T-Minus

International affairs suddenly started brewing over the weekend. First, Georgia is invaded by Russia, and I find myself following this story with a sort of dreadful fascination, unavoidably imagining myself as one of those Georgian infantrymen retreating from the ridiculously overpowered Russian invasion force. This is one lasting side-effect of the Army period: now I can read battlefields technically, rather than only vicariously, and therefore "artistically". I can begin to comprehend the mechanics of warfare; I imagine it is like discovering exactly how a poison shuts down a human body, and finding yourself perversely intrigued by the process. And one wonders, as one watches the Georgian president plainitively appealing (even begging) for a ceasefire with the Russians, what it would be like if Singapore was on the receiving end of an invasion.

And second, there is the opening of the Olympics. Wasn't at home to catch it, and thus missed what I hear was an absolutely spectacular show. And, accompanying it, was an outpouring of Asian nationalism so intense that it was rather shocking to me. Singaporeans, who had always been told to be Singaporean first and to identify with their ethnicity second, seemed inordinately proud of the Chinese accomplishment; even historical enmities between China and Vietnam, Korea and Japan were put aside as Asia gazed at Beijing lit up by citywide fireworks. It certainly has signified that China is definitely on the rise on the world stage, and I guess it is natural for anyone who is an audience to such a spectacle to want to be a supporter of its producer, rather than an opponent to it. But really, what right has the rest of Asia to be proud of the Chinese spectacular? Most of them did not add their efforts to the show, and China did not take up the Olympics as a representative of Asia (as far as I know - though I may be wrong about the Olympics not holding some sort of Chinese Pan-Asian aspirations). It is as valid as claiming a reward by birthright; it strikes me as a very feudal sort of thinking.

On the same ticket, the criticisms of China's policies that are tacked on to the end of Western coverage of China's Olympics seems to me to be equally artificial; the criticisms strike me as having the somewhat tired air of an obligation being carried out, as if the West, by default, has to find fault with China just because they cannot claim some sort of kinship with the Chinese achievement. The coverage at times strikes me as rather disappointing (as if we cannot remember by ourselves China's Tibetan issue and Sudanese involvement, but must rely on the media to keep these in the public consciousness), or presumptious (as if the endless reminders will actually contribute to any concrete improvement on any of the issues). Basically, credit should be given where credit is due; and both the Asian attempt to claim affinity with the Chinese achievement and the Western tendency to belittle it deny the Chinese that due credit for achieving something special on the 8th of August.

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But anyway, closer to home, watched the National Day Parade last night with extended family, who had gathered for the sort of party that we usually do not see at my place until Christmas. I have to say that the parade was a tad of a let-down, not least because everyone was comparing it to the Beijing extravaganza, and pointing out the inadequacies at Marina Bay. Also, approaching it as I did with the awareness that I was departing in a week's time, I had also approached it with the expectation of something more memorable.

Generally, the parade did not deliver on that front- is it just me or are National Day Parades becoming even more painfully self-conscious as the years go by? Close-ups of performers show expressions that seem to cry out mutely: "What am I doing out here, dressed as a rainbow-hued cockatoo in the middle of the rain?" On the screen was not so much nationalist fervour as existentialist angst at being forced to be part of an absurdist performance that seems to be carried out more due to obligation than passion. This is, of course, not to slight the very real dedication that the participants put into the performance once they came to terms with the fact that they were involved in it, for better or worse, and that they'd better make it for the better, lest all their time is wasted. There should be no question of the kind of technical skill that can be mobilised from these people regardless of their philosopical standpoint; there is a kind of professional resignation and detachment that is heartwarming in itself too. But I do think that, as Singaporean society matures and comes to contemplate what position it wants to occupy in the wider world, it is inevitable that it should look at these yearly extravaganzas self-reflexively, and wonder whether such behaviour is becoming of a society that wants to show itself as cosmopolitan, complex and free.

Well, nevertheless, I have to say I was rather amused at the way everyone was so sharp about pointing out the flaws and shortfalls in the parade. There is a sort of genuine sincerity in the Singaporean style of complaining, the barb of the very real perceptiveness tempered by a natural resignation borne of te default ssumption that the complaining would never make any concrete difference. As such, even the most valid critical observations tend to come wrapped in a disarming sense of triviality, an almost instinctive readiness to indulge a lack of improvement, that tends to portray the complaints as harmless and meant in good fun rather than in earnestness. This is something I think I will miss - this seemingly instinctual ability not to take important remarks seriously. As such, I think perhaps the earnestness of Westerners in their emphasis on freedom of expression, and their tendency to debate everything as if every statement had equal validity, may be rather grating after a while...

Heh well, cynicism aside, I do expect that I will continue to watch National Day Parades no matter where I am in the world. After all, there is a more innocent, younger part of me that still delights in the simple pleasures of mass unity, in the instinct-level appeal to a sense of belonging to a larger group. This is the part that enjoys immensely joining in with fellow watchers in "Wah's" of amazement at the fireworks, that hums along when the classic National Day songs are played, that urges me to my feet during the pledge-taking, even as a more cynical part of me tries to disguise this standing up as a bout of stretching. This is the part that knows the meaning behind the simple words: "This is my country; this is my flag. This is my future; this is my life. This is my family; these are my friends."

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And with that, I enter the last week before departure. August is well and truly here; and it is time to start packing. I made a list today of all the things that I want to pack, and it doesn't seem to amount to much: clothing, footwear, electronics, reads, toiletries, decorative items. I will bring everything that everyone has given me for the trip. And yet, I find that I will quite possibly be able to squeeze everything into the duffel bag that we got in the Army, and that everything may yet come under the 20kg weight limit. What does it mean, when twenty years of living in the same spot only produces a bagful of essential items that must be brought along in a major shifting of domiciles? Isn't it proper to instead be caught up in the painful decision about what to leave behind, rather than wondering about what else is worth bringing along?

Perhaps this is a symptom of cold, unrelenting practicality, which is able to even sacrifice sentimental value to the goal of ultimate efficiency. And, certainly, I've been contemplating this departure for so long that I practically worked out the packing list last year, which frankly would make such agonising over priorities redundant. But I would like to think, rather, that the things that are really of value to me are things that don't take up space in a duffel bag: pictures, memories and, most importantly, the continuation of old relationships in new contexts. It is a recognition, then, that material things are merely symbols of meaning, and if one can keep a firm hold on the meaning that gives the material thing its value, then the thing itself is valueless and thus dispensible.

Anyway, went out for dinner with Y again, finding out that the Katong laksa at Marina Square's food court does a decent impression of the original in Katong. After that, went for the performance at the spanking new outdoor theatre at the Esplanade. We were treated to excellent covers of classic tunes by a band who apparently has been together for "three and a half decades". Certainly, the skill and camaraderie of those well-spent years showed through on the stage. The music was pounding so powerfully that I could feel the hairs on my arms being buffeted by the sound; and the performance did something really rare: it convinced a Singaporean to get up and dance (agogo, no less!).

But tonight was made doubly special for being the first time in almost two years that I've attended a performance at the outdoor theatre, because it has been under refurbishment for that time. It had been my favourite spot on the River; and, looking through the new latticework of light booms and arches at the city skyline at dusk, I am reminded again of what had captured me at that spot, and of all the friends who had shared that spot. And once the new Marina Bay developments are done, the outdoor theatre will have a stunning backdrop of architecture and lights. Already, from that spot, the city looks so cloying and enticing; once the rest of the construction is done, I wonder whether anyone will be able to resist the feeling of standing in the midst of the city on a weekend evening. I admit: I do have high hopes for the area, founded upon a perspective biased by the URA. But I also find myself in the happy position of being able to fully expect those hopes to be fulfilled.

And so, this is the nearly-complete outdoor theatre, with the darkened weekend skyline in the background. And remember, these shots are not so much good pictures of scenes, as they are pictures of good scenes. I only happen to be at the right place at the right time: the rest - the colours, composition and context - are a gift from the city itself.