This Writing

I'm coming down with something, and it's supremely irritating. Somehow, I always find myself working myself into a position where I cannot afford the time to be sick, and thus have to soldier through whatever comes my way. But then again, who plans to be sick? Who plans their days to leave the leeway to encounter an unexpected malady? I guess rationally there is good reason to give yourself room to maneouvre, room for error, as it were. So that when things go wrong you can adapt and compensate, and the smallest error will not also be a catastrophic error. But I can't do that. I find that if I do that, I'd be tempted to take advantage of that leeway. I find that I only plan plans that I fully intend to execute. And insofar as the malady isn't fatal or incapacitating, then it is tolerable.

But it is irritating, trying to mark with one hand holding a piece of tissue to my nose, and having to stop every two or three scripts for a breather. There's only so much that tissue paper, peppermint tea and copious coatings of Vaseline at night can do, but there is still work to do. That's why health is important; because healthy or not, I have things to do, and I would rather be doing them in health than under the stress of sickness.

Anyway, been marking the essays that have been coming in this week. Generally, the kids have poor grammar; the standard of their grasp of the technicalities of the language is generally low, and I've been having to correct tenses, phrasing and even punctuation. Do you know, incidentally, the difference between a comma, a semi-colon and a full stop? I trust that we all have, by now, an intuitive grasp of how to use them, but when you're trying to explain to someone who is experimenting with punctuation, you need to know the technical reasons behind it.

That being said, though, the kids generally have good ideas on what to write. I've got science fiction compositions from my iSpark classes, and the ProEd boys are giving me descriptive pieces. Their plots are mostly sound; and, in fact, the ProEd plots are generally more sound than the iSpark ones. I think this is because iSpark kids tend to be more self-indulgent, and, faced with an interesting topic like science fiction, they tend to lose themselves in the writing, forgetting that what's fun for them to write may not be fun for other people to read. The ProEd people are not so daring with their plots, though there really are quite a few gems; and since their plots are simpler and not so convoluted, their standard of grammar is more appropriate and up to the task of their expression, which makes the ProEd scripts linguistically and technically better than the iSpark scripts.

The process of writing a story, after all, finds its orbit between the reader and the writer. Like I said to them on my first day, Language is Communication. When one writes, one must have something to say, and one chooses how to say it by considering what words, techniques and devices would best convey one's idea to the reader. Poor writers write for themselves, and thus feel little compulsion to write an entertaining plot, or even to keep to grammatical and technical conventions, or even to write at all, since communicating with yourself is no challenge (our internal debates and second-guessings notwithstanding). Better writers write for an audience, but perhaps cater to their readership too much, thereby compromising their core message and their style by appealing to the lowest common denominator of their chosen constituency. Political speeches fall into this category.

The best writers, I think, have found the sweet spot: the place from which they can be sincere with the readers without being untruthful to themselves. These are the true artists, that can turn any message into something that impacts the reader; they tend to seek to provoke, rather than to please, and their writing demonstrates an innate logic that advances inexorably in the reader's mind like a tsunami. When you read a work in this category, revelation dawns upon you like the warm glow of a fire kindled from damp wood; it takes effort on the reader's part to decode the message, and the message proves that the effort was well worth it. The paragon of the writing process, then, is to achieve this point of communication, to write something that is not just words, that forms a conduit of thoughts between the reader and writer, that engages both in a conversation that defies the need for a common time and space.

All this, though, I have come to realise through the classes I have been giving. Being on the other side of the teacher's table has been a sort of catalyst for me in this way, codifying and clarifying concepts that I have had a feeling for, deepening the appreciation and understanding of the process to a point where it can be communicated and evaluated. These realisations, emerging out of years of spontaneous experimentation and rumination, could not have arisen without the audience and the sounding board of my kids. As such, I have found myself growing, surprisingly, fed by the viewpoints and the dynamism of my classrooms.

*

And today, I've indulged myself in a spot of science fiction as well, doing an assignment that I set for my kids. It has been so long since I've written pure fiction - stuff that's not based on my past experience. And as an exercise in description, in exploring the limits of imagination and expression, without the fetters of having to keep my prose realistic, it has been a welcome reprisal of the old techniques and pleasures.

I managed to clear all my work for the most part this weekend, and spent a lot of time working on Directions, and taking the chance to get some reading done. Fiction I haven't read before is hard to come by these days, and though I spend most of my time now immersed in the technicalities and nuances of English, I don't have that much leftover time to read as much as I'd like. Revisiting old, well-loved pieces is definitely nice, but I want the thrill of anticipation, of expecting that the next book, the next page will surprise and touch you in ways that will open the eyes of your eyes and unplug the ears of your ears. And this weekend, reading Shaw's Three Plays for Puritans, I treated myself to some of that sensation.

Also, been chatting with some of my kids online, and it's invigorating to see them discussing their English assignments with one another, swapping ideas and germinating them mutually. It reminds me of that kind of creative energy that we had my old class; and whatever has changed over the years in school, whatever new programmes it has implemented, whoever has left and whoever has come to take their place, it is nice to see that this has not prevented that exhilarating spirit of creation from manifesting itself. And I think this is something to do with youth, rather than to do with the learning environment; when your students are fourteen years old, and on the brink of new knowledge and self-identity, then their creativity is not for the teacher to nurture, but for the teacher to lose.

I wonder how long this will keep up. I hope the next week will be as good as the last. But I recognise, too, that eventually the novelty factor and my scope of new ideas will narrow down and eventually be exhausted. The only thing is to make sure that I always find myself a few tricks to keep up my sleeve, and to make sure that the point of exhaustion comes after May 10th.

I wonder how real teachers manage it, bringing themselves to teach the same thing over and over again, year after year. I can't even bear to reuse the materials that I was taught with. I wonder if they see curricular changes as welcome breaths of fresh air. Or, maybe, after the novelty factor wears off for the teacher, then the priority is to establish a routine with a high level of quality, so when the inevitable autopilot mode sinks in at least one is still able to give good lessons. Novelty is then not so much an addictive drug, as it is now for me, but a stimulant to be taken in small doses and at strategic times.

But anyway...this job is turning out to be more enriching than I thought. I daresay it could even be so enriching that it outweighs the novelty and glamour factor of taking on the Duck Tours assignment. And I can see how this will come in useful, come August, when I will go back to the other side of the teacher's table. How do these things work out, to make everything fit together so nicely? Or am I reading a pattern that isn't really there?

*

Greg's third day in camp, and I can feel a certain...imbalance at home. I guess the rest should be used to it now, since I've been gone for the better part of two years. But to have a member of the family missing from home is still quite a novelty to me. It's not something that I feel very intensely...just some imbalance in the fabric of home life, something like a barely perceptible breeze that tickles your nape. It's something that has worn out the assumptions that have been taken for granted in home life, and though the practical and palpable reprecussions are not major, there is still a feeling of something being wrong that is dogging me.

Went back to my mum's old family home this evening, the home that is owned by her mother, where I spent my first three or four years' worth of weekends. I still remember what that house used to look like, before the latest round of renovations made it all bright and airy and shiny. Driving through the old neighbourhoods, the echoes of memory rise up tantalisingly through the layers of newness that have been constructed over what I remember: a familiar view here, a sense of déjà-vu there, an anecdote waiting in ambush. I would be lying if I said everything was still the same; but even the tiny hints that are all that still remain are eloquent to me. That old analogue clock, tarnished and discoloured by age, speaks to me. The old stacks of photos taken in the house and stored in dusty albums are as evocative as talismans.

*

Obama wins in South Carolina.

It is clear that he speaks well, very well, in fact. He brings out the best sides of people in his speeches, and though he can sometimes be telling people what they want to hear, he does it in a way that doesn't make anyone feel guilty in agreeing with him. His tendancy is towards defusing conflicting viewpoints. And while he may not have the experience or the substance in policy-making, I think that kind of tendancy, that ability to reconcile opposing viewpoints and make people from different backgrounds and with different interest listen to you, is what America needs now. Though I also recognise that it's rather ironic for a Singaporean to recommend what America needs.

Glowing Sun

Greg was enlisted today. I'm not worried for him; he certainly can take care of himself better than I could. But it is not an easy thing, the first night in a strange place with strange people, with the spectre of two years of more of the same ahead of you. I went in to Tekong with my eyes firmly and immovably set on the end of the experience, and I expect that for him it's the same thing. I only hope that the experience doesn't gnaw at his spirit too much, and leave him with less than he had when he went in this morning.

In school, spent the day preparing for next week, drawing up the materials for the new lessons, and clearing my schedule aggressively in preparation for the eighty-odd compositions that will come in (hopefully) on Monday. In this way, I find this teaching job to be remarkably similar in nature to my job in the Army; the impetus to do work comes mostly from the people under your charge, and when you see them working so hard and engaging themselves in the activity, you naturally want to live up to their potential. Teaching these guys is interesting every day precisely because I have to put in effort to keep up with them. Lessons don't go predictably, and therefore they go well.

I find it really heartening that these kids are responding so well to my self-indulgence. Every time I allow myself to bring in stuff that I like to be teaching materials, I'm imposing my tastes on them, and I daresay that it would be insane not to expect a certain level of rejection from them. But it has gone down surprisingly well so far - up to the point that I find myself bringing in new material nearly every day, and largely reading the resource files only so I know the workplan. It's no fun to teach using the very same materials I learnt with six years ago; but equally, it may not be fun for them to be taught using some rather esoteric and eccentric materials that I've been bringing in.

Next week, I'm gonna use Sigur Ros's music videos to teach one of the classes about descriptive writing, the rationale being that the luscious and sensual visuals in Sigur Ros music videos seem to me to be naturally begging to be turned into lyrical descriptive prose. And the music itself is also a good way to convey mood, and to provoke them into writing something with the aim of conveying an atmosphere or emotion to the reader. I'm using these two, seeing that they form a nice contrast with one another. Have a look:

Sigur Ros's Vaka


Sigur Ros's Glosoli

I mean, not only are the great music videos in and of themselves, but they are also good starting material for literary writing, aren't they? And it really does help that I love these videos personally; makes lessons something to look forward to.

And I guess it really is a way for me to pass on my own tastes. I imagine having children of my own would be something like this; the compelling blank slate, just waiting for someone or something to leave a lasting impression; or even an already-painted canvas, on which you can add one or two brush-strokes of your own, and so you wonder where you should apply the paint so that you can make the resulting pattern even more compelling. It's a legacy issue, I think, this compulsion to be remembered by other people so that you can reassure yourself that you matter in a real sense to other people besides yourself, and that whatever you were thinking, whatever that you remember of your past experiences, actually did happen and were not merely some fever dream.

And I guess it's also enhanced by the fact that I have no long-term professional obligations to the school. I've got no CCA responsibilities, and I'm technically untrained, which means that I generally don't get disturbed with extra supervisory work or stuff like that. And it also means that I feel more freedom to do whatever I like, because the May 10th time limit sets an upper boundary to the amount of damage I could conceivably do. And I can tell myself with a reasonable amount of confidence that whatever I do now is not driven by the prospect of promotion or commendation, and is based solely on what I think is worth the time to teach, and what I think the students are wanting to learn. So in that sense, it's a purer form of relationship I guess, with ulterior motives minimised, and more energy brought to bear on the important thing, which is to teach the kids, which is what every educationalist should be obsessing about, which seems like such an obvious point to me, but is so impractical to implement in the context of a politicised real-world workplace.

*

Also, trying to find the time to continue the Directions project, though now that I'm actually working most of my writing effort is being channeled into the job. But it's coming along, and approaching the stage where I can start to proofread it. Hopefully it will be finished by this summer.

The Plunge

With people, you take a risk. You make a tentative connection based on the assumption that the other person is basically decent and open to making new contacts. Commonalities of personality and interest are the catalyst, and constantly submerging the relationship in the reactive medium of Time finally produces the alchemy that is, in my opinion, the highest ideal of friendship. That state in which assumptions, expectations and obligations become irrelevant, leaving only loyalty, responsibility and sympathy.

Gave Conan the Fender Telecaster that we had invested in over the last month, which Kay Hwee had brought back from the States at the end of his holiday there. Then we hit Clarke Quay with Conan newly armed and dangerous, and ended the evening (surprisingly early, but not in a dissatisfactory manner) at the Chinatown Point Temporary Market, digging into a pot of curry fish head and various other wholesome childhood dishes, in a way that we had not done since Newton Circus was revamped to become a spanking, shiny tourist piece. It was, really, a night to remember, and with people to remember as well.

But I don't feel impelled to record every detail here. Heh, partly because it could be incriminating for some of the parties involved, but mostly because I don't think this will be the last time something like this happens. This particular group of friends is a chimera, continually throwing up surprises, even as these surprises are couched in a series of hallowed constants. And to think that, in 2005, I had not expected this group to remain together. Defying all my expectations, despite the lack of common quotidian experience, these friendships have been sustained; in some ways they have also been deepened. It boggles my mind. Can a present relationship really rest so solidly and immovably upon the foundations of a shared past, no matter how strong that foundation is? But anyway, why question its origin, if that questioning detracts from one's appreciation of its miraculous existence?

But inasmuch as making and keeping friends is a risk, I find that I have been immensely lucky in my people. The start of 2008 has made that amply clear.

*

The festive season has finally ended, and I can't help but breathe a sigh of relief. I am grateful, deeply grateful, to everyone who's made this January so memorable and distinctive, in every way. But I'm not used to being the centre of so much attention, and there's always that background buzz of mortification, as if there were something fraudulent in my claim to the centre-stage (which there was: what's so special about 21, really?). And now that it's over, I can get back to the business of normal everyday delights, and I can start making good on the debt of goodwill and fellow-feeling that everyone has put me in. If there was ever such a thing as a happy debt...

*

It continues to feel strange to be part of the staff at school. I find myself digressing a lot from the syllabus that I've been given; I'm considering bringing in other media besides literature to teach my English classes, so my kids may find snippets of computer games, films and graphic novels in front of them soon. A lot of this initiative is based on the novelty of the situation, and I daresay I see myself mellowing down after Chinese New Year. But yeah - I am digressing, and it partly feels like I'm indulging myself, perhaps giving the needs of the students unjustifiably little attention.

Which would be okay in itself; enacting new initiatives is not an entirely alien concept, after the Army. But it's the interaction with the existing staff there, a lot of whom I recognise from my time on the other side of the teacher's desk six years ago. This history makes it harder to do new things, because I feel like I'm being judged with reference to what they knew of me when I was a student. It's more irritating as your reputation preceding you, in that they have more complete knowledge of your past than a preceding reputation would normally give. A clean slate is emboldening, while the weight of the past exerts a mellowing effect, as you have an interest in living up to the standards that you had lived up to in the past. That's why people look to a clean break as a refreshing experience.

But I think it's essentially all right. Today was elbow-deep in grammar (tenses and conditionals), and participated in a (perhaps overly) lively debate over Asimov's Kid Brother. It occurs to me that I should start trying to integrate more varieties of interactivity into my lessons, in order to more effectively focus and channel all that energy that they're putting out. But I don't have much experience in facilitating group work, as opposed to working in a group. But I'm learning too, and learning as fast as I can.

One of these days, I will bring a camera to school, and befuddle the students with the sight of a teacher snapping photos of the sunrise and of them. The light falls on the school so seductively: and I say this purely out of appreciation for the architecture, if not for anything else. It really is a beautiful place, and one can always see the sky, from wherever you are, by looking out the window. It is a place that refuses to be a party to depression, I think; how can one remain depressed once one steps out of the buildings and is greeted by the grand vistas? I could be right in the middle of setting a set of readings, with a headache gathering force silently behind my eyes, and then I'd happen to look up at a sudden sound, and be forced to pause by the view that simply needs to be enjoyed.

Had breakfast with some of the PE teachers today, and met my old EDrama teachers and Mr. Hon. I still find it disconcerting that so many people find me familiar, and even remember who I am. It is flattering, to be sure; and I wonder what sort of mental image of me has survived all these years in their memories. I would like to hear what they remember of me: I imagine it'd be like meeting my younger self. It'd be an interesting meeting, I think, because if returning to school has shown me anything, it has shown me that I have changed more than I thought, grown, for better or worse. And as I wrote in Elsewhere, change is what makes returning so meaningful, because it allows you to recognise what has been important enough to stay the same through all this time and despite your absence.

In taking my classes, I realise that one of them especially has that energy that I remember from my own days there, that kind of spontaneous eagerness and frankenss that facilitates such exuberant and productive participation in the learning process. I am not so much teaching them: rather, they are learning from each other, and I am more of a conduit. I guess partly this is because of their youth, and also, partly because there is less of a need to compete, without the spectre of the 'O' Levels hanging over their heads. For all its ill effects in the later years, the Through-Train programme does liberate classrooms in the younger levels, allowing students the flexibility to experiment with knowledge, and the teachers to experiment with methodology.

And I find this flexibility exhilarating enough to keep me back in school well into the evenings, typing out new exercises, reading stuff I'd like to give to the kids. The Sci Fi unit we're doing now returns me to my first love, and I'm toying with the idea of investigating the genre in other media besides the written word. Thinking of finding a way to bring in Minority Report next week, and also of extracting the beginning of Watchmen for them, and then doing an investigation of Sci Fi storytelling in the most tempting medium there is: computer games. What I need now is time: and my tuition commitments coming up sit rather uncomfortably with these new projects.

But yeah: lessons now are so liberalised that teachers can indulge themselves in teaching what they want. Which is great for a positive class environment, but may detract from the whole purpose of the curriculum. In other words, in getting all obsessed with Sci Fi and its fun, I could lose sight of the objective of the Sci Fi unit, which is to develop the kids' ability to write artistically and effectively, using this genre as a template. Heh, I reckon, if I'm not careful, English lessons will become Film Studies 101.

But as far as problems go, this is a delightful problem to have to contend with, where practically any solution holds at least some promise of being fun and rewarding. Yep, it feels good to be back in an academic environment, even if I'm on the other side of the table again. Tapping back into that sense of energy, that sense of direction that you get in a school like Chinese High: it's invigorating and, dare I say it, rejuvenating.

*

Speaking of rejuvenation: taking the old 171 from school to town today, I was surprised to find that Bukit Timah Road and Orchard Road have undergone some startling new development. Modernist, even Cubist houses are appearing near the school, and Orchard Road is being transformed into a really fascinating landscape, with the new ultraposh condos at Newton, the sleek St. Regis serviced appartments, Ion Orchard taking shape, and Somerset Central coming along fine. There is something captivatingly tantalising about a building under construction: this is how a vision is made real, in a very dramatic, concrete way. And even the Singapore Power building has gotten shiny new silver cladding. And it strikes me, you know? The physical beauty of this city is surprising. And the people must live up to the environment that they are building, must redevelop themselves to become as sophisticated as the skyline that they are constructing.

Returning

Going back to teach at CHS is a spooky feeling. The school has changed very little - too little, given the five years that have passed. In the mornings, going for assembly, the terraces are still lined with boys in uniform, and the band is still in the middle of the football field. The flags are still raised to the rising sun. And throughout the day, walking around the school, I see familiar faces in the teachers and the staff: people who taught me, people who have become almost as steadfast as fixtures. The canteen staff, the bookshop ladies, the administrative staff in the office. Sometimes, when I'm not careful, I slip into a simpler mindset, and it becomes like walking through memory.

And it is telling, how the times echo. Something brings things back, something causes eddies and undercurrents in the river of time. And even as time passes people still return, and some things don't change, for better or for worse. For better or for worse. But there is a particular way that the sunlight strikes the earth in school, and it is comforting to be back, if only because it is so easy to sink back into something that is familiar and thus reassuring. At any moment, looking out of a window at the beautiful campus bathed in a shade of sunlight particular to the time, I get the feeling that I have seen this before, and I have found this pleasant before. I have known this place well, I have known the people well: so well, perhaps, that my mind will fill in with nostalgia what parts of reality differ from my memory.

My students are, generally, good. I've only seen them for three days, and it's still far too early to develop a detailed impression, but what I've seen so far has been encouraging. I'm taking three classes for English Language, and they seem to be competent enough that I can sneak in some literature in spite of myself. Am going through a unit on Science Fiction now, and taking real pleasure in returning to my first love through Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov. Some of the work I'm doing hasn't been changed in five years: this could be a testament to the timeless quality of the work, but no matter how good the storytelling may be this is no Shakespearan play or Brontean novel. So I'm taking some liberties in introducing some of the pieces I've come across myself. I figure that since I'm teaching, I might as well teach something I like, and this liking will make my teaching better. Or at least, that's the plan.

It's not at all what I'd expected to end up doing this gap year, but for a job it's not bad, and it promises to be rewarding in its own right. As long as I can be in contact with people, work with them and see them working, then I am in my element.

*

And I say again and again, people are the key. They hold the key to yourself, and in seeking people out you know the heart of yourself better. This is a concept that I came across first in Jeanette Winterson, but only lately have I come to a deeper understanding of the concept. Been receiving a lot of communications from abroad, on the occasion of my 21st. These are the things above all that make it special, the consideration that other people give to it, turning an arbitrary day into something to remember.

And beyond this one day, the important work still remains in people. I remember the homily that I heard in Kota Kinabalu on the Sunday that I passed in the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart there: the greatest calling that we have on this Earth is to minister to one another. We remember Him and give Him glory and praise, but our compassion, our understanding and care should be directed to the people around us. God does not need us to take care of him; but we should take care of each other, and in that way allow ourselves to become examples of the infinitely greater compassion we have in Him.

Does that make sense? I have this idea in my mind about this sort of humanistic approach to the divine, and it fits nicely in my head. But I also realise that I really have no way to perceive whether this comforting, self-reassuring viewpoint is reflective of the truth, just as I find it hard to put it in words. But after all, the words on this blog are ultimately of little importance, compared to what one does in real life. Because, no matter how hard I try to maintain a presence by proxy in the lives of others, real, physical proximity is still the strongest statement of solidarity and reassurance that anyone can give to anyone else.

But for what it is worth, know that I keep many people in my thoughts, and though you may not be here, I still try to live as you remember me, and try to find a way to reconcile that with what the present calls me to do. And I still look to your return. I look to the coming summer.

Least Resistance

How strange it is, then, to find myself at this juncture.

On request from the School, I've agreed to go back and take up a relief teaching job that gives me three classes to teach English to. Not Literature, however, but English, the more technical, basic business of proficiency with the language and its uses. Appreciating the beauty of words should not come before you respect what words can do, after all, to prevent that adoration from being just plain blind idolatry.

And so I find myself on the verge of beginning my first lessons tomorrow. Will be going through Ray Bradbury's The Pedestrian, a text that I remember using in my own classes there more than six years ago. And will be working side by side with teachers that, after six years, have changed so little. A surprising number of them, I find, are still in the school, still shepherding batch after batch of students through secondary school. Contrasted with the impressions I got of encroaching change at the dawn of 2008, all this constancy and permanence seems a bit oppressive, way beyond what I needed to feel like I was coming home. A part of me finds this exercise to be an indulgence in the past - in the way I am seeing things from the other side, now, it is as if I am building a monument of memory to the time I spent in the Chinese High School.

And a part of me also recognises this as a cop-out, as giving in to the path of least resistance. Nothing much wrong with that, per se, but I had told myself before that I would do something that I'd probably never do again in my life this gap year, and top of the list was working with the Duck Tours. But now, I see my schedule filling up with relief teaching, with tuition assignments, with, basically, the things that anyone would expect me to do, and it is not a matter of searching for a job but of prioritising what I should be doing, and what I should give up. Add in travel, and this is fast becoming a year of indulging in safety, in doing things that I am familiar with and will conceivably continue to do in the future.

That being said, though, I am still eager to go back to teach. Call it the fulfilment of my first ambition. Returning to school and seeing it from a different angle, from the angle of a teacher, and from the angle of 21 years of experience, is a thrilling prospect, and everything seems to be coloured by the rose tint of nostalgia. Those hallways, those classrooms mean something to me; have been part of the lore of my memory for so long, and I daresay being brought into close proximity with them at this juncture will irrevocably modify my impression of the time I spent there. And the sunlight of dawn, falling on the familiar vistas of Bukit Timah Road this morning, seemed warmer and more promising than usual: it was one of those special mornings when you notice everything more acutely. But perhaps this latest twist in the plotline doesn't change anything; perhaps the romanticisation has already been happening subtly, and this new proximity merely highlights an already established fact.

Ah, style, perception, interpretation: what does it matter? All this is just fluff - leave it to the debaters to glorify a shade in meaning. I am after the meaning itself. Tear away the ephemerality of romanticism and sentimentality, and if the meaning underlying it is worth cherishing, then that will be evident enough by itself.

*

And soon, it'll be time for Jes to leave again. This winter return has not been very long, and it was shortened by my Borneo trip, leaving little time to actually meet up. But I am glad that we met up anyway. For some people, my memory of them, idealised and venerated by repeated relivings in the absence of fresh input from continuous interaction, would not survive renewed proximity. But I don't feel that is the case for most people, and definitely not for this, one of my oldest friends.

And Kay Hwee is bringing back the Holy Grail itself from the States. Heh, I don't know if anyone else knows friends who would go to such extremes to make someone's day. It will be a special day when we finally unveil this treasure, I am certain. And I will say it again and again - I have been very lucky in my friends. And if I am mistaken, then so much the better, because it means that the world needs must be a more welcoming place than I thought.

21st

I guess I'm supposed to write something meaningful about looking back on a good life so far, and looking eagerly ahead towards the new vistas that have opened up with the passing of this birthday. But that would be too trite: and, essentially, if I were to mark the start of this era, it would be at the New Year or, more poetically in some ways, somewhere in Borneo. No, the passing of this birthday doesn't change anything essential. What it does is to throw everything into focus, outlining everything in its glorious, miraculous detail.

And I believe that the greatest thing about these twenty-one years is the people that I have met. I don't think I'll ever tire of saying this: I think I have been unbelievably lucky in the friends that I have met over the years, and in the people that have accompanied me through all these experiences, and made them even more meaningful by their sharing. Every greeting coming in in the mail and on the net means something to me: that even though we are separated by space and time, people still put in that extra effort, you know, to remember. It makes distance seem friendlier.

And the day itself was fantastic. Heh, mortifying in some ways, liberating in many others, reassuring in all. What was novel about this birthday was the use of the new vocabulary of alcohol to commemorate it. What was reassuringly familiar was the meaning that lay behind it. Various degrees of inebriation were the catalyst to continuing old conversations, and I am old-fashioned like that, seeing everything new in the context of what has come before, and where some people read the past as the vindication of the present, I use the present to confirm the past. Old conversations, old modes of talking, familiar places and solid, reliable assumptions: I read in these loyalty, closeness, dependability, commitment. Perhaps I read erroneously - but I this is how I read. But I could not think of a better way to mark the occasion, and I could not want for better company to mark it. And the fact that it became special even though I didn't even make any effort to make it special further amplifies the miracle of the day.

Yes, everything changes. Everything must, and should, change. Flux is fact. But despair at the fact is only a misperception of time passing. All things change, but not all at the same time, and the view that life is quicksand is only an optical illusion in your memory, lining up all the big changes next to each other and leaving out the solid but boring foundations of habit, ritual and tradition. And birthdays are reassuring to me in that way: in that they mark time passing, but they are a yearly tradition, and they are anchor points of personality in this way. I locate myself with the points of constancy in my memory.

In this way, then, I have found my 21st to be well passed, deeply touching and absolutely memorable. My deep thanks to everyone who passed it with me, indulging me in this once-a-lifetime night and day. My equally warm regards to everyone who remembered it and dropped a note. It makes me remember that I have a lot that I can recall thankfully, and bring with me into the next year, to face it bravely and openly. And would it be a hopeless romantic fallacy to say that this is the greatest gift that everyone could have given me on this, the most exhilarating brinks of Tomorrow and Elsewhere? Heh, I guess it is - but perhaps one last indulgence, for this writer, on the second day of his 21st?

*

But life goes on. After all, you only turn 21 once, and then after that you carry on with the person that you've been when you were 20. But life calls me forward. Will begin giving tuition next week, I think, and am on the brink of returning to CHS as a relief teacher for English.

Change creeps into my life like a thief or a lover. But a part of me still feels to young to grow older.

Small Mercies

"...And Kota Kinabalu, this small town packed with enough surprises for a far larger settlement, is contrite and humble in its generosity. It asks for no acknowledgement except sincere engagement, and its miracles are unnamed and unadvertised. The visit has been a very personal interaction between me and the city, and this is what the city does well, and I don't think it should pretend to be anything more glorious. I like it very much the way it is, in its giving and giving and asking nothing in return except that you keep your memories and be ready to consider coming back..."

"...how can you remain sad at the sight of such glory? When the plane leapt into the air, everything below was outlined in stark detail by the bright sun. The sky is clear today, and the sea was achingly blue under the pure light, the islands compact and burstingly verdant, all that life miniaturised and romanticised by distance and speed till you think you can reach out and cup it in your hand. To fly is a blessing, and if my heart can be taken into the sky, then it sees everything as comparably small, and only a tiny part of an incomprehensibly detailed, breathtakingly beguiling, painfully beautiful pattern of the larger glorious universe.

The world is so wide, and as long as you are moving, there is still hope. And going elsewhere is a declaration of hope. This is, by no means, the end: and I look forward with bated breath to the next time I fly elsewhere."

- Excerpted from my journals, 09.01.08

I'm back, ladies and gentlemen! Back from a weeklong sojourn in West Borneo, and it was a grand time. It really felt like a retreat from the world, a time for the kind of reflection that puts all your life into the right perspective, identifies the parts that are important and worth cherishing and the parts that can and should be dumped overboard as dead wood. I wrote a lot on this trip, and sketched a fair bit - to the extent that I came to the unprecedented and happy phenomenon of running out of blank paper halfway through and having to buy a local sketchbook. My paper and pencil were my faithful companions throughout this trip; and now, returning to the online medium, I still feel reluctant to leave handwriting aside for the time being.

But I digress. The trip - it was wonderful, and deeply nourishing, I think. I see it as the most important single trip since Frexprog, a trip that taught me more about myself and how I see the world, that taught me more about the world and its mechanisms. I come out of it feeling like I've grown, like there has been a fundamental shift in my perception. I would like to think that I have become more worldly, and therefore more understanding, tolerant and compassionate. I think the coming months will put that assertion to the test. But such is life; and I feel like I know it better now.

And this trip was filled with all these moments of clarity and Zen-like (well, I imagine Zen to be like this) revelation. Moments when the light hit the earth just so, and the sounds and the sensation of the air come together to form a compelling pattern, like a crescendo that is only audible to the soul. Moments on a mountainside, gazing at the grey peaks of Mt. Kinabalu silhouetted against the brilliant blue sky. Moments in the city, coming across surprises and miracles that are even more touching because they are so quotidian and unremarkable to local eyes. Moments with people, strangers briefly united by a commonality of place and direction, free of obligations to each other beyond check-out time, and free, therefore, to act truly and frankly with one another to find that one meaningful gesture that can be shared between them before one or the other has to move on. Sarawak and Sabah offered these moments in astonishing abundance, and every night I found myself spellbound, and compelled to exhaust my paper in an attempt to record at least a shadow of this bounty.

It seems like I will, after all, have to write another booklet, to do true justice to this trip. And it has awakened in me a real hunger for Elsewhere, to fly away and discover something new. I had always dreamed of spending this gap year traveling, and now, with the experience of this trip, I am determined to put in effort to make that dream a reality. And so there is a sense of a new era definitively beginning, as the old times in the shadow of the Army fade away into their proper proportions. This is a time of searching, of looking for truths about the world, of looking for a frame of mind that will treat these truths with the respect and compassion that they deserve.

*

Finally, finally ended my long, long conversation with Pico Iyer in The Lady and The Monk. It's a great travel book that accompanied me across continents and oceans, and in reading it, I found myself being continually reminded to treat new places and people with a sense of wonder and amazement. This book sustained me when I was growing weary of wanderlust, and it enhanced the moments when I was enthralled with what I was encountering, often by pure and uncanny coincidence. It is the most sensitive book I've read by him, probably because it is a personal story for him as well. And it very aptly attuned my own moods and sensations to traveling. Without this literary companion, I don't think my trips would have been so enriching; certainly I would not have been as sensitive to the nuances.

I operate in patterns, and the patterns I saw, the correlations between the recorded experiences of Iyer and the experiences I am recording, were deeply poignant. I would not venture to say that Iyer's way of traveling is the best, but I am sure that it is superior to the way that I had been traveling before, and in reading him (and especially reading him abroad), I have grown into someone who can better extract the unfamiliar delights from a foreign situation, emphasising the delight and even turning the unfamiliar into the tantalising. I would recommend any of his works to anyone traveling out of one's own familiar environment; I would recommend The Lady and The Monk especially to those who are on the brink of losing faith in the palliative power of the new.

*

And, coming back, I find two letters from abroad. One's a postcard from Spain's Costa Del Sol, and the other's a YouTube video from London. The latter is such an elegant solution to the problems of the slowness of mailed handwriting and the impersonality of email that I find myself truly touched and impressed. It sidesteps the necessary time-lag of air-mail, and adds a personal connection to the internet medium. I found myself looking this friend in the eye, even though it's a digital one, and grinning like a fool at the screen. Heh, and while not stealing the credit of the sheer genius of this solution, I think this is a method that I will have to investigate myself in the future!

This one's for you, my friends. This one's for you.

As the Dateline Glides Inexorably On

I was watching the New Year celebrations on CNN yesterday, and there were fireworks going off in Sydney, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Berlin, London, New York, Key West and Los Angeles. Here, people release a cloud of silver balloons that spiral up past the reaching towers. There, confetti rains down from the astronomical rooftops. Everywhere people throwing colour up into the night sky. And I think to myself, that I will be there come August. I will be there. It's an amazing thought.

Christmas is the more special time for me, but the New Year is more widely celebrated. And inasmuch as its arbitrariness allows everyone from every denomination to celebrate the passage of time, it is a greater outpouring of warmth, a greater enhancement to that generalised humanistic fellow-feeling. And what it must be like to be at Times Square when the crystal ball reaches the earth. When the future reaches us and becomes now. And what it must be like to be there with a companion or two, so that that generalised humanistic fellow-feeling is sharpened by its crystallisation in a corporeal form, making a philosophy meaningful. Is this a resolution? Perhaps...

And I never bothered to find out what Auld Lang Syne really means until this year. It was just ritualistic gibberish with a nice melody, serving a similar function as a Latin hymn, I guess. But it turns out that the nonsensical interpretation I had always had was just a result of misunderstood grammar and punctuation. "Should all acquaintance be forgot/ And never brought to mind" is a question, and a rhetorical one at that. And to sing to the times of old on New Year's Day - doesn't it strike you as somehow poetically appropriate? It's a ritual that puts things into perspective, and as we look forward upon boundless possibility in a new year, we also remember that this possibility is grounded in the context of the past.

*

I realise that the last few days most of my contact with other people has taken place online. It's nice, of course, to talk to people from far away and imagine what it's like to be sitting at that transcontinental computer terminal. And receiving long, well-written letters has always sent a chill down my spine. It's nice that people still put in effort to write nowadays, in the age of SMS and webchat. But what I really want is some company, you know? A real person to talk to, and a real context in which to talk. An imagined setting in cyberspace may be more poetic and idyllic, but it is so clinical in its exactitude and malleability. Better to contend with real space, and within the limitations of the real circumstances, to be surprised to find that improbable intersection of factors that produces perfection.

And been making plans for my 21st for my family, and it's becoming a real headache. I realise it doesn't take much for me to become irritated by organisation. When it starts to become pretentious, when it becomes clear that planning doesn't create a catalyst but an impedence to spontaneity. And it's a delicate balancing-act to get it right. I daresay I'll be happier once this affair is over. Honestly, if not for the general expectation that the 21st must be significant, I wouldn't go through all this trouble.

*

But first - going off soon, in about three hours' time. A new journey awaits, and it feels good to be finally going somewhere again. Movement, velocity - these will save me from a preposition towards rumination. And one last sojourn with Soph, and one last sojourn for the winter, before normal life begins again. One last flash of Elsewhere - and I am eager to get started.