Connections

It turns out that our home broadband connection was disrupted by the lift upgrading construction happening right outside our apartment. Apparently, they constructed our broadband wire into nonexistence, and when the technician came down today, he found said wire buried under fresh new concrete. What followed was an absurdly comical exchange between the SingTel technician, the contractor foreman and my mother, all trying to work out whose fault it was that the wire broke, with the conversation careening from one precarious misunderstanding to another. What mountains they made out of the molehills of one broken wire! At any rate, a temporary connection was run from one frayed end to another, and with a sigh of relief, the internet connection was restored to my home.

That being said, the last few days without an internet connection at home have been strangely calm. It's like being dazed by a fall, or being winded by a long run. You stay still and catch your breath, and you feel like you're totally entitled to your idleness, and are immune to subsequent shocks. Having the internet connection cut through no fault of my own makes me feel protected from all the implications of having that connection; work, emails, blogging, and all the other paraphenalia of an online presence. It's a nice feeling - liberating, recentralising, helping to put things in focus. When the internet is not freely available, you can more accurately judge how valuable that connection really is. This feeling is so nice that I'm thinking of instituting one day per week as an internet-free day, when I'm in New York.

Anyway, some updates regarding the online presence. Have posted two new clips under the "Video" section at the Second Lumière Project, one on the Borneo trip and another on Penang. I particularly enjoyed making the latter; when I was walking along the streets of Georgetown, I happened to play the Sigur Ros piece Hoppipolla on my iRiver, and the music simply fit the mood and impelled me to make the video. Everything seemed to fall into place so nicely; the music and the photos and the video clips meshed so well into a holistic pattern. And I also tried my hand at a first shot at time-lapse photography. It's a technique that definitely bears further investigation.

*

On Friday, found myself giving a political philosophy lesson on Fascism, drawing on material that we went through in JC years. Engaging in such subjects again, dabbling in history and philosophy, discussing these questions intelligently and being surprised by the answers and the questions that the students can throw onto the table; this is the way that I encounter the old energy and vibe of a JC classroom, and also some of the quirkiness and spontaneous ingenuity of 4N. This much was expected; what surprises and delights me is the intensity of the impression. I still think there will never be a class like 4N again; but my classes now sure give their predecessor a run for its money.

After school, a quick jump down to RJ with Chun Long, Kats and KHwee to seek out the old teachers, because Kats will be leaving the country soon to seek his studies in Japan. Met up with Mr. Purvis, Mr. Rollason and Mr. Sowden, along with passing greetings with Mr. Booth, Mr. McConnell, Mr. Kwok and Mrs. Perry. And spent a couple of hours standing in the school lobby chatting with Ms. Chen. And I realised, in the course of the conversations, that the old awe at my teachers has faded. The profound respect is, and always will be, still there, I think; but now I find it much easier to engage them, especially Mr. Purvis. They have become approachable, comprehensible. I guess partly it's because I have now also glimpsed the other side of the teacher's desk, so what they do and how they think isn't so mystical anymore. But I think primarily it's because of my command in 6SIR, and all the new situations that the posting had exposed to me. Compared to that, to the real risks of active deployment, to the management of real people and their real problems, to the priorities of people who have already started living life for real, as Joel points out, the priorities and perspectives of an academic environment are rendered absurd and ludicrous by self-indulgence. When academic learning starts taking itself too seriously, when thoughts become so primary that they supercede action, then it loses all sense of perspective and is bathetic in its intimations of earnest gravity.

And after that, a jump home for a quick shower before going over to KHwee's place for another reunion, in light of Kats' imminent departure. Played Munchkins (of course), mahjong (another staple) and chess (which was a new one, especially under the influence!). At about midnight we broke out the alcohol that was so graciously provided by Ms. Ong (who else, I ask you, has teachers who will buy their students - albeit past students - several bottles of hard alcohol?) and by KHwee's seemingly inexhaustible stash. Over cups of Asahi, gin and vodka (among other, more exotic beverages), we started talking.

It evolved from there into a pretty memorable session, with the lights off and people lounging all over any horizontal surface that was near at hand. I won't go into what exactly transpired, except to clarify that nothing untoward happened. It was just a time infused with warmth and familiarity, with supreme comfort for everyone, and a conversation that moved lazily and unhurriedly, passing from one person to another like one passes an interesting bauble around. It is clear to me that this kind of thing will not happen - could not have happened - without this particular combination of personalities. If I can be blessed with one friend that is as good as them in the coming years, then I cannot ask for more.

In the morning, when the sun rose and the party started to break up, we moved to the closest prata shop for the concluding rite of the night. And yes, part of the comfort of our gatherings is how they all seem to proceed so similarly, progressing down well-worn trajectories and using activities and topics that are familiar to all. And prata at dawn is like our breaking of bread, and with teh tarik and milo as our various wines, we had communion. I don't want to carry the religious image too far and distort the reality, but inasmuch as a ritual can be comforting in reaffirming belief, then our gatherings have that reinforcing power on our friendships.

And so, in two days' time, another old friend will be taking wing, and though it will be for a novel destination, the departure will still take a familiar form, I reckon. This is, if not for the sake of the person departing, then for my sake, for in times like these, the ritual, the familiar practice, is the only thing that keeps me anchored. Everything that lies beyond those departure gates is unknown. The new experiences that Kats will come across will cast the old, shared experiences in a new light. But as these new phase of departures takes place, I am beginning to detect a difference in the urgency of the event. When, in 2006, my friends started leaving, it was difficult because I felt like I was being left behind, and I did not know which among my friendships would survive the transplantation into a new environment. But now, in 2008, when thes people are leaving, it doesn't seem so high-risk anymore. Partly because we've already gone through two big transitions (CHS to JC, JC to NSF) and our friendships have come out largely intact. And, of course, partly because we also have our own departures to look forward to. In these ways, then, these new departures are not as terminal as the previous ones; they are continuations of a new pattern that we have successfully worked into our relationships, a pattern of leaving and returning, of changing conversation topics orbiting around a constant core of fellow-feeling.

Therefore, "How much of a departure should I take it to be?" Kats writes.

He was always the better writer.

Dropped a bit off the radar because, inexplicably, my home has been cut off from the internet. The technicians will be around on Sunday to have a look at the connection, but until then, my family are internet exiles. Now my evenings at home are strangely empty, since there is no access to email, Facebook, blogs or any of the other fixtures of a night on the net. It's funny to feel the gap so acutely. I don't actually think this is a sign of internet addiction; I don't miss the connection per se, I don't miss being online. What I do miss is the connection with my people, or if not the connection per se then at least the possibility of the opportunity for connection.

The closest analogy I can draw for this sensation is when I went to Penang, and effectively fell off the map for a few days, with no one to communicate with but myself. There is that feeling of dislocation, of disconnection, if I can put it that way. Back then, it was a liberating feeling. But here at home, where connection and communication are so tightly woven with the very acts of being conscious and awake, the intrusion of this feeling is disconcerting and disorienting. It's like that feeling of waking up on the floor and not remembering that you rolled off your bed at night; for a moment you are vertiginously free of the anchors that you expected to be around to locate you in the real world.

So here I am, with the clock ticking close to 7pm, taking advantage of the school's internet connection to write here. The lateness is not really due to my writing here; was clearing a batch of comprehension marking before this, and that ate up a sizable chunk of time. And before that, was having lunch with Joel and Ms. Ong, and as our meetings are wont to do nowadays, there was about fifteen minutes of eating and nearly two hours of lingering. And on Tuesday night, went out with the usual gang to the French Stall at Little India (the one that I had always been intrigued by when passing it along the road on a homeward bus - by going there, I lost a certain shade of interest that had been coloured by unfamiliarity, to gain a new tinge coloured by delight) and had surprisingly excellent French food (giant profiteroles, anyone?) on wicker chairs under spinning fans, with one of Singapore's torrential rainstorms swooshing by outside.

And earlier than that, met up with Joel from the old Platoon 11, and went to the Rail Mall, where we found this delightful Italian deli. We sank into the conversation as easily as our teeth sank into the caprese, ravioli and gnocci (my first encounter with the latter was a really delectable experience of bouncy dough pieces ennobled by a truly rich and complex sauce of four cheeses). We may both be out of the army already, and our perspectives have certainly changed, but we can still look back so easily and slip back into that mode of thinking and conversing. And it strikes me again, how lucky I was to meet such good people in my unit, that I can come out of that experience with stories that I am willing to tell voluntarily, and that I can look back on with a real feeling of warmth and nostalgia.

And I think I will look back on these encounters, and the thing that I will find the most remarkable is the carefree way in which we talked, and the absurd and incredible topics and trajectories across which we would bodily hurl our conversations. The quality of the talk, that precise and rare carefree approach, the utter lack of self-consciousness or any need to second-guess, the certainty that you could say anything because nothing can be taken in the wrong spirit, and after all, the friendship we had would make even the most provocative statements seem like just so much amusing froth afterwards; this is the most apparent manifestation of the nature of our relationships. I hope I will encounter them more in the future, but I cannot shake the feeling that this state of affairs is unique to us, or at least that part of the wonder of this state of affairs is that it is not replicated elsewhere, and perhaps cannot be replicated elsewhere.

And soon, Kats will be taking his leave, as the clock winds inexorably forward and our disparate futures catch up with us. I still wonder what our friendships will transmute into under the pressure of time and distance and disconnected experiences. My experience so far indicates, hopefully, that there can exist an unchanging core that will survive anything this world can reasonably throw at it; but one can't be sure until you're in the thick of the change, and beyond any hope of retracing your steps to an earlier, more amiable stage. You work with the fact that you have no choice but to move forward, and hope that whatever is produced by it is worthy of whatever existed before it.

The Empty Tomb

This morning is Easter, the most solemn and the critical celebration of the Christian year. In the church, everything was decked with silver and gold raiment, and everything that can make music was employed after a silence imposed since Good Friday: guitar, drum, organ, bells. And voices. Everywhere, people, people and more people. And children, whose delight in the celebrations around them was so wholesome and unalloyed. Looking at them, you think that no one can experience the joy of the day as immediately and intimately as a child, even if the child may not fully understand the reason for the joy.

And then, after the homily, the Sequence is recited: a dramatic poem origniating from the 11th century. Drawing on its rich traditions, the church today unites itself with the spirit of celebrants and congregations from ages past by invoking the very words they used. In this way, ritual helps the church overcome the barriers of space and time, so that all may be united in this celebration of an unchanging fact. And inasmuch as the structures and trappings of a religion can help to amplify and augment one's faith, there are few things as moving as speaking words that have survived despite passing through vast gulfs of time and the human fluctuations that fill that gap.

Christians, to the Paschal Victim
Offer sacrifice and praise.

The sheep are ransomed by the Lamb;
And Christ, the Undefiled,
Hath sinners
To His Father reconciled.

Death with Life contended:
Combat strangely ended!
Life's own Champion, slain,
Yet lives to reign.

Tell us, Mary:
Say what thou didst see upon the way.

The tomb the living did enclose;
I saw Christ's glory as He rose!

The angels there attesting;
Shroud with grave-clothes resting.

Christ, my hope, has risen;
He goes before you into Galilee.

That Christ is truly risen
from the dead we know.
Victorious King, Thy mercy show!
Amen. Alleluia.

Good Friday

This year, the Easter season has an especial significance, because I expect it'll be the last time I'll be spending Easter with my family here at home for three years. And so, on Maundy Thursday, went with my folks on the yearly tradition of church visiting. This year, we went to some of the new churches in the West district, including St. Ignatius (two years ago I watched Kels in a Christmas pageant at her home parish there) and the Franciscan Friary at Mary of the Angels. The latter was really beautiful, an ultramodern church of smooth slate, concrete and glass. No Corinthian columns here, but reflecting pools, rock gardens, rough-cut sculpture, a bell tower with four massive crosses on its flanks, a church with a fully transparent façade and a crucifix without a cross. Seeing the Saviour hanging in mid-air is one of the most powerful religious symbols I have ever seen; and to think that such sensitive, wonderful, spiritual architecture can be found in Singapore!

Then, on Good Friday itself, went to our usual church at Siglap to attend the mass. The parish is the most populous in Singapore, and that Friday morning, the church was packed to overcapacity, with parishioners standing in the aisles and crammed around the doors. And celebrating Good Friday with so many people is moving in itself; the energy and sheer volume of so many others united with you in worship and reflection is intoxicating (perhaps distractingly so - so that the heart is carried away by the glamour of the human celebration of the holy event rather than the event itself). The celebrant, too, was powerful. An old priest from another parish of fire-and-brimstone intensity, he gave a sermon of plodding eloquence. His speech was awkward, refracted through physical hardship and not a small amount of deeply felt emotion; but to see him struggle with his words somehow made the import of those very words much clearer. By the end of the sermon, there were people who were quite close to tears, a sight that you very rarely see in the stoic environs of a Catholic mass.

Over Lent, we are called to make our lives more Christian, to make a greater effort to steer clear of sin, to better understand the difficulty and the beauty of the calling. I can't say I've been very successful at living a more wholesome life; certainly there has not been a transmutation that has purified my days as much as I would have liked. But over the last month, I find that I am regularly surprised and astonished by the things that I have encountered. The people and places that have become part of my personal experience. I am struck by wonder at the whole range of Creation and Opportunity, finding myself filled with an appreciation of what exists and an anticipation for what may yet come to be. Within this, I believe you can draw near to God on a daily basis, by delighting in the incidental good that is made possible by the Divine becoming manifest in this existence, and by putting your own effort to the work of bringing out more of the Divine in this very existence.

And, reflecting back on the year since the last Easter, I am once again struck at the range of things that I have to be thankful for. The strength to overcome the challenges of the military era; the experiences in foreign places; the continued health and safety of my family and friends and myself; and, not in the least, the people who are around me and who enrich my life so by being a part of it, incidental or otherwise. The circumstances I find myself in humble me, and demand to be shared and spread, in order that it be broadened and deepened. And this, I think - I feel - is the heart of the Christian life: to spread the good that we find around us as far as possible, ceaselessly and without discrimination of any kind.

*

And have also been spending time reading my birthday presents. Finished Lewis' The Four Loves while in Penang, and found it shockingly apt, finding in it the words to articulate a lot of my own thoughts and feelings. And now, in the middle of Wilde's A House of Pomegranates. Dahl wrote fairy tales for adults, in the sense that his style hearkened to childhood while his content was decidedly adult. A House of Pomegranates, however, is a fairy tale that appeals to the kind of child that is only found in a grown-up, I think, in that its language is comprehensible in all its glorious shades and nuances only by experienced readers, but its content assumes and taps reserves of childlike wonder in the reader. It is an enchanting combination, and I find myself regretting that the book itself only consists of four short stories. And I find myself also lingering over every sentence, like with a Winterson book, savouring the texture and flow of exotic and archaic words and constructions, to make the taste linger.

*

Oh, and one more thing - the photos for the Penang trip are up! You can find them in the Photography section of the Second Lumière Project, here. Putting the album together was also delightful; there is a special satisfaction in seeing the products of days and nights spent wandering through the streets and landscape. There were things I saw that took my breath away in the ways that the light and the sound intersected to create compelling patterns: a visual symphony. In these photos are recorded the walks through the misty morning lanes atop Penang Hill, the busy market streets of the old town, a beachside sunset that I chased down across the island one evening, and riding the train leaning out an open door, painfully self-conscious but also totally taken by the sheer novelty of the experience. I wish you could have seen what I saw, felt what I experienced; but I also have to acknowledge that a lot of these things would have remained unexperienced if I had not been travelling alone.

This Week

The day after I came back, I just happened to look out the window before dinner, and there was the iridiscent sky. And, suddenly, it was like I was back in Penanag again, making my way around the central massif, chasing the sunset to the North Shores of the island, and catching the very last goldbursts. Like church, like spontaneous kindness, a sunset in a clear sky is something that can unite experiences separated by places. And we the city-dwellers may have encroached on the night sky with our towers to entrap the constellations in our nocturnal cityscapes, but the setting sun, at least, still remains beyond the reach of our usurpation.

Back to work, and there has hardly been space to breathe. If not for the stuff that I had already prepared before leaving for Penang, I think I would have stayed in school very late every day of this last week. And the material I was going through with my Sec 2s isn't very interesting. But I have also to say that I am reassured by their receptivity, and also the productivity and timeliness of my Sec 3 class. I realise that I may still be stuck in the Army mindset, expecting students to miss classes and not to do their assigned work, and having to spend a lot of time papering over their deficiencies. It still surprises me that all my students are, after all, responsible and largely obedient. It is a world away from the military life. And the classes seem surreal, unbelievable, utopian, when compared to the military time.

Was called in to help refine the debate case of the Arena team of the school. For those of you who may not be familiar (heck, I wasn't familiar till two days ago), the Arena is a TV show where teams from secondary schools debate each other. It is marketed as a battle of wits in the literal sense, with teams taking on martial names and costumes, and relying much more on the cutting tongue than the slow erosions of reason and logic. In this world, intimidation and flair trounce philosophy and reasoning. This show is, I think, the logical epitome of the debating culture in Singapore, which, I think, has always tended to favour style over substance (in the sense that speaking nonsense very loudly and funnily trounces speaking truthfully but monotonously). Its lack of substance bothers me. Its volume and precociousness irritates me. And since I've always thought Singapore debating is a bit absurd, more so this show! It is rather ludicrous, the amount of significance that the participants, producers and audience put on what I would otherwise consider juvenile soap opera.

Anyway, since yesterday was Founders' Day, my work week was pared down to three days. I was rather surprised to discover that, nowadays, only the Sec 4s have to sit through the prize-giving ceremonies, and the rest of the school goes out for community involvement work. It is certainly a more useful use of their time, rather than getting them to sit still and be applause-producers. I was assigned to a team in a project to collect newspapers, old clothes and unwanted books from blocks of flats in Geylang Bahru. It occurs to me that it is not only a barely productive form of work (after two hours of effort over 10 blocks, I think the truckload of trash that the 50 students collected is only worth up to $300), but it is ethically questionable, to compete away the income of the karang-guni man. In a perverted form of Robin Hood, we take from one poor demographic to give to another poor demographic.

But after all, it was quite interesting. One apartment had an amazingly verdant and lush potted garden in the corridor, and spilling over into the lift lobby and over the parapet to hang, Babylonian-style, over thin air. One had an enormous and elaborate Buddhist shrine, with miniature figures which I think may be marionettes. One had an exterior wall that was bare except for a mirror over the door and an anti-spirit scroll pasted on the door. And one, inhabited by an old and jolly man, had a wall lined with shelves of neatly-arranged Chinese comics. And it also strikes me, how nearly every apartment in our particular block was inhabited by elderly folk. It is the first time, really, that the concept of a "mature" estate has really been made clear to me. You won't see this kind of thing in Tampines, Bishan, or even the newer parts of Toa Payoh.

Coming Back

I'm really tired now, but I reckon that I should at least make a note here, that I am back, safe and sound, and back in the thick of things.

There's been a lot of writing in my paper journals; to my surprise I managed to fill up a whole book in four days of writing. As usual, I won't presume to bore you with all the details. Suffice to say that it was a great trip, even a good trip. The days were full, filled to the brim with walking, reading, writing and sketching - the unlimited fruits of solitary travel. But they also turned out to be fulfilling, and between the dawn walk on the peak of Penang Hill, and chasing the sunset to the North Coasts of the island in the hope of that one stunning photograph, there were delights and surprises that sprang from the riotously colourful streets of Georgetown, so many that they defied my efforts to record them, and I fear that even all the paper and all the lead I can get my wearied hands on would not prevent my perception from being confounded by the sheer volume of experience.

For Penang lends itself so readily to exploration. On a whim, I could duck into a coffeeshop and order a portion of their specialty, or take the next turning down a side alley, straining to see where the road may lead ahead, or jump onto a bus randomly, trying to hide my anticipation in discovering where it will take me and to appear like just another commuter. The place is not safe; the traffic is wild, the facilities are incomplete, and I hear that there was a political demonstration when I was there, though I, being Singaporean and thus inherently adverse to such scandals, was safely on the Hill trekking the back lanes along its flanks. But this unsafeness is part of the appeal. You don't just visit the place; the element of conditionality in their welcoming of visitors, their hospitality without outright pandering and condescension, makes you work for your enjoyment, and, like the fruit of any hard labour, you enjoy their welcome more because of the difficulty in getting to it.

All this experience was made possible, I reckon, by the fact that I was travelling alone. Without another person to worry about and consider, without an accompanying personality through which to refract my experience, I feel that I have been able to experience more. Or at least, experienced differently - for I will be the last to disparage the distinctive pleasures of the company of a true travelmate and kindred spirit. But one thing, I think, is at least undeniable. Solitary, I was able to do what I wanted with every instant of the day, and this meant that I left Penang feeling like I had done everything that I wanted to do there, and this in turn made the slow, stately return by train much more bearable and satisfying.

This experience has thus pointed out two things to me: firstly, that Penang is a place that I want to visit again. And secondly, exploration should be a solitary endeavour. When you travel with someone, you necessarily hope to enjoy his company. But when you travel, you are looking to be charmed by the sense of place, the crystallisation of the exotic and the strange in a local experience. These two diverging attractions tug your attention this way and that, and you end up paying both less attention than they deserve individually. No - exploration should be solitary. Returning, however, is best done with company, for returning is much more about reprisals, relivings, remembering, and, in the end, storytelling - about past experience rather than new experience. And the past comes most to life when it is communicated and shared, doesn't it?

Anyway, now that I'm back, will be putting my records into order. Hopefully I'll make the photos I collected over the weekend available tomorrow. In the meantime, though, real life demands my attention, and I turn my efforts back towards the task of teaching, with a spirit refreshed and realigned in its proper point of view. And, as always, I look forward to the next departure, and beyond that, to more good returnings ahead.

Penang

Indulge my wanderlust.

In a little over five hours' time I'll be across the border and starting the transpeninsular drive to Penang. And tomorrow morning I'll be at the Sungei Nibong Terminal finding a way to Chinatown, where I hope to find a bed for RM10. And over the next few days, there will be market-surfing, book-hunting, prodigious photography and, perhaps, a midnight vigil for Palm Sunday, if I can find out which church is organising one.

One downside, however, is this incessant rain. It's been raining everyday since last week, and lately, it has taken to raining continuously from dawn till dusk. It's not even the kind of thing that is worth writing about; it's just tedious and dark. Hopefully the Main Range on the peninsula will help to block some of the rain so that at least Penang will have some hours of true daylight. But, checking the forecasts for the next few days, it doesn't look promising.

Will be switching back to paper soon for my journalling. I realise that it's a big part of the holiday, to record happenings by handwriting instead of typing. It's qualitatively different from blogging. It's more intimate, definitely, and when you write by hand suddenly your setting becomes important. Where you write becomes a participant in what you write. So my walks around a new place are also partly a quest for good spots to put pencil to paper. And that's also why the most crucial piece of equipment for this trip, especially for the train trip back to Singapore, is not so much the camera, but the journal.

Three whole days stretch ahead, empty of schedules but filled with ideas that are vying for attention. I have a hill to climb, a waterfront to stroll down, a ferry to ride, architecture to appreciate, commerce to absorb - and who knows? There are also people to meet, for better or worse. This, the greatest risk, is simultaneously the most seductive and tantalising aspect of a new place.

You go to a new place, and accept that unfamiliarity will force you to absorb everything at once, because you lack the mental markers nurtured by familiarity that tell you what things are more important than others. You accept that you are most vulnerable at that point in time, because you cannot preempt influences that will hurt you, and you are in a state of innocence, or of ignorance. But you still travel, regardless; you still put yourself in that position. Because you believe that there is value in things that are learned spontaneously, in how unsolicited experiences can surprise and delight you precisely because of their unsolicited nature.

*

Yesterday night, went out for dinner with Ms. Ong, Llama, Conan, JY, Joel and Kats in Little India, at Delhi Restaurant, an establishment that Ms. Ong introduced to us. Taking advantage of the free corkage, we worked our way through six bottles of wine, which accompanied platters of curried meats, dahls, naans and tandoori dishes.

Last night was one of those times when I felt the alcohol came in useful rather than interfering with the quality of the interactions. Being tipsy, I guess, is not a disadvantage in and of itself. It is a constant ingredient that is added to the people who you get tipsy with - and whether the experience comes back to haunt you or lives on in your memory cloaked in the glorious colours of nostalgia depends on the quality of the people. And last night, the wine helped to keep the conversation flowing pleasantly, and after a few hours and bottles, we began to feel like the epicentre of the dining room. Between the waiters amiably chatting with Llama and our roaring jaunts through our conversations, there was not a lot of air left in the room for the other patrons, I reckon.

The topics always seem to revolve around the same topics - which is inevitable, I guess, for people who have not had a shared experience lately. In want of shared ground to talk about, we look to the mutual past and talk of hopes for a common future, because the present has seen us walking down diverse and non-intersecting paths. But that is not to say that the conversation is boring, even if it is repetitive. The past, for us, is like a mine of information, a murky lake which we trawl with our talk, and which yields up surprising and diverse nuggets everytime. Memory accommodates our need for conversation and interaction, and old stories gain new shades of meaning in their retelling.

We get together more often nowadays, partly because we are now earning money and can afford such occasions of plenty, partly also because, perhaps ironically, of our diverging paths coupled with a conviction that the shared past is worth preserving. And, definitely, also partly because we are aware that come August, we would really have no chance to do dinners like this anymore for quite some time. We - at least I - meet one another with the consciousness that we are running out of time to do likewise. The shortage of time makes it harder to say no whenever someone proposes meetings like this, but, happily, it also makes it more likely that the meeting will be enriching because everyone would be putting in effort. If something needs to come to an end, temporary or otherwise, it is surely good for it to go out in this gradual and considerate fashion.

Mosaic

So it's been confirmed. Bought my coach ticket to Penang's Sungai Nibong Terminal yesterday, then popped over to the train station to buy the ticket from Butterworth to Singapore. And so, the jump up to Penang at the end of the next week is confirmed.

Taking the train is such an uneconomical choice. It's slower and more expensive than express buses. But the KTM has something that Grassland and Konsortium won't have: the prestige of history. The only thing, I think, that is alluring about train travel nowadays in Malaysia is the impression that passengers have that it is nostalgic or stylish to take a train, that the experience of a train ride is in and of itself a desirable commodity, worth sacrificing time and money for. At any rate, I bought myself a second-class ticket (since economy tickets were all sold out). I am told that it would have been cheaper to buy the ticket from Butterworth Station rather than from Tanjong Pagar - but what the heck. I want to make sure I can come back before I leave! I'll save that tactic for a time when I am more secure in travelling alone.

Another note: Tanjong Pagar Station is really a gem. From the outside, it looks scruffy and run-down, but the interior waiting hall is grand and shockingly white, with a majestic set of stained glass windows that rivals anything I've ever seen in Singapore churches. It's something of a throwback from the colonial era, with statues that still pay homage, in their own quaint and endearing way, to Agriculture, Commerce, Transport and Industry. Arriving at that station is therefore also a plus point, in that it panders to a sense of partaking in an enriching dose of history.

Haven't booked the accommodation yet, though. Found a very promising-looking lodge near Chinatown in Georgetown, called 100 Cintra Street. Apparently it's designed by a high-flying avant-garde Malaysian architect, fitted out with furniture almost exclusively made of recycled materials. But haven't been able to contact them. Oh well - if KK was anything to go by, finding somewhere to stay the night will not be a problem. If there turns out to be no space at 100 Cintra Street (which I highly doubt), I'll just go to the next one down the street.

Been reading up about Penang, at their very helpful (and, admittedly, very enticing) tourism site, and it's exciting to read about all the colonial landmarks, religious sites, Penang Hill vistas, and, especially, all the markets. I will have to make a pilgrimage to what the site calls the mother of all used book stores, apparently just a short walk away from Cintra Street. Besides that, there are flea markets, night markets and food markets to bump into. It all sounds very, very promising. If KK, which was so small and intimate, could throw up such surprises as the Filipino Market that only appears at night, then what will Penang offer?

So, all in all, very much looking forward to this latest jump, and this break from Singapore. And, not least because I will be travelling alone. A part of me still feels that this is the best, most immersive form of travel possible, because when you're alone you have much more flexibility and autonomy, and in certain areas you definitely have less to worry about and fret over. There are few experiences as liberating as walking down the street of an unknown city, knowing that you have no obligations to anyone that you may come across, and that you have no external demands on your own time. That being said, it's not that I don't appreciate travelling in groups. Experience that is shared with another is that much sweeter. But company is best when it is offered freely, and not demanded as a matter of course, and it's the most special when my travelmates do not begrudge me if I break off myself to pursue an interesting-looking alleyway or side street, and, even better, decide to follow me for the heck of it. The trouble with that model is that, in my experience, very, very few people are looking for the same things that I look for when I go exploring.

*

Spent the evening today at the Esplanade, soaking in the vibes at the Mosaic Music Festival. It has been a long, long time since I last visited the place for a performance, and definitely even longer than that since the last time I saw the place rocking with so much energy. The evening started with a quiet indie band in the foyer that played their own compositions. Then, moved out to the outdoor stage at the power substation to catch an Australian group, Angels are Architects, and their eerie, yearning sounds.

The highlight of the night, though, is definitely Imago, a band from the Philippines, with their rocking Filipino songs that whipped up the audience feverishly, jubilation jumping through Filipino supporters and other assorted observers alike. There is something about the Filipino music scene that always surprises me. I guess it's partly because they are so good musically, but they have such a low profile in Singapore. The level of technique and energy that they bring to the Esplanade clearly shows that they deserve much more recognition than they are getting.

Devoted a lot of time to photography and videography also, since Mosaic always produces scenes and scenarios that positively beg for a camera lens. And I was not the only one; Imago was being snapped from all conceivable directions, flashes erupting and photographers dashing forward to the stage, brandishing fearsome-looking SLRs at the band. Anyway, I expect that these photos will go into a new video that I'm conceiving - one last summary and love letter of Singapore before I go.

The Results

The last day of term passed in a haze of impatience. In the course of the day I finished reading Cherian George's The Air-Conditioned Nation, coming to the conclusion that it really is (to my sincere surprise) a good book about Singapore politics in specific and Singapore society in general. It was easy to read, and the insights that George gives have the truthfulness and retrospective self-apparentness of sociological patterns. He manages to make Singapore politics fascinating, which, to me, is no mean feat, my prejudices against the subject notwithstanding. A particular piece that I liked was George's essay on the shifting sands that is the Singaporean conception of identity, which he evocatively puts in terms of the ever-renewing cityscape. Singapore can be seen as a nomad society, he writes, but not because the population moves around; rather, the environment around them will not stand still, and so even sedentary residents find themselves inexorably alienated from the familiar over time.

So, finally read this book that I first heard about in 2004 from Purvis. To my surprise, too, whatever that was left didn't last very long, and I found myself out of things to do by 10am. Spent the rest of the morning plugging into CNN and catching up on election news, waiting, of course, for the big event of the day...

At 2pm, went over to the College section to attend the release of the 'A' Level results. It was a strange, surreal experience, the epitome of ambivalence. As the rest of the people were seized by an irresistible sense of urgency and foreboding, all I could work up was impatience - to hear the results and see how the higher-ups would spin it. I will not hide it - a vested interest in my brother getting a good result out of this experimental 'A' Level examination was contrasted with a gnawing desire to be vindicated, by a set of poor overall results, in my belief that the Through-Train was a mistake.

In the end, for better or worse, the results that HCJC produced (and, as I am to understand, the other IP schools also similarly produced) were in keeping with the traditional overperformance of yesteryear. The results were frankly phenomenal. And I have to say that they look pretty impressive on paper, with people walking away with distinctions in subjects as diverse as "Biodiversity" and "Aeronautical Engineering". That being said, there really isn't much basis for comparison; the subjects are so different in content and structure, and there is so much murkiness surrounding the real performance of the IP schools and how the MOE arrived at this set of marks, that saying that this batch performed as well as any batch before them is reduced to near meaninglessness by all the caveats that you need to add to it.

The real litmus test, I guess, is whether the results are any good for university admissions. After all, everyone may like to pat themselves on the back for successfully pulling off a tricky transition from the old examinations to the new system, but the marks are only as valuable as the doors they open for you. It does irritate me when some people talk like the marks are the objective, and that the fight is over once you lay your hands on your result slip. Worse still is a sense of entitlement to the marks that blows their significance way out of proportion. As Purvis used to say, you should approach your accolades with a lingering and healthy sense of fraudulence. And there is of course a sense of injustice when people who don't deserve it get a disporportionate amount of opportunities out of this system. But I digress - if someone gains unfairly, it is regrettable but not as bad as when someone loses out unfairly. And, going into the scholarship and admissions season, I hope that there won't be anyone in the second category. Everyone should at least get the opportunities they deserve.

After the whole ceremony, went out with Ms. Ong, Joel, JY, Llama and Conan to this rocking German pub at Novena (I shan't be more specific because we came to an agreement to keep it our little secret - these places will be ruined by their own success). We were suitably impressed by the international range of beers available, and the encyclopaedic knowledge of the friendly owners and waitresses. The food was also deliciously rich, well matched to the task of liberal drinking. It was not long, therefore, before our table was a mosaic of plates emptied of sausages, sauerkraut, roast quail, meatballs, oxtail stew and the absolutely necessary pork knuckle, with a skyline of empty beer bottles looming over the vista, representing the brewing traditions of Australia, Germany, Belgium and Russia.

And, I guess, you are never too young to reflect on old times. Setting the record straight about feuds and misunderstandings old and new, laughing about caricatures and absurdities, complaining about work and looking forward - again and again I find myself in awe of the quality of the people I know, and have the privilege of knowing as friends. It still stuns me how I am part of all this, because it could so easily have been different.

*

Mosaic Music Festival is back! The fête that kept my sanity intact over the last two years returned yesterday to the Esplanade, and I reckon that I'll be down there a lot this coming week, armed with a camera and open eyes and ears. I look to be surprised and astonished, and Mosaic has not failed me yet.

Also, planning a trip up to Penang at the end of the week. It's time to enjoy some of that salary that has come in. This was what became of the original proposal to climb Mt. Kinabalu again, a proposal that was sunk on the tightness of schedules all around. Still, looking forward to this trip; a reliving of the thrill of exploration, with the new taste for backpacking tossed in. And trying to arrange a train ride into this trip - only the first time since Frexprog that I've taken an intercity train.

Thunderstorms

For those of you who wonder, that's not the principal or a teacher who happened to walk past when I snapped the photo; it's the statue of the founder of the school, the illustrious philantropist Tan Kah Kee.

I also apologise for the lack of variety in the subjects of my recent photos. I realise that the orbit of my daily life, though much improved from the same point jut four months ago, is not really very wide or inclusive, and the most interesting thing that I tend to pass on a daily basis is the clock tower in school. And it's just interesting, whenever you walk past, to just look up at the tower and see how its structure interacts with the unobstructed sky behind it. Contrasts and patterns; those are what I look for.

Lately, it has been raining a lot over here. Real thunderstorms, awe-inspiring deluges that efface the visible world in one fell stroke while filling the acoustic world to overflowing. Such power that can drive people into shelter, that can make one shiver and dream of jackets in the middle of the tropics. I've always liked thunderstorms; one of my earliest memories was a storm so long and powerful that it turned the sky a most vivid and never-again-repeated shade of purple for a whole afternoon. And these recent thunderstorms have helped to keep things in perspective - to show that, despite every tedious thing that may happen in the course of the day, there are powers that exist that render your problems negligible. This is a sign that nothing is insurmountable, and it is heartening in this way.

Anyway, the saga continues today, but now, time, which had been pressing ominously on us to finish the re-marking as soon as possible, has defected to our side to render it impossible to reject this final set of marks that we have decided upon, because the term reports have to be printed, and there is no time left. It will be a relief to dump this into the trash-bin of unsavoury experiences, so that I can get back to the business of teaching again. Because, after all, wasn't that what I was hired to do? Spent the rest of today planning lessons for next week, trying to put an interesting spin on the very technical topic of how to write for a newspaper. Thinking of using Clooney's Good Night, and Good Luck and Redford's Lions for Lambs to discuss journalistic ethics. That topic isn't actually in the syllabus per se, but I think I will sneak it in anyway, otherwise I'll be too bored reviewing headlines and lead paragraphs.

Lunch and coffee after school yesterday was a lifesaver. Over the always-delightful sight of steaming bowls of soup and stacks of freshly cut bread at Cedèle, we chatted about school politics and US politics, about personalities and philosophies. My daily circle may not be very wide, but I am glad that it includes, at least, these familiar things and familiar people from a fondly remembered time. If the Army was a two-year departure from the normal trajectory of my life, then this is a long, slow return to something like a pre-Army state, when days could end at 1.30pm, lunches could stretch at leisure into the evenings, and minds could ramble and roam across any and all intellectual and experiential territories.

Had a pretty dense philosophical-theological discussion with one of my kids yesterday, on the nature of the afterlife and whether God's merciful nature applies to all people or is exclusively reserved for Christians. It impresses me, his ability to hold an argument of this kind, and the clarity of thought that allows him to handle complex arguments with a deftness and adeptness that I am sure I did not possess when I was his age (which was really a very long time ago...). And this is but one of the kids who make this teaching stint worthwhile. By May 10th, I will have taught in one way or another close to a hundred students, and all have enriched my experience in their own distinct and worthy ways. This is why this job is a real privilege.

And communications from overseas coming in also. The lives of my peers who are elsewhere at the moment are filled and bustling with busy schedules, and opportunities for us to communicate are rare. But I am glad when they do happen, and we can exchange some ideas in the old mode of conversation for however long a time we have. And this is enough, because if it came down to choosing whether to send a letter back home or to experience the present, then it is understandable to choose the latter. I would do that myself, and I wouldn't expect anyone to do differently.

Now, then, I begin to get a sense of life's possibilities opening up again. A life that is inclusive and varied is becoming more and more achievable. My people overseas show me how it can be done, and, seeing that it is eminently possible for me to do likewise, I wait with barely tethered imaptience to get started.

The Escape

Marking is hard enough, but the thing that really takes the ticket is marking again. If it needs to be done, then it needs to be done, and how much you'd like to grumble about it, you'll still need to finish the job. But you need to do it for a good reason. Today's episode...there's been enough said about it, and it's kind of sickeningly amusing to see the kind of political parrying revealed in all its demented poetry. I'll only say this - if teachers and the school were allowed to admit when they got it wrong, then there will not be a need to cover up, and we'll be acting far more professionally and ethically as well. The problem, like most of the time, is that it's so hard for people within a system to put the system in its proper perspective. You stay in one place long enough, and your perception narrows, until the tedious details that make up the daily grind become mistaken for the underlying philosophies and impetuses and patterns, and are not taken to be the superficial effervescent froth that they really are.

All this gets in the way of the actual teaching. We agree that the students' interests should be paramount. But I think that principle should be the guide to our actions, rather than a mere justification to tag onto our actions once their impacts have become de facto.

*

I guess I should also say a word or two about the escape of Mas Selamat Kastari. It's kind of surreal, really; one cannot really believe that the most important detainee of the ISD just slipped out of their hands and is now on the run. The mere idea of this clashes so starkly with the usual image of efficiency and effectiveness that the authorities project, and one cannot really shake the feeling that this is just some elaborate hoax or exercise, and the real Mas Selamat is in custody, indeed has already been dealt with summarily.

Herein lies a real problem, I think. Singaporeans are so complacent in the effectiveness of their system that they cannot conceive of an instance in which it will fail, and thus cannot adequately prepare themselves for the eventuality that it actually does fail. Definitely, we can and should take as many justifiable material and professional precautions as we can, but when it comes to psychological preparedness, the perceived infallibility of the system becomes a real liability. And when the crunch comes, when the threat is not only real (as it is now) but also clearly imminent, this disjoint between expectations and reality can prove fatal. And the clincher is that there is no immediately apparent way to get rid of this false assumption of infallibility. The authorities have a vested interest in keeping this assumption alive, because it is the main selling point of the system. Without it, there is not enough faith and trust in the system to keep the general public confident in the system's ability to protect them. And I trust that the supreme difficulty of transmuting expectations engendered by past experiences of success into irrational trust in the continued viability of the status quo will be plain for all to see.

That being said, it does impress me somewhat to see the reaction of the general public. Which is, frankly, negligible. The media reporting has the effect of rendering this event in dull colours - or perhaps it is just that I expect Singapore media only to report on the dullest events with the dullest style, and this preconception colours the current coverage. Mas Selamat's face appears on ever street corner, but one would pay these posters as much attention as any random shop window. For a couple of days, Guardsmen and MPs formed a ridiculously dense cordon along Dunearn Road, which encompassed SCGS and the Chinese International School and stretched on to CJC, and we would remark on this unprecedented sight whenever we passed it on the bus ride home. But SCGS students still walked in and out of the school, parents in tow, intrigued but not panicked by the sight. Cars still drove past, and residents of the area still ran the fearsome gauntlet with much aplomb. And everywhere else, only the faintest ripples can be perceived.

This kind of indifference, even apathy, though unhelpful to the general manhunt, can be seen as a sign of resilience, in that even the escape of the JI leader would not ruffle the feathers of the stoic Singaporeans. Or, perhaps, it is yet another manifestation of complacency, or the product of a (rational?) evaluation that reveals that it is not worth panicking or even remaining more alert because the odds of making a difference are so slim. Perhaps it is evidence of a certain fatalism; something like this has to happen sooner or later, and why cry over spilled milk? Whatever the case, though, this dullness and (at least superficial) normalcy is preferable to any sort of general frenzy or xenophobic pogrom. You can at least trust Singaporeans to carry on as usual and try not to make any waves.

It must be hell, though, to be in the uniformed services now. I presume that my people in the Army would be working at least doubly hard to secure their various objectives. And their irritation, I guess, illustrates the upper limit of the general reaction here. To them, as to many people, the escape of Mas Selamat Kastari is measured in terms that are most immediate to them: not in terms of a possible catastrophic bomb blast in the centre of the city with fatalities unimaginable, but in terms of more hours put into guarding a place, more duties to attend to, a general and indistinct increase in an abstract sort of tension, and annoyance at the added inconvenience of living life around the additional security.

Cythera

Having a decent camera around is really liberating and constricting at the same time. On the one hand, it opens your eyes more because you're on the lookout of scenes that are worth capturing, satisfyingly secure in the knowledge that you are able to capture it. On the other hand, you also feel obliged to capture it, and consequently you're liable to interrupt whatever you're doing to anti-socially whip out your camera. So the delight in the ability to appreciate beautiful scenes feeds into an oppressive sense of duty to record it down so other people can see them too.

It's striking how architecture can interact with its environment to create a compelling pattern. You start to realise that every building represents an opportunity to be surprised and delighted. As you walk around a built environment, you find yourself looking around more, looking up more, looking for motifs and linkages, relationships that will suggest something - anything - to you. You pay more attention, and you are somehow more awake. And the thing is, expecting beauty does not make it any less surprising and gripping when you do eventually glimpse it.

*

Friday marked the end of my teaching for this term. It has, overall, been great fun, and I think that I'm having a positive effect on them. I can't be sure that I will be good for them at the end of it all; I can't say that I'm training people who'll pass English exams effortlessly. But at least I think I am opening their eyes to a larger world out there, helping them to grow out of their current circumstances by treating them as sensitive, responsible participants in a greater scheme of life that extends beyond the classroom.

Next week, I'll be spending a lot of my time planning for the next term, as the students take a week off from studying to do their sabbaticals. Next term doesn't seem as promising as this one; a lot more non-fiction, technical work, on topics that don't lend themselves to imagination, but rather demand a lot from logic and discipline of thought. But, after all, a lesson plan is just a framework, and frameworks can be exploited to one's own ends if one is creative enough.

Anyway, the end of the week yesterday saw me, Joel and Ms. Ong off for what I guess you could call high tea, though the beverage of choice was rather more stimulating, since we went to take advantage of Brewerkz's happy hour. Spent three hours there chatting around three jugs of beer and assorted hearty fare to go along with the hearty drinking. It's nice, as always, to unwind with friends after a week of work, engaging in the sort of wide-ranging and rambling conversations that only take place when you have enough common history in between you. Back in JC days, we went to places like NYDC; the passage of time may have opened up more options for this weekend splurge, but it has not changed the need for it. And why should it? Everyone needs something to look forward to, and if these outings become a weekly thing with us then the week would be that much more bearable because of the promise that lies at the end of each one.

After that, went back to the Museum to watch Voyage to Cythera by Theo Angelopoulos. It's a solid work, not as fanciful as Orphée, certainly, and, I think, more sensitive because it casts its expressiveness in terms of normal life. The amazing experiences that the film portrayed are placed in the context of normal people, and, unlike Orpheus and Eurydice, the audience can sympathise directly with the characters in Angelopoulos' work. This, I think, is a sign of the strength of the director's skills; he could have chosen to throw realism away, or to reflect realism only indirectly through a glass warped by absurdism, but he chose to stick to the outlines of normal experience, and the absurdism that appears in the film (and there is no dearth of it) is even more striking because it is believable, and terrifyingly so.

Like I told Joel yesterday, the film strikes me as an examination of how normal people handle and make sense of epic occurrences. The characters seem powerless in the face of the things that happen to them. Life throws at them circumstances and event that threaten to pick apart their understanding of how the world works, and under the onslaught they are paralysed, petrified, and seek to retreat into themselves and to distance themselves from a senseless and unsympathetic world. I was struck by the image of the umbrella: one of the characters fiddled with his father's umbrella, which wouldn't open, even as the father shrinks away under the oppressively insistent emotiveness and indifference of the modern world. Later, the father is set adrift on a barge in the middle of a storm, and is given an umbrella which can hardly stand up the the remorseless deluge. Things happen to them, and they try to cope, and they find themselves wholly inadequate, and this knowledge hurts them because they know of no way to alleviate their obvious inadequacies.

A reviewer calls this Angelopoulos' version of Fellini's 8½, and there are some common elements. The son tries to make a film of the father's experiences, but the intricacies and overwhelming incomprehensibility of the situation defies his attempts to express them and come to terms with them. The film starts with a scene of dozens of old men auditioning for the part of his father, all repeating the same line over and over again: "It's me", "It's me", "It's me". Later, he walks past all these old men on the way to a café, and they all look at him expectantly, waiting for him to adopt one of them as his father, almost. And then, in a bizarre twist, he later has sex with the actress playing his sister in the aisles of a deserted theatre. But all this absurdity is strictly within the realms of the possible, and this makes them all the more compelling and painful and immediate for a viewer.

*

Today, spent the day trawling the city streets for photographable scenes, in preparation for a new project. On the way, visited the Sungei Road flea market, and found among the heaps of scrap and debris a real gem, something so surprising and delightful that it gave me the impetus to write a new story. Not a travel journal, not a fragmentary collection of scenes and thoughts, but a real narrative, with a proper plotline and central idea. It's been so long since I last wrote something like this, though I've been teaching my Sec 2s for the last term how to write a properly constructed short story. And having the opportunity and the impetus to write pure fiction again is pretty liberating.

Today, rediscovered the joy in wandering, and particularly in wandering through places I thought I already knew and still finding surprises. This is the kind of delight, I think, that only big cities can offer. Only in big cities can novelty persist, and the element of the unexpected can exist in such substantial quantities that it makes you sit up and take notice, and forms a real barrier against complacency.