The Economics of Emotion

26 October, 2017
More shorts

--

On the bus

With two classmates:

one tiny, the other toxic;

We barrel our way to the top,

a wobble before a plonk, a

day after another 

- bags know these backs,

but for now,

weightlessness.

--

At a stop

A deluge of indifference

pitter-pattering like nobody's business

subsumes the already weathered faces

of men and women in jackets,

hands in pockets, eyed-out sockets...

A man holds a tennis racket 

he will not need this evening;

A cleaner looks across

the floor she was mopping;

And all is awash with the washing away.

A deluge of indifference

pitter-pattering like nobody's business

tacks white noise onto the soundtrack

of the day at a close, earpieces unwound,

the clouds frown - and I am out of nouns.

The Biology of Being

24 October, 2017
A series of shorts
Snapshots, potshots, that sort of lot

--
The lackadaisical lighting of the consultation area

descends upon hushed rushes at a mock paper.

Fans stir with sentimentality but still the air is 

still. Cupping the contours of glossy battlegrounds

drab in navy blue - hard, backless benches. 

They proselytise posture, aggrieve spines and 

demand more backbone; toughen up, I hear 

the sound of rain.

--

Math as portrayed in music is grossly oversimplified; The Proclaimers seem to take a lot of pride in being able to deduce that if they were to "walk five hundred miles" and "walk five hundred more", they would have walked a grand total of "a thousand miles". Bravo, guys - no wonder there is sunshine on Leith.

--

I leave later than usual and it is dark. My friend - one of those privileged to be reminded by an examination board that what they study is "Practical" - spent a few hours in a lab today doing just that - practical stuff. "Bio" somehow sounds very right when he says it. He speaks of moles and concentration. I only know of Holes and the lack thereof.

"Consult" is not yet bare on departure. We walk out and into the open, the white light behind us. Following a round path that leads down the hill, only the luminescent glow of activity from the school hall in the distance shows the way. The basketball team is training; I see scenes I know all too well, yet ones I have not known for long. If there is a biology of being and a chemistry of caring, then there must be a physics of fucking up. But I guess only biology can explain things that eat at you.

--

At the bus stop, a girl - probably nine or thereabouts - shows a sudden interest in something on the gravel, and bends down to pick it up.

"Mom, I found a nail. Someone might accidentally step on it." She dutifully drops the specimen into her mother's hand, which appears to be open only because it was compelled by the girl's voice. Before the grace could grow, however, a snide remark.

"Then maybe you should screw yourself" is the hilarious take-down out of the mouth of a boy who is at least half a head shorter than her, and presumably the brother. Having managed to suppress laughter, I revel in the unexpected wit just witnessed. The boy has a smirk on his face. The mom's is disapproving. Their bus comes, and so goes their nails and screws.

But then there was the lightning. And then there were the bolts from blue.

Simple Song

.

"And this is a song, song for someone

This is a song, song for someone." 

- U2, "Song For Someone"

"A song for no one's in my hand

A song they'll never understand." 

- Ian Broudie, "Song For No One"

.
And we take all of it.

Oktoberfest

Unlike September, October does not err on the side of caution when you want it to. Numbering the days almost seems pointless at this point, and if we lose count it does not count, so maybe letting them slip and slide makes it easier. As things come to a close, we speak of the hypothetical - funny, when the certainty of endings is what leaves us with "ifs". We may stand under lanterns that offer brief respite, but the déjà vu of the moment hits us to confirm that no one outlasts the "lasts". You whinge at the sound of curtains being drawn, but finality never shares your sentiments and soon it feels like light must be dug from crevices of consciousness - hard to do, even with the tint of all the things you held and helped.

In Germany they sing a song, "Ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit", which translates into "a toast to good times." We could do without all that Bavarian booze, but all the same, let us lock arms and cheer: "Here's to, here's to. I am better for having met you."

--
"We're circles, we're circles you see / We go 'round 'round the sun / In and out like the sea / I'll circle round you / You will circle round me..."

Anything and everything under the sun

- this backdated post has been shifted here from the now-defunct "left" page as an idea of what's to be expected on the "people & places" page! -

I was locked (literally - the sadistic beings we call teachers locked the doors) into a Lecture Theatre this evening whilst sat next to Yinn Ray to do a Math mock paper that was as mockingly imitative of actual examination conditions as you'd think it to be (except for the stupid swivel tables that are darn right discriminatory to left handers like myself).

My new strategy for Math now is to do every question as if I were in the exam - the same intensity of thought, focus and determination to get things right (though mostly wrong) even if I still don't get how numbers mean anything. My old basketball coach told me that one of my strengths was that I train as if I am in an actual game, and that I play every game like it is my last. Now when I do Math I have an image of myself hustling, diving, yelling - basically just take-no-prisoners like it was on the court - and instead of 'let's play like savages and sort them out boys' it's 'let's show these Math questions who's boss'; essentially though, it's the same idea.

Except midway through the Math mock paper the choir group that had already been working on their vocals in the adjacent lecture theatre - and was already a cause for some giggling in the 'simulation room' - suddenly start singing the school's conduct songs. The conduct songs were only sung in high school, and they've always enjoyed a sort of special place amongst the high school guys which means that the last level assembly we had in Sec Four - when we last belted out the lyrics to these songs - was the only time I have seen many of my friends so sentimental about something, anything. We'd always end each conduct song with a resounding '嘿’ even though for four years straight the teacher assigned to our level reprimanded us for embellishing the song with self-created lyrics, but then only smiled and seemed like he was about to tear when we shouted out ‘嘿’ that one last time, after boys in shorts turned into boys in long pants, and didn't tell us off for it.

When the conduct songs came on in the next room and the choir voiced out those all-too-familiar words, I turned to Yinn Ray beside me, but he was busy punching shit into his calculator and didn't notice. The both of us sometimes speak about how it's a pity we only met in JC, and I realise that's also how I feel about a lot of the people I have met these past 1 and 3/4 years. But really, this lad's been pretty special, and it'd have been great stuff if we both knew each other prior to "A Levels-or-else" days.

And then there's Caleb and that high school friendship that I'm truly glad we somehow rekindled over the last four-five months. Yesterday beneath rain-cleared skies we marvelled at how it is that we were never in the same class in our four years at high school despite both being from Ortus (which is essentially a house/faculty except that it's only three-four classes per level). There was a good one in three chance across all four years that we could have been classmates but never were; and then again I slip back into talking about “ifs” and "lasts" - maybe (another one) I should stop.

But maybe I shouldn't. Screw the maybes. Because in recent weeks I've thought about how some people come into your lives and leave their mark. Reflecting on my pseudo-writing journey landed me deeper into that thought, especially when I think about how everything that's come my way has been helped along by people around me. When I had my writing published in the student newspaper for the first time, my lower sec classmates would grab copies of The Straits Times more hurriedly than ever, and, week in week out, 30 kids in shorts made it a point to flip through the entirety of the paper to find my piece. I wasn't - and still am not - quite adept enough at showing just how much I appreciated all that, mostly because the attention is always somewhat embarrassing, but I've come to think about how little things like that go a very, very long way.

I was in fact foolishly working at Math even before that three hour mad Math mistake, and this is proof that my new strategy really makes me more crazily 'in the zone' as ever, because this guy called Bryan managed to creep up behind and hunch over me for a good thirty seconds, before making his presence known with a bellow that terrorised me more than I admitted it did. Four years in the same class, and yet I'm never guarded against his dumb-ass pranks. These days he tells me, "Bye, I'm going to look for my girlfriend." But still the same.

Jian Yan, who forces me to return his Gatsby reference book, in between my quips about Malaysia. Jonathan, who I meet for lunch a few days ago, but then two other guys we both half-know sit with us because they would have otherwise been eating alone, and we don't actually bring ourselves to tell them we'd meant to be catching up. Brandon, who warns himself and the basketball he's holding about my erm, hands. When I tell him "You remember..." he replies, "Of course, we're on the same team", and there's that thing about him saying those words in the present tense that let me know - still the same.

Edwin, Edwin-who-almost-makes-me-late-for-History-to-talk-about-history; he sits with his arms clutching his bag but holds nothing back - always open and sharing, and I'm always learning. Shaun Ang, aka Shang, who I somehow keep running into this week while walking down the slope until the days we used to fake sneezes in the auditorium don't seem so far away. Trexel, who has been hanging out with his class at the benches outside the printing shop, of which I walk pass frequently, and so I still have to endure all that trash-talking about Liverpool being a "shitty team". That lad is still perpetually grinning. The same, the same.

"What are friends for?" is Check King's way of saying "you're welcome" in a half-clowning fashion. He - like that k and that a in the Math mock paper - is a constant.

I know the guys don't ever read this site - that is probably a good thing, because if there's one thing about friendships between lads - or what I think should be called "lads-ship" - it's that it does without the mawkish word-infested outwardly declarations and displays of care and gratitude. It's the same reason why I get a lot of shit from guys for being a creature of sentiment (and not logic or reason, which probably explains my mathematical ineptitude, because there is absolutely no sentimentality or human emotions contained in the rigidity of numbers).

The guys who I've found to be almost as sentimental are actually the fellow Liverpool fans. It's no coincidence, honestly. We care the most about things. The other day I saw Caleb's reaction to the thunder and lightning that almost threatened to stop us from playing footy, and it struck me that it is the very same, obsessive and quick-to-being-depressed-but-still-with-some-deluded-hope-that-the-rain-will-stop-even-though-it's-raining-bollocks state of mind that Shaun Lee and I were in far too often earlier this year, when our class was supposed to have football, but that period coincided with the rainy season. Dylan would also kick up a big fuss every time the lightning alert came on at the school's football pitch. Harn Ern would despair. I guess it seems a tad childish that we'd get so upset about something as 'trivial' as not being able to play ("You can always play another time, guys"), but it shows the wanting and the caring above all. I know it comes down to growing up watching a team that's all about belief and hope and passion.

I've observed that our ability to care extends beyond the action on the pitch. Shaun Lee debating, or Shaun Lee with debating withdrawal symptoms when he almost seems like he's lost a whole part of himself - he cares more than anyone. Caleb, for the people around him. Harn Ern, for his music. As for me, I hope the caring comes through in the verve for whatever work I've done. For Pub Soc, I guess we could have just did the work within our purview, which is to simply edit writing and coordinate all the pieces, but the caring meant that it always had to be more than that, that from the start I told the team that we're going to create a lot, a lot of work for ourselves pushing through new plans and ideas. It is no coincidence that Shaun is the guy who played a crucial role in the debating team successfully advancing a proposal to organise a tournament, raising their own money to hire Hwa Chong Debate's first ever coach, since their club was not allocated sufficient funds by the school.

Even beyond the work, there's that nagging sentimentality about place and people that I've seen in every Red. I can't tell you how many times Shaun and I have spoken about things ending - more than I have done with anyone, and it's not as if we have that many one-on-one talks. Caleb and I sat on the side of the street football court, chatting about everything under the Sun (which had triumphantly emerged as clouds dissipated). He then tells me all of a sudden, perhaps with the possibility that this could be one of the last times we sit here before As at the back of his mind, "I'm gonna miss this place."

"The street football court?"

"No, this place."

I want to tell him that we've spoken about that before, because when we had our last ever PE lesson two months or so ago, the rain had forced us to stop and we eventually took a walk around the new Block D, and then the canteen and benches. It seems like my conversations with other Liverpool fans always slip back into glances at days of yesteryear, and there's probably some joke about Liverpool fans living in the past there. I think to myself how unhealthy near constant reminiscence must seem, and so I don't tell him. I also don't tell him that we've thrice spoken about that one time in Sec 4 when the Ortus football lads Chetwin, Zhiying, Haowei, Chester, Oliver, Dylan, Zach, Caleb and I skipped a combined Chinese class in the lead-up to Higher Chinese Os to play at the International School court; that is, until Zach Wu rolled down the side of a hill when retrieving the ball and ripped a hole in the back of his pants. The two of us remember it very well. Minor details might differ each time we tell that story, but ultimately, all the same.

It's Shaun who pointed out that next week, we'll actually get to sing the conduct songs when they are played at our Graduation. Over the years I've tried to curb my tendency to build things up in my head, and nonetheless, when that piano accompaniment accompanies us to mark this final lap next Friday, it will all be the same - Liverpool fan or not - always, forever, in some way, or another.

Aubade to Attap Chee

Before dropping by Bishan Library to return Loh Guan Liang's "Transparent Strangers" today I had lunch with my father at the Junction 8 food court: Double Beef Pepper Rice 加蛋, Ice Kachang afterwards.

It's close to a year since the food court had its renovation works completed (*poof* went the hidden arcade within). I can't keep track of the number of Double Beef Pepper Rice meals I've had in this place, but I know that it's here where my brother swore never to eat the attap chee in a bowl of ice kachang ever again; that's after my father told an edifying tale of how attap chee is transported on trucks without boxes or any sort of protective layer to keep it from direct contact with the grimy surface of the truck. Gullible, but he was 6.

It was just my father and I today, though, because my brother had lessons while my mother was at work. After I very thoughtfully pointed out that his oversized t-shirt made him look rather foolish, he took an interest in the book I was about to return and flipped through it, before landing on the "About the Author" page. By the end of Loh Guan Liang's admittedly contrived self-composed author bio, my father laid down a damning judgement.

"Fucker."

When your parent swears it should take you by surprise (supposedly). I sniggered, though mindful that the bio hardly did justice to the guy's writing. I'm immensely fond of writing that has an acute awareness of people and places - "Transparent Strangers" did the trick. The collection is interspersed with verse on transit, transport; times of the day when we are transfixed by the crowd that envelops us, a sea of strange, transparent people. Loh's writing may be characterised by romanticised rumination, but the simplicity and candour of his words belie any sense of pretence (unlike his author bio).

So, in tribute to attap chee days of yore, and this book that was really good to have around during the Prelims period:

at lunches peppered with quips,

the same attap chee affliction;

no just desserts suffered, for those

not transparent about transportation.

--

Is attap chee translucent or opaque? (Not a PSLE science question)

Also realised this post is more like those on the "left" page but I'm too lazy to do the formatting again.

Why John is such a twat

Why John is such a twat / 12 Years a (Math) Slave

I don't enjoy doing math

but math just seems to love doing me...

I get that numbers may be a tool of some world without
sentiment, that one imperfection in the human make-up
that means we grief over love and life lost.
It should make things easier.

But really, Math, though:

Teach us to divide but then tell us we are more than a sum of our parts;
that we are more than uniformed hypotheses to be tested and
tested on; maybe we should let you convince us that
equality only exists in equations, that integration requires differentiation
but race, class, and borders do anything but unite.

Come on, who honestly cares about the number of ways "John" can sit
at a table of people without sitting next to those dressed in blue?
If John wasn't such a twat he'd sit with people regardless of colour and
save us all that trouble. But John is a twat after all.

Now, calculate the distance from A to B,
or S
or U
or you from me;
give us a figure to figure out and hinge our self worth upon
- who doesn't like another number
to remind me them how much they suck at numbers?

I once interviewed a maths prodigy; took us three tries
to finally meet - my very own 三顾茅庐 tale. Told me his
love for math stems from its freedom from language, culture,
politics - all of which complicate the real world - as well as its,
and I quote, "completely logical and systematic nature".
Gödel too believed mathematical truths to be self-evident,
but if that's the case, why does it all read like Greek to me？

Whatever happened to those who live
between the whats and ifs and buts and maybes,
not the Xs and Ys and Zs and GCs; tell us
Orion wouldn't have a belt if it were not for geometry,
and that we are all here in constellations,
in perfect equations, in little sequences and series that
make it seem as though everything happens in the same, deductible way;
as though everything can and must be explained...

But maybe there was a Jackson Pollock of the universe,
splattered the stars across the sky in some
sweeping act of rambunctious artistry, laid them bare in
nude nirvana; You see, not everything subscribes to your formulas;
which, you may say, is an art, and yet I'm pretty sure that
only things of the heart have art in them.

Even then, can your math - your fashionably flawless,
wonderfully water-tight math - explain how it is
that this was written in math class,
that the stars were written in math,
that all this was written in the stars?

That if we had to one day tell the story of the stars
we'd just speak of shapes and patterns
- not of hoping, coping, losing, then finding,
nor the weight of things that were and will be, but
just specks of significance, 3 s.f. and shit like that,
dots on lines on maps, finding their way around this place
without coordinates to the heart, or a compass pointing to okay,

forever thinking we had made sense of the world,
living the illusion that our trip around the Sun
was always a perfect circle.

--
This is an accumulation of lines from over a few months that I've only just managed to mash together very poorly but more importantly - an utterly relatable moment from one of my favourite shows: 0:21.