Solo 08

Silent:
much of this is, much of this
wants to be. Cicadas cry;
my footsteps receive the
rustling of leaves and snap
-ping of twigs as feedback of
my intrusion. A tall branch plummets
down from above and feedback is suddenly
constructive criticism. I tread,
carefully; it's like a nest in incubation
crashed to the floor and I am
walking on the eggshells.
Do the ants do diplomacy?
Probably not, but still, do not fear
the judgement of the jungle;
when undisturbed, its litheness breeds
a brand of bottled thoughts,
and mosquitoes.

Sweet Nothings

Lychee Twist Cone from McDonald's
A hot as heck February afternoon

--

A dollar would soft serve me
the novel creation of golden arches
bending over backwards
for customer satisfaction.

Tinged with the faint hue
of a rosy finish, a twirling
tower of two-in-one;
Too sweet? A tad.
All in all? Not bad.

We do concede that
artificial is our taste,
stifling is our fervour,
but it was a single coin
that brought me
glee in lychee,
paid heed to my
feeling the heat.

In the end we are soft flesh
in hard shells,
rough around the edges
and bumpy along the rind,
but delicate on the inside
and fragile as you'd find.

This is just the flavouring,
and so I waited for the plot
twist -
waited, waited,
until
it all melted to nothing.

Daughter's Grief

the tears loused her foundation,
smudged lipstick in streaks
of despair-drowned breaths.

a call from home
should have borne the fresh air
of a familiar, lilting voice,
but all she heard were commas
of compunction reluctant to break
the news of a full stop
for a life to whom she owes her own.

now her shoulders point inwards
and channel quavering speech
of her grief;
of a grief I cannot relate to,
of a grief I can only apologise for.

the receiver of her first words
utters words no more.
fifty three year old eyes knew
a mother;

now those eyes weep,

for her.

Last Conversations

It's gonna be two-and-a-half weeks without any Internet connection for me (since unlike those enlisting in the army, we can't bring smartphones) so here's a slightly heavy one people who bother reading long-winded, meandering passages might again be put through. These words are from the past 15 days since I've been back from an overseas trip, scribbled on paper and on my phone between hellos that were all too soon followed by goodbyes. These 15 days were odd - some were spent waiting for people to return from their own trips, and some were spent waiting for my own enlistment days after most friends have already gone in. If I have learnt anything at all, it is that there is never enough time, and never enough words.

I have a feeling that the waiting will continue, even when I eventually enlist tomorrow and am subjected to the regimental life of uniformed forces. At this stage of our lives - like it or not - we play the waiting game.

--


It is not my first time at the basketball court of Buona Vista CC, although it is my first time playing here. The court is an ashen red, the net droops with a loose end and the rim is so lopsided I think I'll have to shoot from a particular side if I'm to score at all.

Trexel projects the ball into the air, and I'm projecting tales from Sec Three and Four - from memory to mouth.

Swish.

"Wah, not bad."

He is surprisingly humble. "Nah, no form already."

We talk about the NBA, about the Premier League, about how he used to play the 2014 NBA video game on his Mac and I'd watch during our lunch breaks.

"The file no longer works, I can't play it anymore."

"Oh man."

Swish. 

The disparate puddles from the previous night's rain dot the court, but soon they have shrunk to irrelevance. The sun comes out and the day has found a new reverence. Trexel jumps for the ball after a shot of mine circles the rim and tips itself over. He reaches for it as the ball in mid-air happens to cover the Sun from where I'm standing, such that it's like a scaled down solar eclipse in play. As he grabs the ball firmly there's the illusion that he's touched the sides of the Sun, and the rays sprout out from around the edges in that brief fraction of a second to glorious effect.

He then flings the ball in my direction, the fiery orb spinning its way towards me. I seize it mid-spin, and I imagine this mass of heat and light suddenly at my disposal. There is the feeling of being in control as I handle the ball, my fingers wrapping its contours and navigating its grooves.

This sensation of ascendancy is only momentary - a water droplet, presumably from the tree still damp with rainwater, taps me on my shoulder, and I am reminded it is never all up to me.

____________________________________________________



A snow globe a friend got for me as a Christmas gift sits on my desk. The miniature reindeer in the globe - adorned with a tessellated red scarf - clutches a hand bell and rests on an even tinier stone. With a light shake, the "snow" - or, as I like to call it, "overpriced dust" - rises and engulfs the small sphere.

I look on and wonder what it must be like to be the reindeer, knowing the snow - this unchanging snow - will rise and fall the same way every time, the minuscule specks lost in a flurry but then ultimately floating down to rest. The reindeer sleeps knowing that things are as they were.

I am later overcome by bemusement - who stares at a little knick-knack and gets jealous?

_________________________________________________

In a quiet corner of Bishan MRT Station is a QB House I go to. Six months ago my hair was cut by a lad who I think just got transferred there and since then I've been going back to him for my hair cut each time. If he wasn't in, I'd ask his colleagues when his next shift would be and might return another day on my way home, or if I was running errands in the area.

His name is Elven, and I'm not actually sure how old he is but he seems to be in his mid-20s. He has a thick Malaysian accent, which is especially noticeable because our conversations are in Chinese. That is not to say we speak a lot during my haircut, though - I'm often glad to let the razors and scissors do the talking.

I find it awfully awkward when he asks a question and we start to have a private conversation of our own, even as there are two other hairstylists and five other customers in that tight space. I still oblige in replying but it doesn't mean I mind the small talk all that much, because after all he's a pleasant fella.

A few haircuts ago he'd asked what my post-exams plans were, and I'd raised enlisting for National Service as something that was on the horizon. I've learnt that NS is actually a pretty decent conversation filler (or starter), because there are so many ways of branching out into different sub-topics that you don't have to worry about racking your brain too much for something to say.

This time, I am back again and he remembers that I will be enlisting very, very soon, so he hypothesises that this might be the last time I go to him for a haircut.

“ 几个星期后你剑 botak, 以后就不用来了，对吗？”

“ 啊，对。”

He chuckles, and then goes on to give me some hairstylist's advice for shaving techniques in case I ever wanted to “ 剑 botak ” on my own. I share how some friends are at a loss as to whether they should shave their heads at a barber shop before enlistment, or at camp on enlistment day itself. Somehow or another I also get to asking him about whether he'll get a Chinese New Year break, and whether he returns to Malaysia to see his family then. His response is to ask me if I will get a break during that festive period.

Snips and swipes later, he reaches for the "blower" which essentially rids most of the loose pieces of hair on your head before the customer takes off the gown cape and the haircut is done. He dusts some hair off my back, passes me the standard QB House comb and wet wipe, then helps me with the cape.

He then remarks, “ 最后一次，好像有点感慨哦。”

“ 噢，的确是有点感慨。”

His eyes are small but contemplative. “ 到了 army, 祝你好运！”

I do not bother with pointing out that it is the police I'll be joining, and not the army.

“ 啊，谢谢你。希望我们后会有期。"

"哈哈，不知道两年后我会不会还在这里剪头发呢。没关系，人生就是这样。”

I open the door gently, but the bells attached to the handle make no mistake of marking my departure. I'm feeling abashed by the fact that everyone in the shop can listen on and watch our little farewell, but I muster up a  “ 新年快乐 ”, and then I'm out the door.

____________________________________________________



It is a Tuesday morning I've looked forward to for quite a while. It's the first time I'm back at school ever since returning from a trip with my family about a week before. At the turnstiles, I hold my breath in expectation of rejection, but eventually I find a strange comfort in the ensuing 'beep' upon tapping my card against the electronic reader.

Great, it still works. 

It sounds like 6.50am weekday mornings, 8am Saturdays and post-lunch drowsiness. Most of all, it sounds like a half-arsed 'hello' from a place you came to know in a myriad ways, but still never knew completely.

On entry, I am further greeted by the whistle of a netball coach frantically trying to organise her team. Her players are doing some kind of transition drill, encircling and exchanging, stopping and turning. Like a banquet table in artful conversation, their training session is a series of calculated steps.

I calculate the number of steps taking me to the mouth of the canteen, lightly tapping my feet against the tiled stairway, and, with some fleetness of foot, I soon approach the College section's street football court. I listen intently to the quiet. As is often the case, it seems the rest are not on time. Then I realise I've considered their "not being on time" instead of their "being late." Mornings like these mean the "half full" side of me can't help but rear its far-from-ugly head.

As I reach for my pocket to enter a "WHERE IS EVERYONE", or "WHO OVERSLEPT" (maybe not in caps), group message into my phone, a light shadow flashes past the ground ahead of me. I spot Yinn Ray, diminutive but as usual armed with a confident gait, about 20 metres away. He must have seen me first, because before I know it he has hollered out my nickname and charges down the slope with his arms wide open, even while trying to balance his shoe bag on one side. I wonder how he can be so full of life despite having just taken a 13-hour flight the night before. With his flip flops nearly getting caught between each other, and the beaming face I've come to know ever so infectious, he makes the 20 metres, and I make light of the sight. Upon embracing we both note how long it's been since we last met, and I despair about how it felt like I was away the whole of December, and he makes no effort to absolve me of any guilt. None of that seems to matter, though, and I am all smiles; this is a guy who knows me better than most, and the one who would take raisins - or as I also know them, "Raysins" - out of my cubicle in class.

With some faith, the rest arrive and so does the familiar banter. We split teams, the game of four versus five kicks off, and there is much #hype. I am on the side with one less player but we cope better than I could have expected, and somehow in the instances when Qi and I are up front we both know where the other will be at the exact moment one of us makes a pass. I think this must come with the two years, with me sometimes missing outings or meals with this group because of prior arrangements with other groups from earlier in high school, but then always returning in the knowledge that these are the people I've spent the most time with in the last two, arduous years.

A modest drizzle grows in hubris and looks set to unleash a downpour, but the clouds hold tight, as if desperately preserving this morning for our sake. There is no dampener, no despair - only the boyish howling and the friendly jibes and jabs fill the air.

Halfway through "the proceedings", Thung makes a trip to the toilet, adding to the piquancy of the moment. Like a jumped up pinball machine, the court and its occupants make the whole thing seem more intense than it actually is.

At lunch, we catch our breath. After defending myself with a clarification to everyone on a certain (grossly mistaken and highly unfortunate) "auntie killer" accusation against me, I am largely quiet, as I often am at a table of ten. I think about how it's fitting that we're sharing dishes for our meal today, instead of getting individual portions. The Lady Susan on the table is a negotiator of appetites. Chopsticks reach for the centre and food is shared. We play "the thumb game" to decide who gets the last piece of tofu. I look up at the faces around me in various fixtures of amusement and mischief. A new order of chicken is served. Much food for thought.

After lunch there comes the inevitability of parting ways. Someone says something about meeting on the third Saturday of every month but I have no clue if that will turn into a thing. Along the afternoon activity on Upper Bukit Timah Road, there are red lights where revving engines give away the impatience of drivers ready to go. I am anything but ready to go. The group walks towards the nearby train station, and I am at the back. Yinn Ray is beside me.

Breaking the silence, I admit to him, "I don't like this feeling."

"Yang, it'll all work out." He tries.

He rests his palm on my shoulder for a moment. I tell him he seems slightly taller now, and he rolls his eyes nefariously.

"I guess so."

I force a grin, but I also want to tell him that saying it is different from knowing it.

That simply guessing is not enough for me.

____________________________________________________



On New Year's Day a fellow Liverpool fan and I map out the games that we'll miss because of BMT. After working it all out, we discovered that after we both enlist, the next game we'd be able to catch is the one on 24 February, which is nearly two months from now. That's six games missed; to put things in perspective, even during the A Levels period, the most number of games we missed in succession was three.

It is now in the wee hours of 6 January and time for the last game I'll catch before that fateful 24 Feb. It just so happens to be a cup match versus the local rivals, Everton. Moments before kick-off I text my friend. We watch virtually all the games together, that is, if you accept our extended definition of the word "together" to include being in two separate homes but awake for the same game while the rest of the neighbourhood is asleep. My first text is to check if he's up because we have a pact to call the other person if one of us has slept through our alarm.

"Heyo, you there??"

I add on a bit more, because we have just signed an exciting new player and he's been selected to make his debut.

"Van Djik's in the line-up... THIS IS IT"

It is only when the referee has blown the whistle to start the game, and Anfield erupts into its raucous best while my text goes unanswered that it hits me.

Shit, he enlisted a day ago. I knew that. 

We'd go on to win the game in the most rousing fashion, with the debutant scoring the crucial goal. Yet, even in the elation and euphoria, it all just felt slightly different this time around.

____________________________________________________

It's said that when we look at the stars we are actually seeing them as they were many years ago. Say a star is 50 light years away - we'd therefore be seeing it as it was 50 years ago. In that sense, watching the stars is like seeing into the past, each celestial body of light representing a certain period in some galaxy.

It's all very romantic but there's no such thing as "wishing on a star" - shooting stars are meteoroids that look like stars just because they move through Earth's atmosphere at such a speed that the resultant heat creates a visible path. Those wishes fall flat.

Instead, to look up at the sky is to be a privileged observer of history - things you know must have happened because you can actually see them happening.

I don't require proof of any personal recollections, but I wouldn't mind living for many more light years to come, just to watch it all unfold again when I look up at the night sky.

Silent, but sure.

____________________________________________________

My last goodbye to a friend is on a Sunday night in Bishan. Holding vanilla cones from McDonald's, we sit at a bench outside a row of shops. We talk, about people and music and life, and pressing those small buttons on the lids of plastic cups. Then, later on, with the crowd dissipating as it borders 9.30pm, I realise that it is Elven in the QB House ahead of us. He folds the barber gown capes, then sweeps hair off the floor. I watch as he goes about preparing to close shop, and after the lights in that QB House go out, I turn back to my friend, and in my mind I'm thinking about how all this is going to be so far away from me in time to come.

I am a hostage to growing up, held at gunpoint by the memories of things that were and the weight of things that will be. Curse me for being melodramatic about all of it, but heck - who's to tell?

Things keep changing, and I know that.

All too well.


--

Thanks for making it this far. A brief hiatus, for now - be back in a bit?