thesis is over, and i have lost the drive to think, to write.
they laugh, shake me down, ask me to loosen up. but i can't. without the tension i slacken and feel no drive. i have been stretched taut, warped; i can no longer be as the norm. slackening, i feel the void, the absence of stress that weakens. i need the pull, the invasion, the infusion of energy that comes from pain.
come inside, control me, pull me apart. force me to my ends, make me die. i have been left alone, left to revive, but i wish for death.
i once was dead, but now am alive
was Yours, but now i'm mine.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
circling the text
i am thesis-consumed.
thinking back on how i have been crafting my posts, i wish my thoughts would flow into such a shape when applied to the contemplation of the Thesis. i find i am able to put the essence of my argument, the core of my contemplation, into a neat, apt sentence which would invariably open the post and head the chunk of words that eventually flow out. as is the case now. but the Thesis refuses to be opened, and the hammering of that Sentence has been going on for months with no great success. all i have achieved is the resultant hammering of the thumb, accompanied by curses that comes instinctively from the pain and frustration of feeling the Sentence slip once again from my grasp.
the rains have been falling. the waters pool, flow; my thoughts do not find their shape.
i am extremely conscious of the numbers. i quote 12,000 and 10 and do multiplications and divisions. i know the lines and boundaries and the horizon which is the edge. i wish i knew as well what to say.
oh, You. you are words on paper; you are the intangible in the tangible, the tangible in the intangible; you are loops and infinite; you are real; you are my imagination.
you are my pain. and my pleasure.
thinking back on how i have been crafting my posts, i wish my thoughts would flow into such a shape when applied to the contemplation of the Thesis. i find i am able to put the essence of my argument, the core of my contemplation, into a neat, apt sentence which would invariably open the post and head the chunk of words that eventually flow out. as is the case now. but the Thesis refuses to be opened, and the hammering of that Sentence has been going on for months with no great success. all i have achieved is the resultant hammering of the thumb, accompanied by curses that comes instinctively from the pain and frustration of feeling the Sentence slip once again from my grasp.
the rains have been falling. the waters pool, flow; my thoughts do not find their shape.
i am extremely conscious of the numbers. i quote 12,000 and 10 and do multiplications and divisions. i know the lines and boundaries and the horizon which is the edge. i wish i knew as well what to say.
oh, You. you are words on paper; you are the intangible in the tangible, the tangible in the intangible; you are loops and infinite; you are real; you are my imagination.
you are my pain. and my pleasure.
Friday, August 6, 2010
the lost treasure
where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
i've been engaging in the operation of treasure-transfer for the past week or so. the western shores have achieved liveability for some time, but it was only today that it has enough reason in it for my heart to choose it over the east. because the books have made their transition.
even then, the eastern land remains the abode of rest because the whole of Pratchett and Tolkien still reside there. and nothing beats Pratchett when i want to be entertained, inspired, provoked to think, or affirmed that the human race is indeed a pathetic species.
but the academic books are almost all in the west now. and whether i want to or not, i have to take them to myself and consume them. met my ht supervisor yesterday, and the session reminded me with no little sting that i am quite a failure of a lit major. i am unable to perceive, express, or summarise in neat, concise phrases what a book is about or what its failings/successes are. i am not thinking about things, and what is a lit student to do when she has lost her desire to think or to engage with words.
find back her heart.
i've been engaging in the operation of treasure-transfer for the past week or so. the western shores have achieved liveability for some time, but it was only today that it has enough reason in it for my heart to choose it over the east. because the books have made their transition.
even then, the eastern land remains the abode of rest because the whole of Pratchett and Tolkien still reside there. and nothing beats Pratchett when i want to be entertained, inspired, provoked to think, or affirmed that the human race is indeed a pathetic species.
but the academic books are almost all in the west now. and whether i want to or not, i have to take them to myself and consume them. met my ht supervisor yesterday, and the session reminded me with no little sting that i am quite a failure of a lit major. i am unable to perceive, express, or summarise in neat, concise phrases what a book is about or what its failings/successes are. i am not thinking about things, and what is a lit student to do when she has lost her desire to think or to engage with words.
find back her heart.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
circle of friends
it seems to me that relationships of equal dependence are rare.
there was a tug when i heard your voice. but when you cried, i am sorry to say that i could not respond with equal strength of emotion. i miss you. i think of you. you brought me great joy. i treasure the journey we had together. and i realise that my sentences are slipping into the past tense, as though all feelings for you were in the past. but even then, even then, i could not say that you were important to me the way you could say it of me.
i wonder how you would feel if you were to read this. and i wonder if i ought to continue. but it's just a thought, really. because i am quite certain that nothing will stop me from writing on.
it's something that i have taken to heart and taught myself to recognise while i was still on the receiving end. there will be people whom we adore and to whom our hearts are so wholly given because of the emotional support they provided to us at one point in time. there will be those who mean the world to us, but we are a passing figure, a part of the crowd to them. in any relationship where one is dependent on the other for guidance and support, the depth of emotional investment will be unequal, because the receiver will always have greater need of the relationship than the giver.
i need you more than you need me.
when she cried, i thought of that day in august when you opened the door into that small room in blk 80. i thought of how the knob turned, the lock clicked, the door inched open slightly. and you said "hello". one word. one word. two syllables of your voice broke through any restraint i could pull together.
and that february when you came back. and it was your last day (again) in singapore. i remembered how i shied away from you outside tc. i could not bear to come anywhere near you, to hear anything from you.
perhaps you will come to the same realisation as me. perhaps you, too, recognise that dependence makes a relationship imbalanced. i am sincerely sorry if this realisation causes you great pain. and i wish to say that you are not nothing to me. you do mean a lot. you are someone i really like. i empathise with how you feel because i have my own heartbreaks. i hope to become friends with you, to achieve a more balanced relationship, so that we can be an emotional and spiritual support to each other.
bangsy's girl stares at me
on her tiptoes with hope but yet she squats
keeps nearer the ground for she knows that's where she belongs.
her face turns outwards and her fingers keep hold..no,
they merely wait
for the sign, the word that is a command
and they will release the string.
it will go;
it does not belong.
there was a tug when i heard your voice. but when you cried, i am sorry to say that i could not respond with equal strength of emotion. i miss you. i think of you. you brought me great joy. i treasure the journey we had together. and i realise that my sentences are slipping into the past tense, as though all feelings for you were in the past. but even then, even then, i could not say that you were important to me the way you could say it of me.
i wonder how you would feel if you were to read this. and i wonder if i ought to continue. but it's just a thought, really. because i am quite certain that nothing will stop me from writing on.
it's something that i have taken to heart and taught myself to recognise while i was still on the receiving end. there will be people whom we adore and to whom our hearts are so wholly given because of the emotional support they provided to us at one point in time. there will be those who mean the world to us, but we are a passing figure, a part of the crowd to them. in any relationship where one is dependent on the other for guidance and support, the depth of emotional investment will be unequal, because the receiver will always have greater need of the relationship than the giver.
i need you more than you need me.
when she cried, i thought of that day in august when you opened the door into that small room in blk 80. i thought of how the knob turned, the lock clicked, the door inched open slightly. and you said "hello". one word. one word. two syllables of your voice broke through any restraint i could pull together.
and that february when you came back. and it was your last day (again) in singapore. i remembered how i shied away from you outside tc. i could not bear to come anywhere near you, to hear anything from you.
perhaps you will come to the same realisation as me. perhaps you, too, recognise that dependence makes a relationship imbalanced. i am sincerely sorry if this realisation causes you great pain. and i wish to say that you are not nothing to me. you do mean a lot. you are someone i really like. i empathise with how you feel because i have my own heartbreaks. i hope to become friends with you, to achieve a more balanced relationship, so that we can be an emotional and spiritual support to each other.
bangsy's girl stares at me
on her tiptoes with hope but yet she squats
keeps nearer the ground for she knows that's where she belongs.
her face turns outwards and her fingers keep hold..no,
they merely wait
for the sign, the word that is a command
and they will release the string.
it will go;
it does not belong.
Monday, May 31, 2010
stock-taking
i ran 4km today!
not a very impressive number to many, but it is no less than a miracle for me. i had always struggled with the 1.6km and 2.4km during NAPFA in school. i like sprinting and i like walking long distances, but running long (anything above 800m is, or was, long for me) had always been a great struggle.
i used to fear the track. i used to dread PE lessons to the extent that i would feel cold while sitting on the grandstand, waiting for the teacher to announce the mileage for the day and chivvy us to the track. i wasn't adverse to sports. it was just running that really put me off.
but now i am in love with it (:
with each step, i affirm that it is time for action, and not for dreams. it is the time to be who i want to be, and not to imagine who i could be. the mental realm has been my recluse and place of solace for too long. if i want my life back, i have to get back to and fight with reality again.
a quote from the patek phillipe exhibition at st regis is on my mind - workmanship is being committed to an ideal.
i will not settle for less.
not a very impressive number to many, but it is no less than a miracle for me. i had always struggled with the 1.6km and 2.4km during NAPFA in school. i like sprinting and i like walking long distances, but running long (anything above 800m is, or was, long for me) had always been a great struggle.
i used to fear the track. i used to dread PE lessons to the extent that i would feel cold while sitting on the grandstand, waiting for the teacher to announce the mileage for the day and chivvy us to the track. i wasn't adverse to sports. it was just running that really put me off.
but now i am in love with it (:
with each step, i affirm that it is time for action, and not for dreams. it is the time to be who i want to be, and not to imagine who i could be. the mental realm has been my recluse and place of solace for too long. if i want my life back, i have to get back to and fight with reality again.
a quote from the patek phillipe exhibition at st regis is on my mind - workmanship is being committed to an ideal.
i will not settle for less.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
voiced and voiceless
i've just had two of the best theatrical experiences these past two days. i get the sense that i should be writing a lot more and reflecting in much greater depth about the two performances, but..i am tired.
watched Cargo Kuala Lumpur - Singapore by Kaegi (from Rimini Protokoll) and Karrenbauer on the 25th. the audience were seated as cargo in a converted truck and we were driven around by truck drivers in a journey that simulates the journey that cargo transporters make from KL to SG. our drivers brought us to the port area, customs, industrial places, large holding areas, all the while providing a commentary on what the drivers had to do, how much they earned, and the technical specifications of some of the cargo they were dealing with. in between the professional content, they also shared about their personal history.
i am unable to continue. at least, not in a coherent, polished flow. i remember words, pictures, the girl with the boxes and singing those songs. penjuru domitory. foreign workers. we have so many, so many foreign workers in singapore.
what, really, is the cargo? the large containers the drivers have to transport across long distances through the nights with heavy thoughts of financial stress and separated family members? we, the audience sitting in the converted truck, being transported around with no say about where we wanted to go or what we wanted to do? them, the people who have been shuttled around nations, changing between jobs, utilised by organisations for industrial and economic purposes?
they live on the same small island of less than 700 sqm with us. yet we know so little about them, and are so estranged from them.
social estrangements. yesterday's performance also addressed this so strongly. it was I, Malvolio by Tim Crouch. i thought of the Twelfth Night performance that i saw in Stratford some months ago. i remember the Malvolio from that performance very well. his smile was heart-breaking, and yesterday's performance brought back those memories of the person whose ostracisation caused me such pain.
crouch was marvellous. he managed to understand the spirit and symbol of malvolio. and more than that, he dragged out the great potential in the malvolio character for social commentary. for twelfth night is, indeed, a mad and violent play. it is a world of madness, where people allow their emotions to swing them into all sorts of irrational behaviour. it is a world where the funny man is laughed at, where people have no qualms tormenting others for the sake of their own amusement. how far would this society, this human race, go in the direction of violence for the sake of amusement? i am not optimistic about the answer.
i really liked his interpretation of how malvolio would exact his revenge also. how, indeed, can malvolio ever make anyone feel the anguish and brokenness and rage and stupidness that he felt? he made use of the theatrical contract very well, exploiting the parasitic relationship the audience has on the actor by simply leaving the audience perfomance-less so that the audience would have some sense of how it feels to thrown out of the dream world, to fumble around stupidly in the new consciousness, to berate themselves for having ever entered the theatre.
in limbo. to be left in limbo. to be left to think "why did i ever."
isn't that one of the most painful questions ever.
"them as have a voice must speak for them as have no voice". to all the malvolios and cargoes of the world, someone has been speaking, and will be speaking, for you.
watched Cargo Kuala Lumpur - Singapore by Kaegi (from Rimini Protokoll) and Karrenbauer on the 25th. the audience were seated as cargo in a converted truck and we were driven around by truck drivers in a journey that simulates the journey that cargo transporters make from KL to SG. our drivers brought us to the port area, customs, industrial places, large holding areas, all the while providing a commentary on what the drivers had to do, how much they earned, and the technical specifications of some of the cargo they were dealing with. in between the professional content, they also shared about their personal history.
i am unable to continue. at least, not in a coherent, polished flow. i remember words, pictures, the girl with the boxes and singing those songs. penjuru domitory. foreign workers. we have so many, so many foreign workers in singapore.
what, really, is the cargo? the large containers the drivers have to transport across long distances through the nights with heavy thoughts of financial stress and separated family members? we, the audience sitting in the converted truck, being transported around with no say about where we wanted to go or what we wanted to do? them, the people who have been shuttled around nations, changing between jobs, utilised by organisations for industrial and economic purposes?
they live on the same small island of less than 700 sqm with us. yet we know so little about them, and are so estranged from them.
social estrangements. yesterday's performance also addressed this so strongly. it was I, Malvolio by Tim Crouch. i thought of the Twelfth Night performance that i saw in Stratford some months ago. i remember the Malvolio from that performance very well. his smile was heart-breaking, and yesterday's performance brought back those memories of the person whose ostracisation caused me such pain.
crouch was marvellous. he managed to understand the spirit and symbol of malvolio. and more than that, he dragged out the great potential in the malvolio character for social commentary. for twelfth night is, indeed, a mad and violent play. it is a world of madness, where people allow their emotions to swing them into all sorts of irrational behaviour. it is a world where the funny man is laughed at, where people have no qualms tormenting others for the sake of their own amusement. how far would this society, this human race, go in the direction of violence for the sake of amusement? i am not optimistic about the answer.
i really liked his interpretation of how malvolio would exact his revenge also. how, indeed, can malvolio ever make anyone feel the anguish and brokenness and rage and stupidness that he felt? he made use of the theatrical contract very well, exploiting the parasitic relationship the audience has on the actor by simply leaving the audience perfomance-less so that the audience would have some sense of how it feels to thrown out of the dream world, to fumble around stupidly in the new consciousness, to berate themselves for having ever entered the theatre.
in limbo. to be left in limbo. to be left to think "why did i ever."
isn't that one of the most painful questions ever.
"them as have a voice must speak for them as have no voice". to all the malvolios and cargoes of the world, someone has been speaking, and will be speaking, for you.
Monday, May 24, 2010
kids (:
was ushering for i-theatre's gruffalo show at alliance de francais last week. they had two shows per day, and both of the first day's shows were specially reserved for school bookings. we had children from primary schools, children from minds, children from national library's kids group, children from private kindergartens...you get the idea. i don't wish to fall into the trap of romanticising childhood, but it was really an absolute joy watching them queue up, run around, ask for toilet, chatter and scold and laugh and basically, do all sorts of kiddish things and sometimes even adult things with a kiddish air.
during the performance, there was one scene where a character on stage center was going to chase after another character on stage right. after delivering his speech which made clear his intention, he swopped to stage left to enact the theatrical gesture of a chase, i.e. exaggerating the distance by running up and down the stage. a girl from the audience immediately exclaimed "but she's over there!". imagine the laughter and looks of amazement from her teachers.
i was really caught by that girl and the insight she gave me into her world, our world, and the worlds we dream up for ourselves. aren't there many times when we engage in performative acts for the sake of exaggerating and calling attention to what we're doing, or for the opposite aim of concealing what we really wish to do? sometimes, we feel that people are not appreciating us enough, or not recognising the effort we're putting in, and we harp on our sacrifices so that they would notice. sometimes, we conceal when we do not take ownership for certain desires that we have, or we suppress needs that we feel too vulnerable to share. we gesture towards A when what we really want is B, and we strive after C to cope with our belief that we can never get D.
i see so many performances every day and it sickens me. i am conscious too, of my own performances and that i need to change. which is really quite a self-attacking statement because the more i type, the more i am crafting and engaging in self-presentation, which brings me deeper into the act of performance.
craft.
i'll think about that another day.
for now, my aim is to think before i speak and be more watchful of my own actions. but even as i make this resolution, i remember what ps william said during that meeting, that "the product is more important than the publicity".
so God, please change the person, and not merely help her to regulate her performance.
"therefore, i urge you, brothers, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God - this is your spiritual act of worship. do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is - his good, pleasing and perfect will." romans 12:1-2
during the performance, there was one scene where a character on stage center was going to chase after another character on stage right. after delivering his speech which made clear his intention, he swopped to stage left to enact the theatrical gesture of a chase, i.e. exaggerating the distance by running up and down the stage. a girl from the audience immediately exclaimed "but she's over there!". imagine the laughter and looks of amazement from her teachers.
i was really caught by that girl and the insight she gave me into her world, our world, and the worlds we dream up for ourselves. aren't there many times when we engage in performative acts for the sake of exaggerating and calling attention to what we're doing, or for the opposite aim of concealing what we really wish to do? sometimes, we feel that people are not appreciating us enough, or not recognising the effort we're putting in, and we harp on our sacrifices so that they would notice. sometimes, we conceal when we do not take ownership for certain desires that we have, or we suppress needs that we feel too vulnerable to share. we gesture towards A when what we really want is B, and we strive after C to cope with our belief that we can never get D.
i see so many performances every day and it sickens me. i am conscious too, of my own performances and that i need to change. which is really quite a self-attacking statement because the more i type, the more i am crafting and engaging in self-presentation, which brings me deeper into the act of performance.
craft.
i'll think about that another day.
for now, my aim is to think before i speak and be more watchful of my own actions. but even as i make this resolution, i remember what ps william said during that meeting, that "the product is more important than the publicity".
so God, please change the person, and not merely help her to regulate her performance.
"therefore, i urge you, brothers, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God - this is your spiritual act of worship. do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is - his good, pleasing and perfect will." romans 12:1-2
Monday, May 17, 2010
training in progress
it is time for the training to start.
rinjani's the main reason of course, but what's a mountain but a symbol of all the things its been used as a metaphor for? the lit student in me has invested it with all these other identities, because the appellation of "mountain" is too evocative for me to not think of all the other mountains and burdens and barriers.
i condense them all into this, and i will train to overcome it. and i am enjoying the training, because there is joy in the labour, in the preparation, in the working out of one's decision.
and of course, this journey of physical, mental and spiritual training has pushed to be thought through and hammered out into words. it is not content to remain as a mass of half-formed sentences and a ball of emotions in my soul. the training has generated words, for every experience has a verbal dimension, no? images and emotions may form part of our consciousness, but the vague impressions demand to be distilled into words, slotted into structures so as to give them some assurance of immortality. (on a side note, every time i say "so as to", i think of the national pledge). i have decided that my training would not be complete unless i set myself to this verbal training too. because this is another aspect of myself that i've lost to the mountain. the experiences of the years and my ways of dealing with them have resulted in the death of my capacity to think through, own, and express my emotions. i want my consciousness to regain its verbal vitality. i want my words, and my mind, back.
"if i have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if i have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, i am nothing" 1 cor 13:2
rinjani's the main reason of course, but what's a mountain but a symbol of all the things its been used as a metaphor for? the lit student in me has invested it with all these other identities, because the appellation of "mountain" is too evocative for me to not think of all the other mountains and burdens and barriers.
i condense them all into this, and i will train to overcome it. and i am enjoying the training, because there is joy in the labour, in the preparation, in the working out of one's decision.
and of course, this journey of physical, mental and spiritual training has pushed to be thought through and hammered out into words. it is not content to remain as a mass of half-formed sentences and a ball of emotions in my soul. the training has generated words, for every experience has a verbal dimension, no? images and emotions may form part of our consciousness, but the vague impressions demand to be distilled into words, slotted into structures so as to give them some assurance of immortality. (on a side note, every time i say "so as to", i think of the national pledge). i have decided that my training would not be complete unless i set myself to this verbal training too. because this is another aspect of myself that i've lost to the mountain. the experiences of the years and my ways of dealing with them have resulted in the death of my capacity to think through, own, and express my emotions. i want my consciousness to regain its verbal vitality. i want my words, and my mind, back.
"if i have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if i have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, i am nothing" 1 cor 13:2
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