia in equal amounts. Convincing yourself that work, and getting things done is the way to redeem yourself, because you'd hate to be nothing more than a lazy self-indulgent slob who just happens to be smart, and so being humble and working hard can redeem all that.

And that happiness can be bought with sacrifice. Which will buy you an angel or two, at today's rates, enough to answer your prayers. i have my angel and my patron saint. you see, i would desire it all too. just not as much as you do. but the heart wants, it doesn't need, but it wants, wants, wants. desire. wants touch or joy or peace or love or whatever. quelquechose. quelq'un. and i sleep because i am tired, or i should, now.


Happy mother's day

Before we stop to think how commercial this whole Mother's Day issue is, let us say a big thank you to all the Mothers out there. And I'm not going to think how Mother's Day is commercial because although we should love our mother's every other day, we're only human and we tend to remember things only when they're in bright neon letters out big signs in front of us, and even then we do forget.

My grandmother's turning 80 soon too. It takes a lot of luck to live till you're 80. As I've so often thought, at this point, how do you look to tomorrow? It's more like restraining the dark before it comes over you. And even then, there's the inevitable wavering of the faith, or if hell is a much larger space than you used to think it would be.

At 80, do you ponder over regret as much as you do over 18? At 18, you wished you were a lot of things, popular, well versed in languages, sporty, atheltic and sexy, or the best damn software programmer there was. At 80, do you regret these things? Oh damn I shouldn't have run that bakery for 55 years. I should have run away with that Dutch guy when I had the chance. Or do you think, "does it really matter, I'm going to die anyway."

I've been rather fortunate. I haven't seen much death in front of my eyes. What I have seen of it disquieting enough for my own purposes, which is why I never could envisage myself being a doctor, dealing with death every day. It seems to me like dying in old age is losing the shell you've built for your body over the years and retiring into the blabbering mass you were when you were spit out of the womb. Incontinence, incoherence, and the dissipating of memories except for the most unimportant or important bits. The lost loves you try so hard to invoke. You're desperately trying to read the Chinese newspaper for him so he has something to listen to, to read, to fill his mind other than the dwelling thoughts of death or the anachronistic mumblings of a bygone era. But the damn news doesn't matter to him any more! And as he dies, he has to fulfill the responsibilities of a dying man. Contrition, exulting the grandchildren to study hard and become good people, having a last birthday devoid of meaning but the fact of a little joy brought to the rest of the family. And as a person, having to sit through it all, witness a farce that is not the making of society, or any of the family, or anything, just this farce of having to die, having to give up everything that's incomplete, to return to a better place, or a worse one, and who knows?

that's maybe feeling. it isn't enough to make you cry at funerals(because you're weeping for loss), but it's enough to make you scared and stiff shitless. feeling young, wanting to be young and telling yourself that it won't be the same mistakes you make and that you will die with joy or at least dignity.

it never really was your fault. i'd like to think you turned into a butterfly or some moth after you died or even the aggregation of good words at your eulogy. you couldn't have been the wrinkled person, weakened, preserved with a bible tucked into your arm. that, i couldn't love.


In lousy times like this, one can only turn to better people.

"Darling I would have died for you, but I never had the luck."

According to the legend of the White Snake, Bai Suzben (the white snake which turned into an immortal woman) bought a green snake which she turned into a young girl. She named her Xiao Qing, and she remained her companion even after her marriage. When an evil monk trapped Bai Suzben in a pagoda, it was Xiao Qing who, after years of martial arts training, was the one to free her. Together they fought the monk, and after winning they went back to her family home and lived happily ever after.

I appeared in the story only because you
wanted me to. It was your pale hands
that lifted me, a whip of emerald
from the marketplace baskets, and it was your words
that writhed out a soul from my shine-crusted body.
So there I was, to the world something between
your friend and a maid. He tended
towards the former; he was nice, that husband
of yours. I remember the rain when we
first saw him-it lanced silver across your cheek
while I cried out in spite of myself, isn�t he the one?
You just smiled, holding his hand as you
stepped lightly onto the boat.
That I tell people, is how it began-
love at first sight, silver flashing down your face
while I (everyone laughs here) vomited into
the spangles on the water.

It was never explained to him why I moved
into his new home�I was just the giveaway
that had to be accepted with the amazing deal.
We got along well in the end, and there was always
three of us at important events-
your child�s birth, the shop�s opening
and the inconvenient business you try not to remember.
But there was only me through the years
of perfecting my dance of death for you.
It was a rain of silver blades that I lived ten years in,
that quivered your pagoda-prison
into a thousand glittering shards. We won, of course. Now
it�s difficult at New Year visits; I ignore
your rhapsodies on family life
and the bachelors you invite to dinner. Now
your child thinks I�m his aunt; he pesters me
for stories of your life, but only my eyes
(when the tears melt him into your image)
tell him what you have forgotten:

Your face darted among the swords
like a river�s shifting light and we danced
in a rain of silver for the last time
together. Darling, I would have died for you
but I never had the luck.

Teng Qian Xi

Found this in Fact to Fiction haha.
Now and then, I would say I lose all interest in writing exactly what I give a damn about.

It's like, "Je ne give a fuck pas."


Looking back, I feel that I have really, very little record of the unhappy things that happy. Its as if there are no unhappy events for me, only unhappy emotions.

It's a bit like travelling in overdrive, and you suddenly see a hairpin turn, or your instructor tells you to do a u-turn or something. You brake, slow down, change lane, change down gears, look far, turn the steering wheel with all your might and that moment when you turn the corner your hands are full, your eyes alert and your mind focuses on some spot in the distance (because looking at the edge of the cliff is sure to bring you down that cliff, just like focusing your eyes on a pedestrian to avoid him is going to give him a better chance of being run over.) It's instinct and stuff.

And then you realise you're down to gear 2 and have to work your way up. Accelerate. You forget the corner. It's the next one now. By the way, I love driving. Love the sound of the gears, the shifting of eyes from place to place. It hasn't become routine yet. I usually hate speed, like roller coasters and stuff, but this is different

Tend also to feel bad about a lot of stupid things. When i buy food back for my family, I think of all the times when I didn't. do so. You wish you knew these things sooner, how to care, how to manifest love into tangible take-homes. How to say all you have to say.

Had a discussion with one of the new recruits just yesterday, sort of like an interview. He was pretty smart, and he's a dreamer, so the conversation rather naturally turned to bigger things, the army, the society, the world. And he asked if I thought people in Singapore would be ready to change. I felt that people would change when they're forced to do so.

I like L'Arena by Enrico Morricone, off the Kill Bill 2 soundtrack. When she decides she just wants to bust out of that coffin. It's a 60's song, I believe, and probably used for some war movie because you can hear the simulation of machine gun fire over 2 ridges echoing at each other, and the sound of shells and links dropping on the floor. I'd like to think it's the Spanish Civil War because of the guitar and the snare drum and the triumphant trumpet but I realise it could very well also be Italian guns in WW2, although the image one has of Italian fighters in WW2 is certainly not heroic, as compared to the song. I'd like to believe it was the Civil War, and that reminds me of 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' by Hemingway, and reminds me then also of a very good period I had in JC where I felt especially lucid in the mornings,

The whole Kill Bill series was quite inspiring. Some people found it stupid. I was engaged to it because of its elegance, in swordfighting, and even when Bill stood up, buttoned his shirt and walked away to die. Macam old western.


damn good way to clear entries and shift them down the page.
my fault?
hey. i'm less experimental these days,
Anyone looking for a book to write should try "Seven habits of highly seductive people."
Would be nice to know.
Now and then, occasionally when friendship or conversation reaches that level where one feels it would actually be interesting to know about someone's beliefs, yet not good enough but to pose the questions in anything but the vaguest terms, comes the question, "Do you believe in fate?"

Actually, do you think it's possible to tell if someone believes in that from what they do? Well.

My well-rehearsed answer will now be: I guess, destiny means you can't really screw things up even if you tried. Not that you should go on being lazy, slothful or generally hateful but I guess it means that you may be all those in some stage of your life yet you're around to wake up when it matters?

Something like that. Actually, that was badly expressed. More generally, it means that very few things you do matter in life, but you never know which ones will.

What a bitch ain't it.


The bourgeoise ethic of hard work. Unfortunately it seems that bourgeoise is a bad word now. Okay actually hard work applies to the hoi polloi as well.

Preliminary Conclusion: Hard work is good. Hard work backs up good ideas.

Anyway. You can't escape nationalism or culturalism when it comes to poetry of a young country, not least a post-colonial one.
But slowly the focus is turning on the individual, and so society will continue to look inward. What is the country, then?

Today once more

Years ago, where that old Bedok road suddenly
Swung inland, I felt you breathe. Benedicting
Sunlight by the pillbox lit a quiet in which I heard
My heart's first cry. It grew into a circling eagle,
Whose thermal eye kept free our dome of blue.
Far below the tide rippled, turned and gripped
Removing sand from under where I stood. You
Held me citizen as I grew, wondering in awe,
What made darkness come at noon, or why sea-salt
Bitterness, and the wind's lamentations, can cleanse.

From there a tale of colony, war and occupation;
From here a past we made from careful politics
For better history, and bright embraceable evenings.

Hunting for a future leaves memories and images
Of crucial moments: gritty challenges which, for some,
Are high despair and doubt; a time to think of leaving.
Stay and be damn'd, or prosper in our fashion.
We re-arranged ourselves, besieged our hills, re-made
The contexts of our lives as we gardened city and island
Now petal, shade, octaves in the night, and young faces,
Shift the mood and margins of our hopes, our seasons.
Side by side, old and young split Merlion thoughts, giving
Reasons, while savouring those two durians by the bay.

Each generation has its songs and destinations that assert
A different destiny. Theirs more digital; keyboard-bound.
I learn, adapt; process words to stalk and refresh nostalgia.
Today, no smoke from burning half-dried wood to smudge
Our skyline's signature. Eyes tearful, not from fumes,
But the death of friends. Gopal and James now live in
That ever present past. So does Lim Boh Seng. I cross
The Padang as banzais echo again, rolling down city steps
as Coleman's demolished home haunts the new with gusto.
I taste the stalls in Hock Lam Street, feeling the chillies rise
as Ah Lau cuts his fruits. Foodcourts are less friendly.
Regret? Yes and no. All is still here, as I pass the latest Bedok,
Knowing epiphany, tide and crab are still a mile away.

Edwin Thumboo.


And here it is.

"And here, here it is. This is where I make wrong things right."
"Look, Mother, I make all things new!"

hahahahahaha. you know. i'll cry over the littlest things, but it's as if showing them will just vindicate everything that's wrong about it.

a few starters. i don't mean to always try to fudge things and make them sound less important than they seem nowadays, but you understand it. i mean, i can take it even if you say stupid things about me, i mean, i can't, because it damn well affects me, , or even if i say stupid things by myself, but there is a distinct difference to the world. like i'm some cheap moronic bastard that only cares about my immediate welfare over the next 24 hours.

1. Condoleeza Rice. I am not a supporter of the Bush administration, but I must say Ms Rice's performance while being grilled over security lapses sounds like politics, but you should have seen how stoic and steady she was, assuredly defending herself and her administration, when Bush just as well left her to the dogs. Point 1. Take the good and learn.

2. Bill Clinton. The bastard lied about his affair. "No, I never had sexual relations with that woman." Amidst the maelstorm, he did conduct his daily duties with consumnate professionalism and one thing I have learnt from him is if you're in the wrong, just shut up. That moment where he just stood still and stared differentiated him from someone who would grovel to save his own character from phillistines who would never get it. yes he cheated on his wife. Point 2. Take the good and learn.

3. Ted Hughes. There's a movie now that ends with Plath dying. Plath, who wrote little vignettes, sonnets and aubades as a child, was the typical whirlwind, flying into life and love in a typically haphazard pattern. (she bit hughes the first time they met.) and Hughes saw in her, at least, a precocious intellect, and himself he was rather accomplished. then he cheated on her and she lapsed from misery to misery, ending her palpitating life inhaling oven gas in the dreary london clime, having made sure to put towels in the doors protect young Frieda and Nicholas. And all the feminists were up in arms, pillorying Hughes as the traditional male infidel, unfaithful, self-centered. Yet who consumed who. He dealt with it in most metaphorical terms, if not avoiding it altogether. Before he died, he managed to get "Birthday Letters" out, a loving record of responses to Plath's own poems, and also leaving one for his dignity (he couldn't really stand it anymore you see.). It was, "They have fed your mother to the dogs." Damn right they have.

4. Oh and Dogville when Vera started throwing the glass figures one by one. "If you can demonstrate stoicism to me, perhaps I'll just stop at 2". And oh how she tried.

4. Jesus Christ, drawing a line in the sand.

It's all this. That dignity can resist hurt just a little. That by being stupidly proud and quiet, you keep whatever you have left in reserve, someday, for the right people. There are always people. Being a cynic, you would say purity and innocence are that. Not really, it's there, just that often the well doesn't run deep enough for grace float away from hurt.

You see, nobody has to understand. It would be nice to have it, but you have no right to demand it.