This year, I will pass the new year at home.
It occurs to me that this is a bit of a cop-out. Originally, I had intended to go down to Marina Bay to get lost in the throngs in search of that wave of euphoria that wells up as we commemorate the hope and despair in the temporality of experience. Despair because time passes and brings change unpredictably to things that we cherish and hope never to have to give up. Hope because time passes and brings change unpredictably to things that we fear and dread and can't wait to give up. In this confusion a kind of fusion is born, and philosophy falls, broken, to the sidelines while people celebrate for all sorts of motivations - but they celebrate, and this is the energy that I am looking for.
But I haven't been able to find anyone who wants to go down with me to join the crowds at the Esplanade. This in itself isn't so odd - last year, too, I wasn't able to find anyone to go along. But last year, the supreme need was to be swept away from a way of life, to be uplifted from the drudgery of the Army, to be surprised into wakefulness and consciousness, and to have my faith in the workings of the heavens restored by the miracle of fellow-feeling among strangers. This year, in contrast, I am not in search of a concept: I am in search of company. And since there is no company to be had at the Esplanade, far better it is, then, to enjoy the company of family at home. And even the symbolic value of being in the middle of a crowd singing Aude Lang Syne is lost - what is the point of the ritual if there is no meaning behind it?
Nah, this year, fireworks alone doesn't outweight what I have at home, and what I have in store just beyond the brink of Tomorrow. Behind, a year well spent, and well-defined by what people have offered me, beyond all my expectations. My colleagues and men in the Army, all solid and dependable people, people I am proud to work with, and who have shown me, each and every one of them, that this experience need not be a complete loss, that every moment matters and you have to live for each other, commit to one another, to make it work. My friends here, who have been dependably around whenever boredom or despair loomed threateningly, who have kept their (and my) sense of humour and perspective alive despite it all, who have shown me how to grow up properly and productively. My friends abroad, who have put in that precious effort to keep in contact, and who gave me a wonderful summer this year, bringing back their stories of Elsewhere and their old personalities and idiosyncracies like heirlooms. And of course, my family, who have never stopped supporting me, who have been as good companions as they have been good sounding boards against which to vent and rant.
And next year - a year of velocity, of acute awareness of a destination and energetic progress towards it. A year starting, unprecendented, with a trip abroad (and perhaps the last of its kind for close to four years). A year stretching ahead, pure, unplanned - structured time ends after 9 January, and beyond that is a pristine prairie of time waiting for new projects and new attempts, and, perhaps, also old things renewed. And in August -
2008, long-awaited and yearned for, is about to start. Has started in New Zealand and Australia. On TV, Sydneysiders launch fireworks from the harbour and the Bridge. And to think, in Europe and the Americas, today is just starting. For others, the potential that already lies in the past here is still fresh and ready to be tapped. A part of me still wants to hang on to this feeling of anticipation, of the delicious thrill at the edge of the new year. A part of me prefers to enjoy the idea of the thing, the safe, harmless idea that can so easily and comfortably conform to what I want it to be like. But let the thing itself, so long-anticipated, come. And let us move on.
Happy 2008 to all. May it start splendidly, and may it bring ever more enrichment and fulfilment to everyone's personal experiences.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
...and the new year hangs tantalisingly on the brink of Tomorrow. Been spending a lot of time on new year greetings, composing them carefully. It was a project that was inspired like Elsewhere: encountering an artifact that suggested itself so compellingly to be a part of a larger whole, and indicated what should be done with itself to make it complete. It's like finding a block of marble that suggests to the sculptor what statue it should be, I guess, in the stereotypical vision I have of how sculptures are born. Or, perhaps, encountering a tree that shows you what kind of ark you should build with it.
And partly, too, the energy to do this project has come from the approach of 2008 itself, so long-awaited and yearned for. It is, I guess, a way to acknowledge that 2007 has passed honourably and fulfillingly, and has laid a worthy foundation for the promise of the new year. It is a signpost firmly pointed forward, and an emblem of action: as I wrote, the approach of 2008 adds a sense of velocity to the sense of direction that 2007 gave me. It is finally time for life to move onward to the goal that I've had my eye on for almost two years now.
Received a letter today from Columbia asking for a report of what I've been doing for the last six months, and a reaffirmation of my decision to matriculate there in August. I think I'll relish writing that letter, and there is so much to include: not only the work in the Army, but also the three trips since then (the next one also hanging tantalisingly on the brink of Tomorrow), and the projects I've been up to - perhaps most usefully, the refurbishment and relaunch of this website and related paraphenalia. And it's also the season for everyone to submit their applications to be admitted to US universities next year. Yes, life for this batch is gaining momentum again, and it will be good to have everyone moving forward once more, and feel the energy that was absent during the long wait in the Army, that certain purposefulness and striving that is kindled by a cherished objective. I sincerely hope that everyone gets the opportunities that they so rightly deserve.
So, in these ways, I find 2007 coming to a most satisfactory close. Also, in a flurry of letter- and postcard-writing, I've tried to touch base with my people who are overseas, a sort of radio check of the old modes of communication that we had. And also will be meeting up with whoever's here in the days to come. Passed Christmas Eve at Vaish's place in a small, jolly reunion of Arts-fac types, spiking the cocktails with high-velocity jokes. Whiled away the afternoon with Thong today at a tea-house (no, not the one he's quitting soon) over pots of fragrant pu'er-and-ginseng tea and a Japanese infusion of green tea and rice, throwing around ideas for ideal birthdays. And spent a long, long time with Yiting chatting over dinner, between souvenir-shopping and coffee as a digestif, jumping between the past, present and future with the accumulated energy of two months incommunicado. And tomorrow, linking up with Liulao (who'd contacted me out of the blue with a short-lived offer to relief-teach at CHS) and the CHS gang, before perhaps seeking out the tail-end of a RJGE reunion lunch.
And, of course, there's the Sarawak-Sabah trip coming up. It's a breathless progression - I'd thought that December would be far more empty, allowing me to savour the build-up to the big events of Christmas, New Year, and the next trip. It's really good that things have rolled along so swiftly, and staved off vapidness for me so well; but a part of me, still wistful, yearns for more time, as always, to appreciate the textures of the idea of a thing before plunging into the thing itself.
Oh well, as Joel says, seize the time while it's still here. Commit to the present and stave off a lethal dose of reflectiveness. There'll be enough time for that, when the future is no longer so promising.
*
Today marks the start of a new project, tentatively entitled Directions. Hopefully will be ready before the year is out.
And partly, too, the energy to do this project has come from the approach of 2008 itself, so long-awaited and yearned for. It is, I guess, a way to acknowledge that 2007 has passed honourably and fulfillingly, and has laid a worthy foundation for the promise of the new year. It is a signpost firmly pointed forward, and an emblem of action: as I wrote, the approach of 2008 adds a sense of velocity to the sense of direction that 2007 gave me. It is finally time for life to move onward to the goal that I've had my eye on for almost two years now.
Received a letter today from Columbia asking for a report of what I've been doing for the last six months, and a reaffirmation of my decision to matriculate there in August. I think I'll relish writing that letter, and there is so much to include: not only the work in the Army, but also the three trips since then (the next one also hanging tantalisingly on the brink of Tomorrow), and the projects I've been up to - perhaps most usefully, the refurbishment and relaunch of this website and related paraphenalia. And it's also the season for everyone to submit their applications to be admitted to US universities next year. Yes, life for this batch is gaining momentum again, and it will be good to have everyone moving forward once more, and feel the energy that was absent during the long wait in the Army, that certain purposefulness and striving that is kindled by a cherished objective. I sincerely hope that everyone gets the opportunities that they so rightly deserve.
So, in these ways, I find 2007 coming to a most satisfactory close. Also, in a flurry of letter- and postcard-writing, I've tried to touch base with my people who are overseas, a sort of radio check of the old modes of communication that we had. And also will be meeting up with whoever's here in the days to come. Passed Christmas Eve at Vaish's place in a small, jolly reunion of Arts-fac types, spiking the cocktails with high-velocity jokes. Whiled away the afternoon with Thong today at a tea-house (no, not the one he's quitting soon) over pots of fragrant pu'er-and-ginseng tea and a Japanese infusion of green tea and rice, throwing around ideas for ideal birthdays. And spent a long, long time with Yiting chatting over dinner, between souvenir-shopping and coffee as a digestif, jumping between the past, present and future with the accumulated energy of two months incommunicado. And tomorrow, linking up with Liulao (who'd contacted me out of the blue with a short-lived offer to relief-teach at CHS) and the CHS gang, before perhaps seeking out the tail-end of a RJGE reunion lunch.
And, of course, there's the Sarawak-Sabah trip coming up. It's a breathless progression - I'd thought that December would be far more empty, allowing me to savour the build-up to the big events of Christmas, New Year, and the next trip. It's really good that things have rolled along so swiftly, and staved off vapidness for me so well; but a part of me, still wistful, yearns for more time, as always, to appreciate the textures of the idea of a thing before plunging into the thing itself.
Oh well, as Joel says, seize the time while it's still here. Commit to the present and stave off a lethal dose of reflectiveness. There'll be enough time for that, when the future is no longer so promising.
*
Today marks the start of a new project, tentatively entitled Directions. Hopefully will be ready before the year is out.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Felis Navidad Prospero Anno Felicidad
The last two nights have been filled with dreams, some pleasant, and others awful. But the sensations are always intense, and so happiness is almost shameful in its power, and fright is suffocating in its immediacy. And for some reason, these dreams were like a showcase of practically everyone who had kept in contact with me over the last year. Family members played their roles; friends were sometimes scrutinised so intimately that it seemed like telepathy. What these dreams mean, I don't have a clue. And I can't really say that I particularly enjoyed meeting everyone over Christmas through this medium. But there was something haunting about these dreams: haunting enough that I actually remember them after waking up, something that practically never happens to me. Something that said, over and over, to remember, remember, and to remember well.
*
...and when I think back on the year that has passed, I am amazed by how lucky I've been. Had an Army experience that was not altogether a waste of time, and in fact has been productive and meaningful, beyond my wildest expectations. Throughout the last year, I've known some really great people, who've made Army worth the trouble, and outside Army, who've been utterly dependable and understanding. I've had a good summer, despite the ever-present feeling of being left behind by the people who fly off to go back to school. And I've had an absolutely wonderful end to the year, with the two trips and, now, a good Christmas as well.
By all accounts this year has been better than I've had a right to expect. In some ways, it has even been a happier year, a year of reliable patterns and routines that exceeded even the busiest periods in the JC years. A year of reaffirmations and surprises, of old certainties revisited and new avenues revealed to previously neglected aspects of my life. It's the kind of year that constantly gives you a diffuse, low buzz of astonishment; some part of you is constantly surprised at how things are going so well, and a bit skeptical that all is actually as rosy as it is.
Which is, to be fair, a valid point. At this point of the year, after a Christmas celebration and facing a new, fresh year to come, the urge to romanticise and idealise everything that has passed is strong. One needs to feel like the year has gone past productively, in order to have the confidence to look forward to the next one. And so the constant pressures and irritations of the previous year are glossed over, and if they can't be hidden, then they are read with the perfect vision of hindsight to be part of a grand, intricate scheme leading to a brighter tomorrow. One needs to believe that each passing day is leading towards something more, something higher, to give meaning to why one should put so much effort into living.
And call it self-delusion, but my instinctual emphasis on small delightful everyday things keeps me happy, and I think it's a fair liberty to take, a small distortion to allow myself to be content enough to do more useful things. And so I linger over letters from abroad, I revisit old photographs, I tread well-worn memories. And I count myself doubly lucky to have so many of such things to look back towards for this year. If I told you just how much I appreciate every small gesture that keeps me balanced and sane, I would be giving a gross underestimation.
And...looking forward. The year 2007 is almost at an end, and 2008 looms ahead, hopeful, new, gleaming in its freshness, a promise and an opportunity hanging prestine in the quickly-evaporating future. 2008: I have waited so long for it to come, and now, time is moving forward again, and there is not only direction to life, but also velocity. A part of me wants to remain, yearningly, in this state of anticipation of a great opportunity promised to me. But that part is mollified by the far more insistent part that draws on the experience of the last year, and especially on the two most recent trips, to argue eloquently that the future is not something to be dreaded, because it will be delightful in surprising, new ways, and all one needs is an open mind and a receptive heart. So let the new year come, and let 2007 pass away peacefully, and let it be cloaked in glorious memory.
*
...and when I think back on the year that has passed, I am amazed by how lucky I've been. Had an Army experience that was not altogether a waste of time, and in fact has been productive and meaningful, beyond my wildest expectations. Throughout the last year, I've known some really great people, who've made Army worth the trouble, and outside Army, who've been utterly dependable and understanding. I've had a good summer, despite the ever-present feeling of being left behind by the people who fly off to go back to school. And I've had an absolutely wonderful end to the year, with the two trips and, now, a good Christmas as well.
By all accounts this year has been better than I've had a right to expect. In some ways, it has even been a happier year, a year of reliable patterns and routines that exceeded even the busiest periods in the JC years. A year of reaffirmations and surprises, of old certainties revisited and new avenues revealed to previously neglected aspects of my life. It's the kind of year that constantly gives you a diffuse, low buzz of astonishment; some part of you is constantly surprised at how things are going so well, and a bit skeptical that all is actually as rosy as it is.
Which is, to be fair, a valid point. At this point of the year, after a Christmas celebration and facing a new, fresh year to come, the urge to romanticise and idealise everything that has passed is strong. One needs to feel like the year has gone past productively, in order to have the confidence to look forward to the next one. And so the constant pressures and irritations of the previous year are glossed over, and if they can't be hidden, then they are read with the perfect vision of hindsight to be part of a grand, intricate scheme leading to a brighter tomorrow. One needs to believe that each passing day is leading towards something more, something higher, to give meaning to why one should put so much effort into living.
And call it self-delusion, but my instinctual emphasis on small delightful everyday things keeps me happy, and I think it's a fair liberty to take, a small distortion to allow myself to be content enough to do more useful things. And so I linger over letters from abroad, I revisit old photographs, I tread well-worn memories. And I count myself doubly lucky to have so many of such things to look back towards for this year. If I told you just how much I appreciate every small gesture that keeps me balanced and sane, I would be giving a gross underestimation.
And...looking forward. The year 2007 is almost at an end, and 2008 looms ahead, hopeful, new, gleaming in its freshness, a promise and an opportunity hanging prestine in the quickly-evaporating future. 2008: I have waited so long for it to come, and now, time is moving forward again, and there is not only direction to life, but also velocity. A part of me wants to remain, yearningly, in this state of anticipation of a great opportunity promised to me. But that part is mollified by the far more insistent part that draws on the experience of the last year, and especially on the two most recent trips, to argue eloquently that the future is not something to be dreaded, because it will be delightful in surprising, new ways, and all one needs is an open mind and a receptive heart. So let the new year come, and let 2007 pass away peacefully, and let it be cloaked in glorious memory.
Midnight Mass
And so this is Christmas...
Another year of midnight Christmas mass alone at the Cathedral. Somehow, every year, circumstances and timings conspire against me, and no matter how I try, I can't ever seem to find people to go along with me to the Cathedral for this particular mass. There is always the chance of meeting someone familiar there, but it isn't the same, is it, as having a friend to accompany you and share in the spirit of the night.
But that's not to say that the mass is a sad affair. Far from it: the sheer volume of people there makes affectations of solitude impossible, and everyone seems to be infused with goodwill and sympathy. Small gestures of courtesy and kindness bind us together profoundly: the way spontaneously parted for a babe in arms or a communion minister; the rare song-sheet shared between adjacent strangers; the Sign of Peace infused with extra warmth and friendliness.
And when the bell tolls at midnight, not just at the Cathedral, but at all churches of all denominations across the darkened city and across the island, indeed, across the time-zone - how can you feel alone? You are swept up in a ground-swell of fellow-feeling, of goodwill to all men, of heady anticipation of the hope and salvation to come. The church welcomes all souls, offers them the greatest gift of all on the cold winter midnight: the feeling of companionship, a companionship that goes beyond the personal, transmuted by ritual and mass participation into something philosophical and thus inviolable.
You don't know who you can meet in mass, then: fellow lone rangers, families with children nodding asleep, visitors from abroad out to see a spectacle, even Christians who find themselves in a church of the wrong denomination. And in the swell and chorus of the singing host, buoyed by the feeling of renewal, of new hope, of promises reaffirmed, you feel part of a larger, inscrutable thing, and you feel lucky to be here, at this place and at this time.
Another year of midnight Christmas mass alone at the Cathedral. Somehow, every year, circumstances and timings conspire against me, and no matter how I try, I can't ever seem to find people to go along with me to the Cathedral for this particular mass. There is always the chance of meeting someone familiar there, but it isn't the same, is it, as having a friend to accompany you and share in the spirit of the night.
But that's not to say that the mass is a sad affair. Far from it: the sheer volume of people there makes affectations of solitude impossible, and everyone seems to be infused with goodwill and sympathy. Small gestures of courtesy and kindness bind us together profoundly: the way spontaneously parted for a babe in arms or a communion minister; the rare song-sheet shared between adjacent strangers; the Sign of Peace infused with extra warmth and friendliness.
And when the bell tolls at midnight, not just at the Cathedral, but at all churches of all denominations across the darkened city and across the island, indeed, across the time-zone - how can you feel alone? You are swept up in a ground-swell of fellow-feeling, of goodwill to all men, of heady anticipation of the hope and salvation to come. The church welcomes all souls, offers them the greatest gift of all on the cold winter midnight: the feeling of companionship, a companionship that goes beyond the personal, transmuted by ritual and mass participation into something philosophical and thus inviolable.
You don't know who you can meet in mass, then: fellow lone rangers, families with children nodding asleep, visitors from abroad out to see a spectacle, even Christians who find themselves in a church of the wrong denomination. And in the swell and chorus of the singing host, buoyed by the feeling of renewal, of new hope, of promises reaffirmed, you feel part of a larger, inscrutable thing, and you feel lucky to be here, at this place and at this time.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Festive Spirit
Been busy with a new project - the Southeastern Coast Gallery for the Australia photos. It's really consumed a lot of my time, not only because the pictures are nice (heh, if I do say so myself) and they remind me of a good time spent overseas, but also because this project has been characterised by an unusual sense of possibility. The ideas that I had for its design have been more easily implemented than for other projects, and to my surprise, my rudimentary JavaScript skills actually allowed me to self-programme something useful, rather than to use my old method of poaching bits of code from online coding forums and databases. So this project seems blessed, somehow, as if some force from within its nascent form also wants it to be completed as much as I do.
The pictures, too, are endearing. Somehow the pictures that came out of Australia were generally more colourful and evocative, somehow more well composed. I don't know if it's got anything to do with my family's increasing experience with photography and this camera in particular. But I have to say that the settings in Australia really just lend themselves to be photographed. The scenes spontaneously compose themselves, the lush landscape, the built environment, the people, the weather all somehow conspiring to produce a pattern so compelling that I cannot resist whipping out my camera. And yet, it is also the talent of Australia to make such exquisitely composed scenes without a trace of contrivance or artificiality. So there is, this time, a surprising number of good candid shots, shots that tell of a moment and portray and emphasise its essential character.
So throughout this project, so far, I've been dwelling in a certain sense of enlightenment, as if by presenting these photographs in a specially crafted gallery, they are empowered to uplift and enrich me. These photos already hold a special place in my memory, but by repackaging and retouching them, more patterns are emerging that serve to make them even more precious. I guess a part of this can be seen as self-indulgence, but it has been so long since photographs have spoken to me so eloquently, and I am quite taken up by their siren song.
Next up - a gallery for the Malacca pictures. I think that will be all till Christmas, when I hope to launch these two new projects, as well as the revamped Lumière Project site. New and improved is the order of the day, and this is a time of renewal and rebirth, of finding oneself again and regrounding oneself in preparation of the next stage of life. And after the East Malaysia trip, this cycle of traveling will be completed, I reckon.
*
Anyway - Borneo trip's confirmed. I'm flying off again on 2 Jan, coming back on 9 Jan. An East Malaysian sojourn squashed into the period of time between New Year's Day and my 21st. I'll be visiting Soph's hometown of Kuching, then joining her for her Kota Kinabalu leg, where we'll also be joined by one of her university friends. Heh, I wonder what it'll be like, traveling with two practicing college students. Must practice my discoursive skills again, to at least be able to fend off intellectual forays.
The trip is still in the planning stages, when it's just all promise and anticipation. A range of options lies before me, and I find it invigorating to find what can be done given the limited time and resources that we have. It's like a puzzle to be solved, an one that suits a planner, I guess: how to make the potentialities of infinite possibility compatible with the strictures and limitations of a system. And once again, it's the issue of striking a balance between planning and spontaneity; though if Malacca was anything to go by, small-group traveling would require far less planning than Australia, because small groups are naturally more manoeuvrable and adaptable.
*
And besides making the gallery and planning for the next trip, I've also gone out a bit. Kay Hwee and family have flown off to New York to pass Christmas and New Year in the Big Apple, the lucky gits, but Joel and I were able to catch them on their penultimate day in Singapore. Watched The Warlords with them, which was the biggest Asian offering at the box office this holiday season. It was disappointing: a wannabe show trying and failing to be deep and epic, in the way that Hero and Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon were revolutionary for the genre.
That evening, finally met up with YS for dinner. She'd been back from Canberra for weeks already; in fact, she may have left on the day I touched down in Brisbane. But due to travel (ah, what a happy hindrance this is!) and the testimonials, we only found the time this week for a reunion. She's back to work at PUB, getting to know the workings of the organisation, and preparing for a year of exchange at the University of Virginia. That places her in the general neighbourhood of the Northeastern US when I get there next year. This tips the balance for my winter plans somewhat: if more people are in the US than in Europe next winter, then I won't do the transatlantic jump. But the choices have to be weighed carefully, since most of the Europeans will be entering their final year next year, and there won't be another winter in which to do the transatlantic jump.
Anyway, had a good time chatting and catching up, I for the most part regaling her with Australia stories, and my impressions of the land and the people from Down Under, and YS looking forward to Virginia and ultimately returning to Canberra. This reunion, the conversation came more easily, I think partly because we have almost five months of stuff to talk about, but also because now I feel more of an equal to her, having thrown off the experiential fetters of the Army, and having two new trips behind me. It may be fallacious, this perception of inferiority, but it was a real barrier; though I was in the Army, I didn't feel as adult as she was, and I've said before that the Army period was a discontinuity in the progress of my life, an abortive branching off of experience, a dead end, and a period characterised by waiting for life to resume. Now, things are moving again, and most importantly, there is a sense that things are moving forward, a sense of direction, that makes me more in tune with the vibes of an undergraduate, I reckon.
*
Some of my people have returned: witness Soph's (initially abortive) return to Singapore, on the same day that Kels touched down, and our little Humanities classes reunion dinner at Newton Circus that progressed into an epic Munchkins battle at Kels's place. Witness the return of YS. And witness the plans for anothe reunion, on Christmas Eve, that invites people like Vaish and Aparna and Mel, continentally displaced friends and classmates coming home for the holidays.
But more are not coming back, and to some of these I have posted cards for the season. It's a shock to realise how late in December it already is, and how it's probably too late to send anything that will arrive before Christmas itself. But it's important to remember people in this period; if they can't be here in the flesh, the least you can do is to spare a thought for them (and, perhaps, find a way to spare more than a thought for them and to do something nice that bestrides oceans and continents). To all my people overseas, I still think of you frequently, and I still wish you could be here, even though I understand why you won't be here.
Walking down Orchard Road with YS after dinner, we ran into the whole festive spirit of the place. Crowds of people on the night streets, a choir in front of Paragon, and, magically, a procession of brightly-lit and -coloured floats driving past bearing a host of angels. The fairy lights twinkled overhead amidst the broad leafy canopy of tropical trees, and volunteers wished passers-by a Merry Christmas. I think the organisers did a good job this year; the place really feels joyful and warm. But also, this is the first Christmas season in four years that I've been able to enjoy without any worries or hindrances whatsoever. And I know that it all seems so much more special this year, because this is the time between the end of the long wait of the Army and the start of the most exciting phase of life so far.
The pictures, too, are endearing. Somehow the pictures that came out of Australia were generally more colourful and evocative, somehow more well composed. I don't know if it's got anything to do with my family's increasing experience with photography and this camera in particular. But I have to say that the settings in Australia really just lend themselves to be photographed. The scenes spontaneously compose themselves, the lush landscape, the built environment, the people, the weather all somehow conspiring to produce a pattern so compelling that I cannot resist whipping out my camera. And yet, it is also the talent of Australia to make such exquisitely composed scenes without a trace of contrivance or artificiality. So there is, this time, a surprising number of good candid shots, shots that tell of a moment and portray and emphasise its essential character.
So throughout this project, so far, I've been dwelling in a certain sense of enlightenment, as if by presenting these photographs in a specially crafted gallery, they are empowered to uplift and enrich me. These photos already hold a special place in my memory, but by repackaging and retouching them, more patterns are emerging that serve to make them even more precious. I guess a part of this can be seen as self-indulgence, but it has been so long since photographs have spoken to me so eloquently, and I am quite taken up by their siren song.
Next up - a gallery for the Malacca pictures. I think that will be all till Christmas, when I hope to launch these two new projects, as well as the revamped Lumière Project site. New and improved is the order of the day, and this is a time of renewal and rebirth, of finding oneself again and regrounding oneself in preparation of the next stage of life. And after the East Malaysia trip, this cycle of traveling will be completed, I reckon.
*
Anyway - Borneo trip's confirmed. I'm flying off again on 2 Jan, coming back on 9 Jan. An East Malaysian sojourn squashed into the period of time between New Year's Day and my 21st. I'll be visiting Soph's hometown of Kuching, then joining her for her Kota Kinabalu leg, where we'll also be joined by one of her university friends. Heh, I wonder what it'll be like, traveling with two practicing college students. Must practice my discoursive skills again, to at least be able to fend off intellectual forays.
The trip is still in the planning stages, when it's just all promise and anticipation. A range of options lies before me, and I find it invigorating to find what can be done given the limited time and resources that we have. It's like a puzzle to be solved, an one that suits a planner, I guess: how to make the potentialities of infinite possibility compatible with the strictures and limitations of a system. And once again, it's the issue of striking a balance between planning and spontaneity; though if Malacca was anything to go by, small-group traveling would require far less planning than Australia, because small groups are naturally more manoeuvrable and adaptable.
*
And besides making the gallery and planning for the next trip, I've also gone out a bit. Kay Hwee and family have flown off to New York to pass Christmas and New Year in the Big Apple, the lucky gits, but Joel and I were able to catch them on their penultimate day in Singapore. Watched The Warlords with them, which was the biggest Asian offering at the box office this holiday season. It was disappointing: a wannabe show trying and failing to be deep and epic, in the way that Hero and Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon were revolutionary for the genre.
That evening, finally met up with YS for dinner. She'd been back from Canberra for weeks already; in fact, she may have left on the day I touched down in Brisbane. But due to travel (ah, what a happy hindrance this is!) and the testimonials, we only found the time this week for a reunion. She's back to work at PUB, getting to know the workings of the organisation, and preparing for a year of exchange at the University of Virginia. That places her in the general neighbourhood of the Northeastern US when I get there next year. This tips the balance for my winter plans somewhat: if more people are in the US than in Europe next winter, then I won't do the transatlantic jump. But the choices have to be weighed carefully, since most of the Europeans will be entering their final year next year, and there won't be another winter in which to do the transatlantic jump.
Anyway, had a good time chatting and catching up, I for the most part regaling her with Australia stories, and my impressions of the land and the people from Down Under, and YS looking forward to Virginia and ultimately returning to Canberra. This reunion, the conversation came more easily, I think partly because we have almost five months of stuff to talk about, but also because now I feel more of an equal to her, having thrown off the experiential fetters of the Army, and having two new trips behind me. It may be fallacious, this perception of inferiority, but it was a real barrier; though I was in the Army, I didn't feel as adult as she was, and I've said before that the Army period was a discontinuity in the progress of my life, an abortive branching off of experience, a dead end, and a period characterised by waiting for life to resume. Now, things are moving again, and most importantly, there is a sense that things are moving forward, a sense of direction, that makes me more in tune with the vibes of an undergraduate, I reckon.
*
Some of my people have returned: witness Soph's (initially abortive) return to Singapore, on the same day that Kels touched down, and our little Humanities classes reunion dinner at Newton Circus that progressed into an epic Munchkins battle at Kels's place. Witness the return of YS. And witness the plans for anothe reunion, on Christmas Eve, that invites people like Vaish and Aparna and Mel, continentally displaced friends and classmates coming home for the holidays.
But more are not coming back, and to some of these I have posted cards for the season. It's a shock to realise how late in December it already is, and how it's probably too late to send anything that will arrive before Christmas itself. But it's important to remember people in this period; if they can't be here in the flesh, the least you can do is to spare a thought for them (and, perhaps, find a way to spare more than a thought for them and to do something nice that bestrides oceans and continents). To all my people overseas, I still think of you frequently, and I still wish you could be here, even though I understand why you won't be here.
Walking down Orchard Road with YS after dinner, we ran into the whole festive spirit of the place. Crowds of people on the night streets, a choir in front of Paragon, and, magically, a procession of brightly-lit and -coloured floats driving past bearing a host of angels. The fairy lights twinkled overhead amidst the broad leafy canopy of tropical trees, and volunteers wished passers-by a Merry Christmas. I think the organisers did a good job this year; the place really feels joyful and warm. But also, this is the first Christmas season in four years that I've been able to enjoy without any worries or hindrances whatsoever. And I know that it all seems so much more special this year, because this is the time between the end of the long wait of the Army and the start of the most exciting phase of life so far.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
There are many things that are great about Australia, but the thing that surprised me the most was how cheap their books are. On our first night in Sydney, we found a used-book shop downtown, which was unfortunately closed. Revisiting the next day, we found a great selection of books, used, but proudly displayed in stacks that were sorted by genre and, unlike in Singapore, by author. I could have happily spent half a day in that one store alone, and would have, too, if it were not for our severly limited time in Sydney. As it was, I couldn't resist buying two books: Bernard Shaw's snappy-sounding Three Plays for Puritans, and Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day, effectively taking care of my reading needs all the way till January. And the cost? S$30 total.
And then, up in the Blue Mountains, along Katoomba's main street, you can find three antique bookshops, and you find that every antique store in that town also has a section dedicated to books. One wonders how many tourists must visit that one street in order to sustain so many book boutiques. I and Greg wandered into this one antique shop, and found two 150-year-old tomes, first editions of Ibsen's Peer Gynt and Dickens's Nicholas Nickleby. The asking price was A$60, and though it was a hefty sum, when you think about it, where can you get century-old first editions with hard covers, gold leaf and embossed details in Singapore? Two hardcover books from Kino would already cost about S$60. So we bought the two volumes, and gave the Dickens to Mum for her birthday, which we celebrated on the Mountains over a hotel-room picnic.
And finally, I found this splendid antique bookshop in Katoomba with first-edition collections that outstrip even the National Library's Rare Book section. It was amazing, wandering among the towering shelves with the books, some tattered, some worn, all much-loved and thick with the scent of age. It was like walking in my imagination. And found a handsome hardcover copy of a compilation of Conrad's The Shadow Line and Within the Tides going for A$12. It was a steal, I think: the volume had intricate cover details highlighted in gold, a ribbon bookmark and even includes reproductions of some of his sketches that went along with the stories. I originally bought it with a mind to give it away as a Christmas present, but it's such a beautiful book that I almost can't bear to part with it now, at least not before reading it first.
If only Singapore had bookshops like these, bookshops with editions that will cause you to judge a book by its cover, with editions that are more than literary masterpieces, but also works of craftsmanship that anyone would be proud to be seen holding, reading, or putting on one's bookcase. And it's not that Singapore books are that much pricier, but Australian bookshops have a certain discerning taste in books that means that they're selling you more than just paper with words printed on it. You can ask the shopkeeper to recommend books for you, whereas I can't imagine asking a Borders cashier to choose between a Murakami and a McEwan. And that means that you buy more than just the book - you're buying into a certain literary intellectual mindset. And in Australia, it's their pleasure to nurture that in you for free, which makes book-shopping there so remarkable.
*
Finally, finally finished the testimonial vetting, and what a nightmare it has been. I shan't talk any more about it; I'm just glad that it's over, and I can have my mental wellbeing back. I realised yesterday how much time these testimonials were taking up, and how much, actually, I had to do this festive season - and all that even when officially unemployed. I'd like to finish the new gallery for the Australia and Malacca photos, and I want to visit my old sergeant, whose baby just passed his first month. There's Christmas decorating to be done, cooking to be prepared, and I want to toss out whatever I can from my room, the detritus of the passing year. And I have to put away all my army gear in proper storage, seeing that I'm not planning to clap eyes on it for four years.
And, beyond that, the trip to East Malaysia that'll take place after the New Year, and my 21st. Mum raised the question of the latter yesterday after mass, and it occurs to me that I'm the first in my generation to reach 21 years old, and so it's up to me to set the standard, as it were, for birthday bashes. And it seems like such an obligation now, to organise something momentous, because that's just the done thing and everyone would expect you to do something big. And you only turn 21 once, right? Given the occasion, my family's offering to organise practically anything I would like, and, faced with such a range of options, I find myself baffled and at a loss. What do people usually do when they turn 21? I certainly can't see myself doing a drunken-orgy sort of thing.
I get the impression that it'll be the epitome of self-consciousness. That's why I never organised anything to mark my own birthdays before. I mean, why would anyone purposely put themselves in the spotlight, taking other people's expectations and assumptions about oneself along with their presents? I picture inviting all the old friends from CHS and RJ, and having everyone standing around awkwardly, aware that we are supposed to be having the time of our lives, but also equally aware of the contrivance behind the exercise. And yet...there's that nagging suspicion that if we don't mark our 21st with something out of the ordinary, we're missing out on some crucial coming-of-age ritual. Giving up a big 21st birthday bash feels like depriving oneself of a childhood, almost.
What would I like, ideally? Well, I'd like to do what my mum did on the Blue Mountains: go to someplace exotic, have family and friends around, and have a good-natured gathering, with no one feeling pressurised to act in a way that fits in with social conventions. After all, it's only the people that counts. And if we could pull that off, I think I couldn't bring myself to ask for more. And I'd have had something that some other people would, perhaps, not even think to consider as a worthy way to celebrate a birthday.
And then, up in the Blue Mountains, along Katoomba's main street, you can find three antique bookshops, and you find that every antique store in that town also has a section dedicated to books. One wonders how many tourists must visit that one street in order to sustain so many book boutiques. I and Greg wandered into this one antique shop, and found two 150-year-old tomes, first editions of Ibsen's Peer Gynt and Dickens's Nicholas Nickleby. The asking price was A$60, and though it was a hefty sum, when you think about it, where can you get century-old first editions with hard covers, gold leaf and embossed details in Singapore? Two hardcover books from Kino would already cost about S$60. So we bought the two volumes, and gave the Dickens to Mum for her birthday, which we celebrated on the Mountains over a hotel-room picnic.
And finally, I found this splendid antique bookshop in Katoomba with first-edition collections that outstrip even the National Library's Rare Book section. It was amazing, wandering among the towering shelves with the books, some tattered, some worn, all much-loved and thick with the scent of age. It was like walking in my imagination. And found a handsome hardcover copy of a compilation of Conrad's The Shadow Line and Within the Tides going for A$12. It was a steal, I think: the volume had intricate cover details highlighted in gold, a ribbon bookmark and even includes reproductions of some of his sketches that went along with the stories. I originally bought it with a mind to give it away as a Christmas present, but it's such a beautiful book that I almost can't bear to part with it now, at least not before reading it first.
If only Singapore had bookshops like these, bookshops with editions that will cause you to judge a book by its cover, with editions that are more than literary masterpieces, but also works of craftsmanship that anyone would be proud to be seen holding, reading, or putting on one's bookcase. And it's not that Singapore books are that much pricier, but Australian bookshops have a certain discerning taste in books that means that they're selling you more than just paper with words printed on it. You can ask the shopkeeper to recommend books for you, whereas I can't imagine asking a Borders cashier to choose between a Murakami and a McEwan. And that means that you buy more than just the book - you're buying into a certain literary intellectual mindset. And in Australia, it's their pleasure to nurture that in you for free, which makes book-shopping there so remarkable.
*
Finally, finally finished the testimonial vetting, and what a nightmare it has been. I shan't talk any more about it; I'm just glad that it's over, and I can have my mental wellbeing back. I realised yesterday how much time these testimonials were taking up, and how much, actually, I had to do this festive season - and all that even when officially unemployed. I'd like to finish the new gallery for the Australia and Malacca photos, and I want to visit my old sergeant, whose baby just passed his first month. There's Christmas decorating to be done, cooking to be prepared, and I want to toss out whatever I can from my room, the detritus of the passing year. And I have to put away all my army gear in proper storage, seeing that I'm not planning to clap eyes on it for four years.
And, beyond that, the trip to East Malaysia that'll take place after the New Year, and my 21st. Mum raised the question of the latter yesterday after mass, and it occurs to me that I'm the first in my generation to reach 21 years old, and so it's up to me to set the standard, as it were, for birthday bashes. And it seems like such an obligation now, to organise something momentous, because that's just the done thing and everyone would expect you to do something big. And you only turn 21 once, right? Given the occasion, my family's offering to organise practically anything I would like, and, faced with such a range of options, I find myself baffled and at a loss. What do people usually do when they turn 21? I certainly can't see myself doing a drunken-orgy sort of thing.
I get the impression that it'll be the epitome of self-consciousness. That's why I never organised anything to mark my own birthdays before. I mean, why would anyone purposely put themselves in the spotlight, taking other people's expectations and assumptions about oneself along with their presents? I picture inviting all the old friends from CHS and RJ, and having everyone standing around awkwardly, aware that we are supposed to be having the time of our lives, but also equally aware of the contrivance behind the exercise. And yet...there's that nagging suspicion that if we don't mark our 21st with something out of the ordinary, we're missing out on some crucial coming-of-age ritual. Giving up a big 21st birthday bash feels like depriving oneself of a childhood, almost.
What would I like, ideally? Well, I'd like to do what my mum did on the Blue Mountains: go to someplace exotic, have family and friends around, and have a good-natured gathering, with no one feeling pressurised to act in a way that fits in with social conventions. After all, it's only the people that counts. And if we could pull that off, I think I couldn't bring myself to ask for more. And I'd have had something that some other people would, perhaps, not even think to consider as a worthy way to celebrate a birthday.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Traveling
And I'm back from Australia and Malacca! Sorry, readers, for not updating this journal at any point on the trips. We were moving around too much in Australia, and anyway, it would have been prohibitively expensive to buy some time on the internet from a café. And the Malacca stay was too short, whereas I have a lot of things to say about both trips.
The result of this is that I've almost finished another sketchbook, surprising myself by actually managing to find enough time and content to almost fill up a brand new book in just under two weeks. There has certainly been no shortage of things to write; the hard part is to steal a few moments out of experiencing the present to record the past. And, considering the richness of the experience, it seemed for the most part a pity to sacrifice some time to sleep, let alone to write in my journal. Even the road trips were engaging in terms of conversations and the scenery that scrolled past our windows on a continuous enchanting loop. So, I found myself losing sleep almost every day, and writing only in the early mornings and the late evenings - but happily so.
A complete blow-by-blow account of what happened on the trips, though, won't be furnished here, I think. Don't have the patience to reproduce the entire sketchbook's contents here; and anyway, I didn't write those entries with the view of them being read by a wide audience. The photographs that we took on the trips will eventually be made available on the Lumière Project site, I expect, and I have vague plans to turn the sketchbook into some sort of sequel to Elsewhere, though how fast these plans are realised will depend on how much free time I have between now and Christmas.
That being said - some snapshots of the trip! First, the landscapes: the perfect beaches strung all across the Australian coastline, powdery-white sand welcoming lashings of sunlight and the playful pounding surf, beaches filled with people surfing, wading, suntanning, playing volleyball, hang-gliding, boating, picnicking, but still never crowded; tall-masted sailboats anchored in the harbour of a coastal town at night, swaying gently in the ebbing tide, their masts pointing serenely towards a blanket of stars overhead; the open road winding through the pristine countryside, at times diving into forests so clear of undergrowth and so friendly that they seemed to have been groomed, at times rising above the landscape on a ridgeline and affording us a view of rolling hills blanketed by a quiltwork of farms, with a gleaming blue swath of the sea and the sky forming the backdrop; the main streets of the small coastal towns we passed through, and wandering down them, we admired each window that was so well-composed that they could have been proud works of art; a late-afternoon cruise in a sparkling bay, cold wind and warm sun on the skin, the land all along the horizon like an embrace, and dolphins playing off the bow of the vessel; hot fish and chips still crackling from the fryer and exploding from the greaseproof paper like elation from a surprised heart; handsome brownstones in the big cities, bedecked with intricate awnings and draped with histories; Sydney's Royal Botanic Gardens, with us strolling through its grounds in search of monumental sights, and finding serenity, dignity, a line of ducklings following a mother duck, all against the industrious and powerful backdrop of the gleaming towers of downtown; watching a Kuroshawa film in the darkness of the Art Gallery of New South Wales among local movie buffs; the mist-shrouded towns of the Blue Mountains, harbouring boutique shops selling surprises and hope, inviting one to wander inside and to stay just a while longer; the wonderful Jenolan Caves, with rock formations so intricate and amazing that they struck me dumb with the miracle of beauty that emerges out of the mechanics of probability, that defied anyone to be stoically unmoved, that affirmed that there has to be a God who created all these wonders; and mountainside treks that took us to delicate cascades of spring-water, waters as cool as majesty and as pure as truth. Such were the encounters that we found on our Southward sojourn through Australia.
And, in Malacca, wandering the streets of the town in the way that demands adventurousness, courage and open-mindedness in the traveler, we found rows and rows of handsome shophouses, the riotously red Dutch Quarter, a hill of Chinese graves, and another street peppered with free art galleries showcasing the boldest of contemporary Malaccan art; standing at junctions devoid of traffic lights with only a map and hope, savouring the possibilities opening up before us in the form of the intersection; mornings starting lazily with a book, a journal entry, a greeting, and a big breakfast; conversations, real conversations, over chicken rice balls or a pot of after-dinner tea, rambling over space and time in the way that I find only old friends can have; and most precious of them all, the surprise and delight in finding enrichment from an unexpected meeting, a curator, a painter, a fashion designer who wanted to engage us beyond what was necessary to conclude a transaction.
In these trips, there was the real satisfaction of traveling, rather than just touring. In Australia, everything is visitor-friendly, from the easy-to-understand highway signs to the people you meet, and yet, Australia avoids being condescending towards visitors. You are undoubtedly welcome, but you are also expected to have some modicum of intelligence and ability to make choices. And in not prescribing activities or places to visit, Australia avoids presenting the type of façade to the visitor that Singapore does, the kind of face that may be totally safe and certain to please, but will become boring very, very fast. And needless to say, Malacca was nowhere as accessible as Australia, which meant that we had to put in much more effort to find things that we wanted to do, especially when the prescribed tourist experience ran out after the first day. In these two weeks, therefore, there was a continuous sense of being actively engaged by the destination, a sense of being offered some new experience, but also of being asked for some sincerity and openness in return.
However, what really gets me about these two weeks of traveling is the quality of social interactions that I came across. The locals were unexpectedly forthcoming with help and friendliness, from the Malaccan artist family who insisted we stayed for a chat and then recommended us a good restaurant for dinner, to the Sydneysider businessman who was raring to offer directions to the local Chinatown, to the people of Salamander in Port Stephens, Australia who all greeted me as I took my morning walk - every one without fail. Then there was my family, going on a trip that was of such an epic scale that it will likely not be repeated in the next five years. Animated chats with aunts, uncles and cousins who I normally would not cross paths with, everyone gathered around picnic meals bought out of the local takeaway or supermarket, nights spent playing Risk and Munchkins, and days spent wandering through the city centre, meandering into shops that we found by chance. And then there was Soph, who joined the trip in Sydney, and Kats, who joined us in Malacca. it was remarkably easy to slip back into the old mode of communication that we had from two years (an era) ago, and talking with these old friends in the novel context of a place that was not Singapore was fundamentally satisfying in some way, as if by affirming that our old friendships had survived the transition of two years' separation and had been successfully brought into a foreign environment, we had acknowledged a new level of maturity and strength in our relationship; the reunion had solidified a cherished friendship.
And what lies after this? It's the holiday season, and the time to meet up with the people who are back has come again. It's the time to touch base with as many people as I can, with the knowledge, this time, that the friendships that I want to hold are stronger than I'd previously thought. And then, after Christmas, another jump to East Malaysia, and in January, perhaps another sojourn with Joel to Vietnam and Cambodia.
Now is the time, then, to finally, finally bury the long wait in the shadows of the past. I am, of course, still waiting, but my impatience is now tempered with a hopeful and enjoyable present, and it is no longer such an imperative for August 2008 to come as fast as possible, since the intervening time doesn't seem to be such a drought of experience any more. This is a heady, hopeful time.
The result of this is that I've almost finished another sketchbook, surprising myself by actually managing to find enough time and content to almost fill up a brand new book in just under two weeks. There has certainly been no shortage of things to write; the hard part is to steal a few moments out of experiencing the present to record the past. And, considering the richness of the experience, it seemed for the most part a pity to sacrifice some time to sleep, let alone to write in my journal. Even the road trips were engaging in terms of conversations and the scenery that scrolled past our windows on a continuous enchanting loop. So, I found myself losing sleep almost every day, and writing only in the early mornings and the late evenings - but happily so.
A complete blow-by-blow account of what happened on the trips, though, won't be furnished here, I think. Don't have the patience to reproduce the entire sketchbook's contents here; and anyway, I didn't write those entries with the view of them being read by a wide audience. The photographs that we took on the trips will eventually be made available on the Lumière Project site, I expect, and I have vague plans to turn the sketchbook into some sort of sequel to Elsewhere, though how fast these plans are realised will depend on how much free time I have between now and Christmas.
That being said - some snapshots of the trip! First, the landscapes: the perfect beaches strung all across the Australian coastline, powdery-white sand welcoming lashings of sunlight and the playful pounding surf, beaches filled with people surfing, wading, suntanning, playing volleyball, hang-gliding, boating, picnicking, but still never crowded; tall-masted sailboats anchored in the harbour of a coastal town at night, swaying gently in the ebbing tide, their masts pointing serenely towards a blanket of stars overhead; the open road winding through the pristine countryside, at times diving into forests so clear of undergrowth and so friendly that they seemed to have been groomed, at times rising above the landscape on a ridgeline and affording us a view of rolling hills blanketed by a quiltwork of farms, with a gleaming blue swath of the sea and the sky forming the backdrop; the main streets of the small coastal towns we passed through, and wandering down them, we admired each window that was so well-composed that they could have been proud works of art; a late-afternoon cruise in a sparkling bay, cold wind and warm sun on the skin, the land all along the horizon like an embrace, and dolphins playing off the bow of the vessel; hot fish and chips still crackling from the fryer and exploding from the greaseproof paper like elation from a surprised heart; handsome brownstones in the big cities, bedecked with intricate awnings and draped with histories; Sydney's Royal Botanic Gardens, with us strolling through its grounds in search of monumental sights, and finding serenity, dignity, a line of ducklings following a mother duck, all against the industrious and powerful backdrop of the gleaming towers of downtown; watching a Kuroshawa film in the darkness of the Art Gallery of New South Wales among local movie buffs; the mist-shrouded towns of the Blue Mountains, harbouring boutique shops selling surprises and hope, inviting one to wander inside and to stay just a while longer; the wonderful Jenolan Caves, with rock formations so intricate and amazing that they struck me dumb with the miracle of beauty that emerges out of the mechanics of probability, that defied anyone to be stoically unmoved, that affirmed that there has to be a God who created all these wonders; and mountainside treks that took us to delicate cascades of spring-water, waters as cool as majesty and as pure as truth. Such were the encounters that we found on our Southward sojourn through Australia.
And, in Malacca, wandering the streets of the town in the way that demands adventurousness, courage and open-mindedness in the traveler, we found rows and rows of handsome shophouses, the riotously red Dutch Quarter, a hill of Chinese graves, and another street peppered with free art galleries showcasing the boldest of contemporary Malaccan art; standing at junctions devoid of traffic lights with only a map and hope, savouring the possibilities opening up before us in the form of the intersection; mornings starting lazily with a book, a journal entry, a greeting, and a big breakfast; conversations, real conversations, over chicken rice balls or a pot of after-dinner tea, rambling over space and time in the way that I find only old friends can have; and most precious of them all, the surprise and delight in finding enrichment from an unexpected meeting, a curator, a painter, a fashion designer who wanted to engage us beyond what was necessary to conclude a transaction.
In these trips, there was the real satisfaction of traveling, rather than just touring. In Australia, everything is visitor-friendly, from the easy-to-understand highway signs to the people you meet, and yet, Australia avoids being condescending towards visitors. You are undoubtedly welcome, but you are also expected to have some modicum of intelligence and ability to make choices. And in not prescribing activities or places to visit, Australia avoids presenting the type of façade to the visitor that Singapore does, the kind of face that may be totally safe and certain to please, but will become boring very, very fast. And needless to say, Malacca was nowhere as accessible as Australia, which meant that we had to put in much more effort to find things that we wanted to do, especially when the prescribed tourist experience ran out after the first day. In these two weeks, therefore, there was a continuous sense of being actively engaged by the destination, a sense of being offered some new experience, but also of being asked for some sincerity and openness in return.
However, what really gets me about these two weeks of traveling is the quality of social interactions that I came across. The locals were unexpectedly forthcoming with help and friendliness, from the Malaccan artist family who insisted we stayed for a chat and then recommended us a good restaurant for dinner, to the Sydneysider businessman who was raring to offer directions to the local Chinatown, to the people of Salamander in Port Stephens, Australia who all greeted me as I took my morning walk - every one without fail. Then there was my family, going on a trip that was of such an epic scale that it will likely not be repeated in the next five years. Animated chats with aunts, uncles and cousins who I normally would not cross paths with, everyone gathered around picnic meals bought out of the local takeaway or supermarket, nights spent playing Risk and Munchkins, and days spent wandering through the city centre, meandering into shops that we found by chance. And then there was Soph, who joined the trip in Sydney, and Kats, who joined us in Malacca. it was remarkably easy to slip back into the old mode of communication that we had from two years (an era) ago, and talking with these old friends in the novel context of a place that was not Singapore was fundamentally satisfying in some way, as if by affirming that our old friendships had survived the transition of two years' separation and had been successfully brought into a foreign environment, we had acknowledged a new level of maturity and strength in our relationship; the reunion had solidified a cherished friendship.
And what lies after this? It's the holiday season, and the time to meet up with the people who are back has come again. It's the time to touch base with as many people as I can, with the knowledge, this time, that the friendships that I want to hold are stronger than I'd previously thought. And then, after Christmas, another jump to East Malaysia, and in January, perhaps another sojourn with Joel to Vietnam and Cambodia.
Now is the time, then, to finally, finally bury the long wait in the shadows of the past. I am, of course, still waiting, but my impatience is now tempered with a hopeful and enjoyable present, and it is no longer such an imperative for August 2008 to come as fast as possible, since the intervening time doesn't seem to be such a drought of experience any more. This is a heady, hopeful time.
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