onegoodchild

the man with five daughters

May — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 16:27:08 +0000

On a cab home, my taxi-driver who is triggered by a sudden memory, swings around and blurts- you know Miss?

No, sir I don’t.

With precise oratorical skills, he narrated the events spanning three decades back, without break or pause to ponder, no the memory came out in staccato-fashion, like a band major not missing a beat.

Well you know way back one day in 1977, when I was a boy living somewhere near Ten Mile Junction, that day that the rain came all the way up to my chest? To my chest! We had to hide from the water on the second floor, and that night, we all shivered under one wet blanket, my entire family. We waited the whole night for the waters to subside. When the rain waters finally came down- to my knees, I remember, I went downstairs and first thing to do was I had to cook us some food. That taste of the hot food, that was the best minced meat porridge I had in my entire life.

He goes on.

That house was great. Now its the land of the Land Transport Authority. Moved us out. But I can see my mango tree there still. Pity I can’t have any fruit. Not me. Even though that’s our mango tree right there. I bought it myself – the mango tree was from India sold for $35, and I planted it. Now I can’t even have the fruit, but that’s my mango tree alright Miss?

He went back home- to Ang Mo Kio, right behind a certain well-known convent school for girls.

Bless him. Never met a more spirited man at nearly 10pm in the night, ready to wind up and head home. And extra kudos for not being a deadbeat dad- he is heading home to five daughters- 20, 19, 17, 14, and 10 years old, all convent girls -’the school is known for churning out the best students!, you read the papers?’ The pride was so inspirational. I told him he was a lucky man. But maybe multiply this man by five, they’re lucky girls.

I hope your girls make you happy sir, bless you.

under the rock where the sun dont shine

May — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 14:11:53 +0000

Really. I feel like I am going to get run over by an oncoming truck, or as a girl whom I once heard say, ‘the fridge is going to dance on me.’

I feel like a block of lead, my weary heartbreak resounding, my looming fears with a thousand hooks. There is so much of it, it all coagulates, I am trying to purge them from my system, so that I might run again, but what is not molten will not leave my heart, my mental recesses, my tear ducts. And so I await that bluddy truck.

Just yesterday I felt alive for slaving away for what I work for, at least it makes sense. Because yesterday, walking in the central business district I was reminded of what didn’t make sense. Amongst concrete ghastly watery balls and water-spitting ribbons, I felt lite and alive. Away from my gritty Jalan Besar, the pavements of Robinson Road are surreal, showy and scary. Walking gargoyles and petty soldiers who couldn’t be bothered about who else walked in their midst, who cannot care less for the baby-this-man-who-is-your-colleague-has-but-gushes- ‘Ooooh! cute!!!’ to acknowledge his entire pride and every waking dawn. Soul-less.

But in the course of a day, I’d get beaten. I’d get worn out too. I’d get my soul emptied out too. I am a gargoyle and a soldier too. I am looking in a mirror. What I see is what I am. What I fear to be, is what I will become.

the calabash with rose bandung

May — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 15:43:53 +0000

I told a pigeon oceans away, i told a traveling swan. I warned a hummingbird some time back, that very day I confessed to an understanding penguin. I was advised by and wrote a contented budgie, and messaged a wise otter. I synthesized and agonized with my house cat. In earlier episodes, I sought refuge with a steady horse once, and leaked my pain to a pretty fawn.

So if you would like to know- first the horse, then the hummingbird, next the budgie, then the fawn. Next the pigeon, somewhere in between the otter, the house cat. and the penguin, finally the swan.

I told 9 individual souls, about the calabash and the spilling bandung. The calabash wasn’t made for bandung, but a long time ago, the people who made bandung, remember calabash. The bandung won’t stop splashing the ground in pink puddles, the calabash grows porous – letting bandung flow. The bandung summons everlasting liquids-

heart-gut-break

May — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 14:58:35 +0000

Preface

I guess you can say I’ve always really wanted to write. But there was no story most of the time. Until now. The cost of the lack of imagination, is a life lived- i think.

Chapter 1: A list you want to avoid

1. i think i am going to suffer from heartache soon.

2. im not trivializing it, im just trying to talk through my anxiety.

3. perhaps thats the only legitimate part of me that can still call itself an undeniable writer- i’ll write about anything as long as it makes me feel good about myself- in this case, some of the private and insecure feelings that hang everywhere in my line of vision.

notes:

‘heartache’ – defined by a gripping, wrenching sensation- a nightly visitation that will last at least for days-no-end, a condition caused by tremendous disappointment leading to further depths of disappointment, almost reaching stages of complete abandonment of pride, and a state of pure unadulterated desire clings on, after being completely un-reciprocated. The hurt soaks you inside out. Before it strikes, this patient is truly delusional- Hiroshima shall bomb and she is still here, watering the blooms she sees but actually- quite shriveled and dead. Did I mention disappointment already? Again and again and again it reverberates in this season of heartbreak.

Post-edit:

dark comedy is the tone of this story. she meets someone so right, he may be wrong. she dreamt all about independence in a love story, but sold her soul the moment he leaves her side. she’s in shambles, guilty and helpless. For a relationship with an outsider- until 24 years matured in her life- she’ll give up her family, her loyalties, her gratitude for living a life akin to the singapore dream. the thought of the hysterics she’ll entertain. the feathers she’ll ruffle, mainly her own. idealistic to a fault, she also believes tragic love stories will always apply to her.

2am in the night- an obligatory post.

May — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 18:25:50 +0000

how the obligatory post came about.

I am brimful with emotions, but they are in check. My heart has been weary, but it is still beating. If you have been reading me for a while, and you enjoy psycho-analysis, you will smirk when I start to type ‘obligatory post’. You will understand that this is me repeating my paranoid thoughts, revisiting my usual maladies, seeking the same balm for the soul. Write.

This is the post that rears its head ever so often- Ever so often, I will ponder on the vastness of this information network, ever so often my entries which are coded and guised, will come outright and admit that it is near impossible for me to blog about the cereal I eat, and the people I hate, outright admittance. In other words, it is usually impossible to blog straightforwardly- without fear of unknown intrusions, without fear of marring an authentic experience by recording it, leaving it open-ended and susceptible to interpretations and edits of third parties. But in such an obligatory post, I will realize it all over again, and try to defend why not.

These entries are often evoked by a strong sentiment over real-life-drama, eked out of a need to let words chisel away the ice in my heart, or paint the dragon in my imaginations- all to a willing audience, but allow privacy and protectionist rules in mind. it’s tiring, all this calculation.

So this is the obligatory post. I will say it like it is, right here and nowhere else.

This thing… called love.

How wonderful it has been to have fallen in love. To experience words like nothing you have heard, seen or uttered. To savor moments, embalm them time immemorial. To hunt down every spare minute that you have with beloved other, to pursue every thought- to further the ends of you and the other. Love- is beautiful because it ignores reality, it forsakes convention, it is unencumbered by limitations of the self, all history, all present. The way I fell in love- I made one decision, and that was to respond- and nothing else after that was in my control, some will say, hey- auto-pilot mode.

But what a scary thing love can be. I don’t know how it has been for the millions out there, and I strongly believe each story begs to differ- but to a point, most must feel- that love is truly such a lesson. At some point, my relationship ceased to be a ride, it became a self-help guide I write for myself, painfully, page by page, word by word. The endless conversations with the ‘other’ takes a backseat, the endless conversations with myself about the ‘other’ begins. The emotions it puts me through, the great expectations I cultivate of the ‘other’, the bones I pick, the nuances so many- I don’t even know how to begin describing how new and foreign love became, and how it all suddenly applied, to me. This big strange thing.

I’ve realized that no matter how I envision things to be white-picket and rosy, I am but one in a relationship that takes two.
I’ve realized how heady and powerful the initial feelings were, and what a piece of work it will now be- trying to match it for the rest of the journey you make with this person.
I’ve realized that out of all the things that I want from love, the most important quality and perhaps also the most difficult quality to master- is to give.
I’m hoping to reconcile ideals of love and the reality of a relationship- to allot a person a space in your heart, but still continue to function as whole. To live with desires of being loved, but fulfill first those that want to love.

There are too many out-of-the-ordinary details to my current love affair. And yet, like any other person who deems herself to be in love, I too exaggerate the nature of the account, live too much in the drama of it, get caught up with the fatal twists and turns of the protagonist. How far will this character go for love? How much will she sacrifice for her foolish ideals? How much will she betray love to find love? Is there a happily-ever-after ending?

The cards will not be read. So I venture to write my own ending. For that must surely be the one of the unwritten rules of love. We-

I’ll-

He’ll-

We’ll…

The other unwritten rule- you never enter a game knowing the ending. For that surely, is a sure-sign that something is fatally wrong.

What a game. What a show.

a mynah lives for…

May — Wed, 26 May 2010 02:08:20 +0000

This is a tale of privilege. Of us outliving the mynah.

It starts with sighting a mynah on my way out this morning. Hop. Hop.
‘Ah, mynahs, you’re beginning yet another day in your short life.
‘With so much gutso. So much.. hop.’

Two beautiful golden retrievers wagged past me- they smell of sweat and satisfaction from the morning.

On the bus. A golden haired toddler sneaks a sideways glance at me. Once, twice, we share a secret of his well lived life.

Off the bus. Exchange a smile with the man-who-jogs-and-celebrates-with-a-cigarette. He waves. I keep 2 seconds and then look down in modesty.

Crossing the road, I meet the final character of my daily morning show- the one-leg-lady with her loyal dog. She moves, in crutches. Her dog marches. They move.

The day moves. My waning spirit is revived. Why?

You think she can walk forever,
but the walk doesn’t progress more than a moment-
the next moment is another walk.
The smile outlives the walk,
but he cannot smile forever,
I can only know for sure he smiles once a day,
when he greets me.
The boy outlives the smile,
but he cannot live forever,
his toddling years actually do not go past 4.
The golden retriever outlives the boy,
but it cannot wag more than 17 years.
You see a mynah hop and you cannot imagine,
that it outlives them all-25 years!
But even the mynah will rest.
Man, we live up to 80 (in Singapore).
We. Our spirits have to outlive this all.
Best to move along as we live,
walk, smile, toddler, retriever, mynah.

the freedom to love

May — Fri, 14 May 2010 16:36:34 +0000

some three years ago, a graceful older woman sat in odd hours at an empty coach terminal, the second seat on a row of plastic orange. this woman was not waiting for a coach, nor did she intend to be seated in that terminal that afternoon, but circumstances led to this undeniable fact. the coaches departed one after another, running alongside the big roman clock hung from the middle beams of the room, a fairly-sized space that kept the cool air out of her coat. the sound of the thermal heaters anchored her consciousness firmly in that that room, the only rasping breath in a room otherwise abandoned temporarily by humans, coach staff and passengers alike. only their shadows linger in the cigarette butts, and empty paper cups littered like stray scent. these objects did present her some comfort in this consequential moment.

to be continued.

almost like the terminal she was in

human

May — Mon, 03 May 2010 17:55:05 +0000

So really, my narrow heart advances
It begs to sing, but it only croaks
How many times must take place-
the fresh stabbing
in the soft interiors of your lined heart-
lined with words
you couldn’t string into communication?
How many times must the hot spring be evoked,
only to be diverted, coaxed?
How many times will you find certainty
overcoming doubt? for certainty and doubt
are two sides of a coin-
love is the currency
that begs to be traded.

An Open Letter

May — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 09:37:17 +0000

Dear Daddy,

Today you taped to your eyes, white cardboard rims, your eyes were red and teary but you tried to be unaffected about them. You couldn’t look too far, you couldn’t open your eyes any wider than the rims recommended. So you stiffly project your gaze as we ate. Your bowl. Dishes. Your bowl. I queried about your little operation, and you answered duly. I noticed that you resumed reading the papers after I left the table, you had abandoned them when I sat down, even though our coversation was so quiet.

I couldn’t bear look into your eyes, they looked vulnerable, as one would usually steer their gaze away with sore eyes. But as I looked away, my heart opened to you more than I have ever these past two months. The more the conversation carried along between us, the more bittersweet I felt. The more you spoke quite cheerily, the more guilt I carried. Then we shared the space in your room for a bit. I watched a movie about the loss of one woman’s memory and how it affected her marriage. You attacked the demons that flew at you on your computer, jamming the mouse repeatedly with so much vigour, I wondered whether it meant anything else. Something that even you don’t realize.

And then you received a phone call, a business associate who greeted ‘Happy New Year!’. And because his voice was that loud, I heard him ask, ‘Happy or not?’. You paused for two seconds. How do I describe that silence? It felt like it went on for ever. It felt your skin was clear and I could see right through you, into your heart. It felt like the air in the room stopped circulating. It went on for ages. Worst of all, I felt responsible for it all. You either didn’t know how happy you were, or how much to tell him, then like an old radio, your voice cackled and with a splutter you answered it in a roundabout way, ‘I’m. resting at home’ you say, got a little headache.’ You assauge your own pain.

You taped those rims to your eyes Dad. Because they guided your vision, and they reduced the stress on your raw nerves. But you know that your room is much wider than than the rims allow. You know that the world is 360 degrees and not 180. But the rims were advised. And for good sense too.

They say if you love something or someone, you will come around. You could be A, I could be B. If A loved B, A would eventually accept everything B wanted. If B loved A, B would likewise eventually accept what A wanted. If I wanted you to love me, wouldn’t you want me to love you too?

That is. If love wasn’t one of the most foolish games man invented.

The Clumsy One.

the three steps to mayhem.

May — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 08:34:53 +0000

WHO ARE YOU?

look into your history. that is you, defined.

WHAT DO YOU WANT?

look into your heart. that is you, definitively.

WHAT WILL YOU DO?

look into your mind. that is you, unfortunately.

when the rain clouds go away

May — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 08:11:59 +0000

Forecast for 2010: Limited and limitless.

9.17am. serangoon road. broadway hotel bus-stop. the world rejuvenates in 10 days. the baby cat paws up and down the pavement by the main road again, dancing alongside strangers alighting from the bus stop (the first time i saw her she was mocking the tourists), keeping up, giving up, sometimes earning a smile or two with some effort (a smile which properly wakes up stranger). shes (why not?) so skinny, body of grey and white. i may look grey and garbagey, but i do not sit and wait for your disposal, it seems she says. she eyeballs something that interests her, grovels her way under the fence, which doesn’t seem to fence anything but grass- and wet cockroach gapes from the puddle!- her lithe body makes it through. beyond the fenced up grass is a kindergarten school for baby humans, so it seems apt as apples for kitten to hang around here, restless and benign as the others. ah, the age when you mock the world, and not the other way around.

the friend who was too honest

May — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 14:41:04 +0000

if all of us got a coin each time we said it like it was, my friend’s chest would be aburst; a right treasure trove, heck- an underground cave with labyrinths paved in yellow. if all of us earned a flower each time we helped someone out, my friend’s backyard would be a 1800s public garden fit for visiting royalty.

but today, because of such a friend, i splutter and choke, am purple and then green, i wringe in despair. honesty is like salt, keep it in good amounts, and give it to those who ask for it. help isn’t always available, one man’s meat is another man’s poison.

and really, if you intend to be honest to benefit someone, to go out of your way to help someone beyond yourself, you step back, see this person, accept this person wholly, before you even lift a finger. that, or i’m beyond your help.

this is the house that i built

May — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 15:36:19 +0000

can they see that my house is built from a stack of cards? can I build a house from a stack of cards? can I live in a house built from a stack of cards? If my house of cards is indeed a house, how do i make life in it, how do i live, how do i sleep and awake- with the a daily eagerness and a daily horror arriving side by side each night?

weird urban puzzles

May — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 10:27:01 +0000

i lost my phone over the weekend. insufferable naked feelings abound. then…

stephanie: got a weird text message from some dude who wanted to get back together with his gf — who had the same name as i did. thought i would do him a favor and say sorry wrong person. but he kept bugging me! how weird that his ex-gf has the same name as i do… i wonder if he stole one of my friend’s phones. did he steal your phone?!?!

me: hmm!?!?! thats the weirdest story ive heard in a while. it makes me scared cos there are so many msgs in that phone! Sent at 6:01 PM on Tuesday

stephanie: shit! it is isn’t it. Sent at 6:03 PM on Tuesday

me: so what are you doing? abt the messages how does he keep buggin u after u tell him ure the wrong person!?

stephanie: nothing he called and i yelled at him

me: LOL

stephanie: he called and wanted to ask me who i am — he was like who are you? i’m like errrr no who are you?! and i really yelled at the dude and hung up on him

me: thats so strange. but er if its my phone- i dont know…. that person is harassing my contacts? Sent at 6:08 PM on Tuesday

stephanie: no could be my other friend who just lost his mobile too hmmmm

me: HAHA. sorry. thats too hilarious. your conclusion.

stephanie is busy. You may be interrupting.

number crunch

May — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 18:23:42 +0000

What do the numbers in your room say about you?

$300 swivel chair.

50 red roses.

500 piece jigsaw.

18 tourist snaps.

36 novels – 12 childrens’ books.

3 door wardrobe.

5 drawers, unlocked.

2 diaries, bedside.

1 alarm clock.

the countdown to 2010

May — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 16:50:49 +0000

i see the blank screen and i falter.

these past weeks i’ve had plenty to say. but carthasis hasnt arrived easy. many things happened in my life this year. 1205am. maybe i’ll make it quick. as if i were paying a buck a minute to cleanse my soul of the datedness of this all.

i got behind the wheel this year. i’ve stop learning to drive for three months already. i guess i was dishearted with failing three times. i need to get it back quick or else the money i’ve spent on it will be lost.

i got a job this year. its been challenging, and stressful. i thought working in a non-profit, for a cause, would be easy- everything i do will be justified. its a bit more complicated. welcome to reality. i hate saying that. i really do.

i got to know some interesting people this year. interesting is a broad category, within it, i’d narrow my definition to different. interesting because they are different from me.

i got to discover more of my flaws this year. my faults weigh me down more than anything. for if i were as blameless and good as i imagined, i wouldn’t be in such state of affairs.

1214am, i write really slow. this is turning out to be an expensive post. but here’s where it starts to get intensive.

i found purpose this year. an everyday purpose. something so essential for a human being , something i take for granted some times. the purpose, it to become good at my job. to balance creativity, practicality, personal growth and efficiency.to match abundance with need.

i found love this year. a veritable love, something deserving of the years i’ve waited and scorned and sighed. what love brings on a carthorse: the departure of mundanity, heart parachutes whooosh, the most insane missings, the desires you never knew you possessed but now grip you like you’re an incurable fool. the trouble with these love narratives- i suspect they always make one feel like they’ve stepped into a piece of melodrama. and the moment i did, i couldnt stop talking about it. to friends, strangers, family.

to family… as a result of this new and seemingly perfect love.

i found chaos this year. my crawling rueful independence is questioned, my family support base took a beating and still hasnt recovered, i held the one patriarch of my life, sobbing to my shoulder, distressed. i bear the guilt of my mother’s fears and reprise her cycle of worries. and i am selfish selfish selfish. never felt more selfish in my life.never felt more justified either.

in a seeming end, i made an irreversible promise.

how should i set the scene from now? how will this year end, and with what resolve can i steel myself with?

25 more days to 2010.

Playing God

May — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 13:51:20 +0000

I usually try to write to an interested audience, I’d explain and introduce the whims and sullies of my day, footnote the lived experience with blooming thoughts from a limited worldview. I don’t know what the point of this entry is, it certainly isn’t the summary of 11th of November, nor are these sparks that keep flying- those that you have to immediately record or will disapppear into the horizons of a harried mind. This entry is layered word after word, sentence piling upon sentence all in a wish, to find and express an undiscovered thought, one that will only appear after a reasonable body of text accumulates. To write is to become. IThese are my pleasures- the undeclared meaning in the written word. Ocassionally I’d indulge in these. These entries are perhaps least attractive to any interested audience seeking digestable takeaways. These entries are intensely personal, yet they are recorded here, in the public eye, for good reason. I’d never say they were entirely for you to read. No, they fulfil my need for you to read. Any of you. Everyone of you. Read what? All of this. You read to pass the time. Today is a passable day. A day for reviewing memories, not making memories. A day where work doesn’t threaten to engulf, but doesn’t leave you enough. A day where loved ones are near, but not heard, nor spoken to. A day I’ve missed and let miss. Signing out. Period.

blinking heart

May — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 06:01:41 +0000

Here’s a sneeze. Someone’s random wish–or a bothersome allergy? If someone’s random wish- who would it be, and for what reason, the pricze of a sneeze?

To this I ponder the ABCs.

A- I left (them:himher) a not too memory- not unpleasant: a warm glow in the recent drawers of the front-row cupboard -unpleasant: a stray thought first, and then a burgeoning corn I become.

B- My image is evoked amongst other thoughtful associations in the long eventful hours of a day, note: I am nothing much, nothing less, I could be functional utility.

C- I am the curator of awaited admiration, affection, obsession, the pirate’s plank of reasonable restraint, or?

A bothersome allergy. Born of me, and born by me.

I’ll have to wait for another sneeze.

…

And still not know.

searching… what gives to the giving

May — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 02:20:52 +0000

We live in a world no short of crisis, tragedy, misfortune, and mishap. I have never doubted that. Then again, I have no key to its comprehensive entirety. Like anyone else riding with me in this public bus today, I have some observable morsel of clue to their lives, as they probably would mine, but beyond that, I have no reasonable idea.

I’ve met people. These are stories I have never imagined before stepping foot into the Action for AIDS office- the stories of the affected and the infected, of those who live with three letters that have no known cure. HIV. AIDs. I have overheard, met, listened, peeped- the last time I heard, it was a boy no more than 17. It’s more complex than losing a limb, much darker than living through a stroke. The irretrievable lots they have been assigned to, for life. Chained, to themselves, to the growing demands of their bodies, burdened on a secondly basis to the material costs of keeping themselves alive. This is a disease that strikes hard- it captures a vulnerable human, it proceeds to not only disarm a body’s natural immunity, it mutates proteins, it mutates the images of which the human has worked to acquire. It causes you to question your social support system; it tests your ability to tolerate living in a community. This is a condition that eats away at a person’s sense of self-worth. We will be hard-pressed to find another medical condition that will necessitate such an alarming level of blame, shame and hate in this century.

What does it mean to work for a cause? Does it blind rationality? Does it make me champion the minority- a view of the hackneyed – compelling but ultimately one that runs separate and parallel to the mainstream consciousness? Do I lose when I seek to find, accumulate and catalogue, live with –all probable reasons to give- and then can islanded in my grand canyon of purpose, with a bunch who declare no beneficial similarities to me?

I cannot afford to grow insular in growing my own passions for the cause. Just as there are typhoons and floods, wars and broken families, this cause exists as a particular unit of plight amidst the others. There must be a way to make one’s help to all these, non-exclusive. If everyone gave to the world’s problems, surely the problems would not only be solved at its best efforts, but diluted? Sure, granted this is impossible because we all live in individual realities as opposed to collective communal consensus- than surely the next best step is to find a way for people to quantify the efforts they contribute to live in this world?

We live in a world no short of crisis, tragedy, misfortune, and mishap. This is un-true unless you inhabit all whose lives you deem needy, unfortunate – ‘charity cases’. Until you become one. But such foresight is impossible. So it’s my job to make you try.

Long-tailed macaques

May — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 04:06:58 +0000

swing across trees, from towering to feeble trunks, to branches and vines, the leaves quiver and awake, fast become greenery that quakes in the wake of the monkeys and their nimble sure-footedness. They approach my space in my morning wait for the bus. Hardly any of my bus-shelter companions blink an eye. They don’t see them.

Monkey approaches the green dividers- dividers that mark pedestrian from mammalian, constructed from divine, their way versus ours- and perches himself securely onto the railings. He’s eyeing the trash-vomitting public dustbin at our shelter. He accesses his potential finds. His family continues to quake in the greenery behind him, he has to do his work soon to show his leadership.

Monkey chooses Macca’s coffee over a bumper-can of Tiger beer, stuffs a quarter slice of toast into his mouth and pushes accompanying bread ends away, peers into emptied-out F&B packaging in disdain.

I recall my supper last night and my well-stocked fridge. It’s good to be human sometimes.