Someday

Overall, I guess you could say that these few days at work have been busy. But I am still not sure as to whether they have been significant. As I've always been saying, my lack of the skills and knowledge (or rather, experience) that makes a planner effective limits the contributions I can make to the office. And I've said before that interns are the grease of the bureaucratic machinery, easing things along by helping wherever we can, doing whatever we can.

And certainly, the task of grease isn't really glamorous. I don't expect to be making decisions about land zoning and densities. However, it doesn't alleviate the frustration at not being able to contribute materially to the work I see around me. I come from the sixteen weeks at CHS, where I could practically fabricate half a year's syllabus from scratch, and from the long wait in the Army, where, though faced with a bureaucracy that is as formidable as they come, I still felt I could change things in real ways that would affect real lives. Compared to all that, the work that I do now is nothing. Negligible. And I'm not even talking about being challenged. I'm talking about being useful. As it is, sometimes I feel like I'm being run around in circles for want of better things to do.

But of course, I appreciate that it's unreasonable to expect anything more at this stage. And patience and, well, humility are what I need. Still, I want to be doing something useful. To be actively engaged again. To feel like I'm in the thick of things.

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To some extent, this has also fed, I think, a certain growing sense of misgiving on my part over the impending signing of the deed for the scholarship. Over the last few days, I've discussed this at length, and it seems clear to me that there are two issues in question here. The first: questions over the job that I have every intention to sign up for, at this moment. The public face of URA, as seen in the Masterplan Exhibit and the frequent news releases, makes it seem quite glamorous and high-flying, but the nature of the work that planners actually do is really mundane. It involves a lot of legwork and detail, and though it is intriguing to be challenged to consider a question of land use from every conceivable perspective (the land-owner, the prospective buyer, and random passers-by, to name a few), it does get tedious after a point. I mean, from what I can see, it involves a lot of paper-pushing, just to double-check other agencies to ensure that they've done their job and thought of all that they're supposed to be thinking of.

But like I said before, I don't have any serious problems with the job. Realistically speaking, I'd be hard pressed to find any position that lets me shape the urban landscape so deeply. And such tedium is by no means an exclusive feature of URA. And if it comes down to whether I want to do the job I am offered now, I still have to say that yes, for the most part, I am still able to look forward to it.

The second point, though, is more tricky: the issue of giving up future life options for present access to considerable funding for something that I want to do. I have to reiterate, at this point, I still think that we both meet each other's interests nicely; to put it in a crude, mercenary way, I need the money to take up the place I want in New York, and URA needs the skills that I will learn there. So it's not like I'm making a Faustian bargain. What irks me the most is not what I will be doing in four years' time. It is the notion that I am obligating myself to that future, now. It is the thought that, four years from now, when my contemporaries are contemplating possible careers and debating about the way forward, I will only have to consider the path that I chose for myself four years ago. Simply put, it irks me that current opportunities (as will become available in August) must come at the cost of future opportunities (which may hold untold twists, some of which are bound to be beneficial beyond my wildest expectations).

I am not selling my soul; but what I am selling is my time and my choices. Call it opportunity cost if you like. But the idea is to sell it as dearly as possible, like a good, rational economic being. I think I've gotten a good deal so far, but it is also clear that URA's terms are not as student-friendly as some other scholarships'. And that's not even considering the possibilities offered by the private sector. There has been some concern, over the last few days, that I am being hoodwinked in some way, shortchanged, becoming a victim of a fast one. It is suspicion I am experiencing, a subtle but pervasive suspicion. It is deeply, deeply disturbing.

But what Joel said last night, and what my mother said tonight, sticks with me; that I shouldn't compare with what others have gotten. If I think it is worthwhile, if I feel that I want this, then that should be sufficient motivation to stick to my decision. The decision definitely calls for commitment. There will be no space to renege. But there will still be space for regret, brought on by second-guessing and second thoughts. And that, I think, is the root of the problem: a fear of regret.

However, like most problems, it seems clear to me that this is a matter of perspective. If you don't want to worry about how green other people's grass is, then don't look at their grass. You make a salve out of contentment with your own status quo, and apply it to any bitterness or regret you may encounter in the course of your life. And, barring the most major of disasters and scandals, I don't think I will be compelled to seriously regret my decision. I should not be worrying about some possibility that seems so remote.

But the truth is, I still do. I guess it is inevitable. We must all stare into the abyss sometime, we who are committing so much at such a young age.

I will, however, hold out the hope that some things will not change, and that these things can form those all-important islands of familiarity that can anchor me in even the most troubled of times. Things like hanging out with great friends over a tall, frosty beer, at ease and chatting into the night. Or things like plates of wanton noodles, freshly tossed and fragrant, with a light broth on the side. I gloss over things like these in one sentence, but let me make this clear; the brevity of their expression is not because I have nothing to say, but because I cannot find a way to say what I have, that would do justice to what these mean to me.