100th

Well, what do you know? Firstly, I am wont to be ridiculously sentimental. Went down to the airport to grab some pictures for old times' sake, and turned up at the viewing gallery at Terminal One, the only one in the airport that still allows visitors to look at aeroplanes, the last one whose windows still directly look onto the tarmac. It is still an attraction for families with small children whose voices fill the long, open space with their shouts and cries as they dash up and down, some running up to the glass and pointing at the aircrafts as if they were miracles. It is also still an attraction for young couples, who come here for the darkness, the coolness and the blinking lights beyond the glass (or so I presume, at any rate). In short, it is still a place for dreamers, and I still find myself drawn towards it, after all these years.

Since I can remember, the viewing gallery has been for me a safe place, free from harm, peaceful and serene. Here, one can submit to flights of fancy; one can wonder at length on where the planes are heading to, the secret destinations of their passengers, and what brings the other people here. Here, one can linger. This is one of those places that seem to refract the senses, so that one can perceive things more clearly. The view from the gallery strips one of one's tedious worries and preoccupations, and allows one to ponder on things that really matter. I imagine proper meditation can do this too. But, having never mastered the art of summoning reserves of peace from within myself, I rely on the peace that I can find around me to set me right again.

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And, secondly, this is the hundredth post. My third hundredth post, one for each journal that has existed up till now. I am afraid, though, with no demands on my time, I haven't been filling my days very productively, and so I don't have much of interest to report here. It seems that some form of external structure is necessary for me to build on, to fully utilise my time. I am learning that when I have full control of my time, I run out of things to do too quickly, and thus end up not putting my time to good use. The hope is that all these lazy mornings, impatient afternoons and evenings pregnant with reading and writing will become objects of nostalgia in hindsight, because at this moment they don't seem to be so valuable to me (as is usually the case when one is gripped with boredom; like most unpleasant things, one recognises its place in the greater order of things, and appreciates it best from a distance).

I don't feel like I have the right to waste my time, and this is generally what I find myself doing. Well, it's not like I am staring at blank walls yet, but I feel like I could be doing more, producing more, and that this temporal vacancy is inexcusable because of its opportunity cost. Some people may say that this is the perfect time to do what I've always wanted to do; well, I have done many things that I've been wanting to do, and though I am still far from fulfilling all my ambitions, I think I shall keep the rest until a more appropriate time. So this is really just a functional passage of time, the living of day after day in anticipation of August.

What meaning there is is turned over again and again in my mind, examined from every angle conceivable, until it becomes really tiresome. I am beginning to feel the itch to go somewhere again, to go somewhere and distract myself from all these ponderings, these roundabout musings that serve only to tire out the mind rather than to reveal new information. I think it is time to do another long walk somewhere on the island; and, indeed, it is also time to think of one last trip out of the island, before the August departure.

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Picked up two old habits again today. At the airport terminal, started writing in my paper journal for the first time in three months, since the Penang trip. Under the dim lights of the viewing gallery, the old sketches from Georgetown seemed differently accented from what I remembered, less pretty, but more meaningful in some way. And, putting pencil to paper once again, it startled me how easy it was to fill the pages. This was something I had forgotten - the comfort of writing for no one else but my future self. In many ways, it is simpler than writing here; and certainly, I can write about more things, with more abandon and confidence. And it sets my heart: I think, in order to more frankly and completely record my first days in New York, I will be using paper a lot more than this blog after all (which is somewhat ironic, since I had conceived of this blog as the main avenue for keeping in touch with my people when I am overseas).

Also, picked up the guitar for the first time in almost ten months. A mixture of busy times at work and a lack of motivation had conspired to mothball my old classical for all this time. But today, faced with the long empty hours between breakfast and lunch, decided to flex my fingers a bit and strum some tunes. Heh, I was rather delighted at how easy this was too; how quickly my hands seemed to remember the riffs and chords that I had last practiced last year. And even started learning a new song, and, in an impulsive and indulgent move, cut the fingernails on my left hand while leaving the picking hand's nails long. There is a simple joy in making this instrument produce the sounds that I want, or even to produce any sound at all, randomly picking and strumming chords that are strung together on a whim. And it is somewhat new to me, this feeling; previously, I had mainly been playing for other people, and this was the first time in a really long time that I had played simply for myself.

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On Saturday night, finally surrendering to the boredom, hooked up with Joel for a drink and a chat; as usual, it was highly entertaining and a great relief. We were joined by one of his old classmates, and ended up at Archipelago in Boat Quay. Over a pint and fish and chips, we laughed our way through childhood memories of Saturday morning cartoons, old classmates, Apogee computer games and, bizarrely, our favourite topics in theoretical physics (the Special Theory of Relativity, higher dimensions, quantum theory and the lot!).

Along the way, realised that we were really a batch poised on the brink of new things. We were kids who remember sandpits in neighbourhood playgrounds, games of catch and Police and Thief played in open fields, and The Land Before Time on the one hand, and 3D FPS games, social networking sites and Lord of the Rings on the other. Some among our number were the first to go through the through-train programmes, and we were there when they started to close down the secondary-school GEP. And for the boys, we were among the first batches to benefit from the newly-shortened 22-month NS period.

But then again, I guess every batch will view itself as transformative, isn't it? Every batch will have something special to define itself with. It is, perhaps, simply vanity to set ourselves apart in this way, by identifying ourselves with the circumstances that we found ourselves facing in our formative years. But those circumstances did form us; we are the product of them, and we put them to use. In a way, therefore, don't we take ownership of them, in that through them, we were catalysed from passive vctims to proactive agents?