It may well be that I have forgotten how to write. Quite often in conversations, on buses, in classes, I find myself drifting off and composing a monologue in my head. And sometimes I catch myself in a blissfully blank state, which the needless noises and stresses around don't seem to penetrate. I like my life here. Classes and readings take up most of my time, of course. And then there's the very occasional meal with friends. Or the time spent lounging in a Summer Hill room. But would it be too selfish to let myself wonder if something's missing? Find me, a voice inside murmurs.

Charlotte: I just don't know what I'm supposed to be.
Bob: You'll figure that out. The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.


Today is the 20th of September. Slowly, slowly, I am losing my way.

Fear of the Inexplicable

But fear of the inexplicable has not alone impoverished
the existence of the individual; the relationship between
one human being and another has also been cramped by it,
as though it had been lifted out of the riverbed of
endless possibilities and set down in a fallow spot on the
bank, to which nothing happens. For it is not inertia alone
that is responsible for human relationships repeating
themselves from case to case, indescribably monotonous and
unrenewed: it is shyness before any sort of new,unforeseeable
experience with which one does not think oneself able to cope.

But only someone who is ready for everything, who excludes
nothing, not even the most enigmatical, will live the relation
to another as something alive and will himself draw exhaustively
from his own existence. For if we think of this existence of
the individual as a larger or smaller room, it appears evident
that most people learn to know only a corner of their room, a
place by the window, a strip of floor on which they walk up and
down. Thus they have a certain security. And yet that dangerous
insecurity is so much more human which drives the prisoners in
Poe's stories to feel out the shapes of their horrible dungeons
and not be strangers to the unspeakable terror of their abode.

We, however, are not prisoners. No traps or snares are set about
us, and there is nothing which should intimidate or worry us.
We are set down in life as in the element to which we best
correspond, and over and above this we have through thousands of
years of accommodation become so like this life, that when we
hold still we are, through a happy mimicry,scarcely to be
distinguished from all that surrounds us. We have no reason to
mistrust our world, for it is not against us. Has it terrors,
they are our terrors; has it abysses, those abuses belong to us;
are dangers at hand, we must try to love them. And if only we
arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us
that we must always hold to the difficult, then that which now
still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust
and find most faithful. How should we be able to forget those
ancient myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into
princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses
who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps
everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless
that wants help from us.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

Sydney, ho!

Heathcliff was a psycho

I recently re-read Wuthering Heights again (during my exam period, no less. As if taking exams aren't stressful enough). I remember a time in secondary school when I thought it was quite a romantic novel, and sometime after the breakup with B that I relied heavily on Catherine (“a source of little visible delight, but necessary” continues to echo in my head till today). And I used to wonder in a typical adolescent fashion, whether I would inspire such depth of emotion in another. He was my dark Byronic hero, if you will.

But re-reading it again, I was quite horrified to find how much I have misjudged Heathcliff. He was a guy who killed his new wife’s dog to torment her for not being Catherine. And I know, I know, I shouldn’t be imposing contemporary societal values on someone living in a different period, but if I imagine someone killing Daiso just to watch me squirm, I might be tempted to wonder if I was one step away from being a victim on Saw.

It’s the same with Rochester in Jane Eyre, no? (Yes, I have a penchant for literature by old, dead white ladies) If you think about the novel as a movie made for modern audiences, it might go something like this:
Setting: at a Starbucks queue. Two stranger are chatting each other up.
R: You are the loveliest creature I have ever laid eyes upon. Would you like to come back to my place?
J: That’s rather forward of you. Are you normally like this with women?
R: Well, not really. When I was courting my wife… oops, I mean uh…
J: You’re married?!
R: No, no, no! Well, technically yes. But she’s a psycho! She doesn’t understand me!! And it’s not cheating if I bring women home, because technically, we still live together.
J: So you still live with your wife?!
R: No, you misunderstand me! I’ve locked her in the attic, which means I’m totally free to see other people. So… how about a drink at my place, sweetheart?

In any case, it has made me wonder how much of my thoughts on love have been influenced by these historical ideals, like the fairytale idea of love-as-rescue or how one can differentiate a Shakespearean comedy or tragedy by whether there is a wedding at the end. I remember reading a quote by someone saying there are two questions you have to ask yourself in life. The first is “Where am I going?” and the second: “Who will go with me?”, and that the trouble is when you get these questions in the wrong order. And if I have to be brutally honest with myself, I’m not exactly sure where I’m going. But even so, knowing someone who is willing to wander around with me, is wonderful in its own right.

So lately, I have been in limbo (not unlike Leo in Inception, where time stops and killing yourself is the only way out). I am at that weird point in time, where you’re at the brink of the bubble and reality. If I don’t continue studying, I’ll start working (something I have been eagerly looking forward to). But I’ll admit that studying for another year or so does have its appeal. I may be lucky to have that opportunity again, in a new environment. So why not? I am still uncertain as to what I want to do, and to have abit more time in incubation, exploring what the world has to offer, may be just what I need. It reminds me somewhat of that T.S. Eliot quote: “We shall not cease from exploration, and at the end of all our exploring, will be to arrive where we started, and know the place for the first time.”

On a random, slightly guilty note, I came across a speech by Reese Witherspoon on some award show. “I understand that it’s cool to be bad, I get it,” she said, in a thank-you speech. “But it’s possible to make it in Hollywood without being on a reality show… And when I was coming up, a sex tape was something you hid under your bed… And when you take naked pictures of yourself, you hide your face! Hide your face!” She finished off by stating that she was going to try to make it “cool” to be a “good girl”. I must say that while I admire her stand, it’s nothing new. Women on reality TV shows are easy targets; always criticized for their misogynistic, bimbotic portrayal of women, feeding into that stereotype, reversing the progress fought for by feminist movement etc etc. I must confess that in principle, I agree with the cynics. But I also think women should be allowed the freedom to “be bad” if they so choose, and not fit into this dichotomous mould of good/misogynistic. If you’re going to be bad, go ahead, but do it for a reason (to flaunt your sexuality, to cut the dictates of traditional female passivity etc). I share the same opinion about being offensive in writing. If you’re going to be offensive, do it for a purpose.

What I am blaming though, is the system of advertising, media, and a culture that schools girls into being defined by their sexual appeal and then punishing them for it (the same media that turns girls like Paris Hilton into a celebrity in the first place). I guess what I’m trying to say is: If you’re going to be bad, make it mean something… other than self-sabotage.

And on a slightly less cynical note, here is a cute limerick on The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot (which I had the misfortune of reading last year).

I
In April one seldom feels cheerful;
Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful;
Clairvoyantes distress me,
Commuters depress me–
Met Stetson and gave him an earful.

II
She sat on a mighty fine chair,
Sparks flew as she tidied her hair;
She asks many questions,
I make few suggestions–
Bad as Albert and Lil–what a pair!

III
The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep;
Tiresias fancies a peep–
A typist is laid,
A record is played–
Wei la la. After this it gets deep.

IV
A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot
About birds and his business–the lot,
Which is no surprise,
Since he'd met his demise
And been left in the ocean to rot.

V
No water. Dry rocks and dry throats,
Then thunder, a shower of quotes
From the Sanskrit and Dante.
Da. Damyata. Shantih.
I hope you'll make sense of the notes.

- Wendy Cope

Have a good week!

I know this directly contradicts what I wrote earlier. But if I read one more political article, I will just throw up over my keyboard.

The cooling off period starts now.

Catch a body

Salinger, I’m sorry, but “Don’t ever tell
anybody anything” is a string of words
I would like to wrap up in canvas and sink
to the bottom of the Hudson, or extract
by laser from the ribcage of all of us
who ever believed it, who felt afraid
to miss someone, to be the last one
standing. “Tell everyone everything” is
not exactly right, but I do believe that if
your mother looks radiant in violet
you should tell her, or when a juvenile
sparrow thrashes its wings in dustpiles
and reminds you of a lover’s eyelashes,
you should say so. We are islands all of us,
but we are also boats, our secrets flares,
pyrotechnic devices by which we signal
there’s someone in here we’re still alive!
So maybe it’s, “don’t be afraid.” We can
rewrite Icarus, flame-resistant feathers,
wax that won’t melt, I mean it, I’ll draw up
a prototype right now, that burning ball
of orange won’t stop us, it’ll be everything
we dream the morning after, even if we fall
into the sea—we are boats, remember?
We are pirates. We move in nautical miles.
Each other’s anchors, each other’s buoys,
the rocket’s red, already the world entire.

- Ilse Bendorf

I’ve been surprisingly contented these days. And I must confess, it’s largely the doing of the caring Mister Eggtart. It never ceases to amaze me how he is able to manage my irrational neuroses. This morning, we were seated together having our morning coffee, and it struck me how that little black hole of fear and resentments I secretly harbour has actually been neglected for quite some time. He steadies me in my inevitable mood swings, he understands my insecurities, he laughs like a little boy when I say something silly. Slowly, the focus of my life is shifting. I no longer feel like I’m an island of uncontrollable temperaments, and the fulfillment that I had been desperately seeking in my reading and writing is becoming a fraction more tangible.

That is not to say that my life is perfect now. Far, far from it. My immediate future seems bleak (I impatiently await the results of my application to postgrad studies in Sydney.) Maybe it’s this consuming restlessness that I have bottled up that is being projected onto other issues, like the Singapore elections. It’s relatively easy to be idealistic in that domain, to grasp hopes of a better life in a single vote.

On a somewhat related note, I cannot deny that I am politically apathetic. I do have strong opinions (to me, my choice is clear-cut), but I cannot bring myself to actively influence to political opinions of others. I tend to think that one’s political affiliation is like music taste, subjective and enduring. Other than toward my nearest and dearest people (like my dad, who more than welcomes an intellectual discourse), I am open to expressing my views but not to questioning others on theirs. For days and hours afterward, I would rage quietly inward at an ill-informed judgment. But in the end, short of an outright fallacy, I don’t think it’s my place to influence the political leanings of other people.

I read an interview with a man where he was asked what love is. And he answered that for him, it is a mixture of three things - desire, vulnerability and bravery.

I like that.

Miles Away.

I want you and you are not here. I pause
in this garden, breathing the colour thought is
before language into still air. Even your name
is a pale ghost and, though I exhale it again
and again, it will not stay with me. Tonight
I make you up, imagine you, your movements clearer
than the words I have you say you said before.

Wherever you are now, inside my head you fix me
with a look, standing here whilst cool late light
dissolves into the earth. I have got your mouth wrong,
but still it smiles. I hold you closer, miles away,
inventing love, until the calls of nightjars
interrupt and turn what was to come, was certain,
into memory. The stars are filming us for no one.

 - Carol Ann Duffy

There are times when words just remain as they are.

love is a deep and a dark and a lonely

love is a deep and a dark and a lonely
and you take it deep take it dark
and take it with a lonely winding
and when the winding gets too lonely
then may come the windflowers
and the breath of wind over many flowers
winding its way out of many lonely flowers
waiting in rainleaf whispers
waiting in dry stalks of noon
wanting in a music of windbreaths
so you can take love as it comes keening
as it comes with a voice and a face
and you make a talk of it
talking to yourself a talk worth keeping
and you put it away for a keen keeping
and you find it to be a hoarding
and you give it away and yet it stays hoarded

like a book read over and over again
like one book being a long row of books
like leaves of windflowers bending low
and bending to be never broken

- Carl Sandburg

I’ve always been an emotion-driven person rather than a thought-driven one. Even as a kid, I had been acutely aware of the logic and consequences of my choices, but would still have trouble controlling my seemingly inherent impulsiveness. Rational thought may guide my insight and give me abit of courage, but ultimately, my emotions hold the reins. I like to imagine reason as the strict driving instructor shouting instructions in the passenger seat, and my emotions as the clueless, bespectacled driver listening to his Walkman on full blast swerving in and out of traffic. (It doesn't really matter I suppose, just that lately I feel as if the driving instructor has given up.)

Being in a relationship is also somewhat about coming to terms with my own romantic projections. I will admit, that there is still a teenage girl inside me somewhere who wants things to be as perfect as I had once imagined they would be. It’s not candlelight dinners, or declarations of everlasting love that I have trouble letting go off, but coming to terms with the mere notion that there will be times when we will fail each other’s expectations.

In Psych, we learnt about a social identity and an essential self. The essential self is your true self. It alone know what you truly desire and what you need to thrive, what you dream of when you write or paint, the struggles you take on when you grow. The social identity, on the other hand, is the mask you piece together through interactions with others. And usually we do it subconsciously, to be accepted and loved and be conventionally successful. The problem is, for me at least, I have trouble identifying where the mask ends and the real person begins. Part of my reality has been defined by the sound of silence echoing in the conversations I have with others. Talking has never been my forte, even with close friends and family. My head might be spinning with thoughts and ideas, but I’ve never been truly comfortable sharing them (partly because those thoughts seem quite silly and irrelevant anyway). I don't know why this matters either. Maybe because living in my own head has been getting too suffocating these days.

Writing in this lonely little blog has mostly been because I needed an outlet for my own emotional and mental reasons. I try to be sparing in the details, but most times, even through the fog I purposely create, I crave to be understood. I’ve always felt it’s something profoundly human to try so desperately to be understood and loved. And it’s not as if I don’t have a sweet boyfriend and a few close friends to share my life with. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.

Things will get better soon.