Breaking Fast

Woke up at 4.30am to eat leftovers from the earlier day's supper, along with some friends. Well, at least it beats having cheeseburgers...

Occupy, occupy

Nothing is so unbearable to a man [sic] as to be completely at rest,
without passions, without business, without diversion, without study.
He then feels his nothingness, his falseness, his insufficiency, his
dependence, his weakness, his emptiness... (Blaise Pascal).

I really think so too, Blaise. How can we, bunch of do-ers as we are, ever reconcile the fact that in our innermost beings we are actually frail, insufficient, dependant and weak? We don't. We just ignore and hide it. By doing things.

My problem is that I am always doing something. Or thinking about doing it. Even in my emptiness, I still devise plans on the next project, next undertaking (worthwhile or not is another matter altogether). Blame it on the Type A syndrome, or high sugar intake, or grandma's super strong influence (she never seemed to stop doing housework - nor any work for that matter).

Hey, I dunno why I am wired this way, ok?

I do know however, that this weekend's photo shoot at the coastal village would be fun. Sure, it's work. But it's paid fun, so that's gotta count for something. In fact, the troops leave in exactly 6 hours. Can hardly wait.

Not Just Music

I watched the Eagles Farewell Tour (I) today with my godbrother. I have not done that since... forever. We used to play in the same band many years ago, he played the drums and lead guitar, Jason the bass, Jim would alternate on drums and the sound console, Bea on the piano, Su Yin on vocals, me on keyboards. We were a close-knitted group, hung out together most of the time, definitely had fun playing together, cared deeply for each other, etc, etc

At one point, I thought my existence depended on the music practices and the tea-drinking sessions that ensued. I hated the actual performance days coz it lacked experimentation and spontaneity. And I hated the fact that there was actually an audience listening and watching every move I made.

I left the band first. Sailed on a ship (amongst other things) and didn't really return till 5 years later. In between, Jim and Bea left too. Inevitably, we are all part of each other's memories. We may have grown apart or even estranged, but there is something in our relationship that just wouldn't die - despite the passage of time, opinions or new faces.

I hadn't asked them yet, but I suspect each of them - in their heart of hearts - harbour this desire to play together again. It was not just the music. It was the bond that was nurtured by hours of insane practices, between sheets of chord charts, fired by the passion to let the music soar. It was the sound of worship.

Yup, we will probably play together again. When the time is right.

Money Wheel

She was waiting for my friend and I. Medium height, hair pulled back in a ponytail, she adjusted her plastic-framed glasses and gave us a broad smile as we both sat down opposite her at the Indian diner.

My friend and I were prepared. Since the meeting was inevitable, we braced ourselves for the onslaught. And just like any hopeful recruiter, she was eager, motivated and dead-set on the belief that her internet business program would pave her way to financial freedom.

Sometime in the middle of the meeting her story disgorged – she still retained her corporate day job while trying to build a business to support her ageing parents and siblings. Her weekdays are spent working long hours and weekends occupied with business meetings. Commendable. I am surprised that after 4 million similar stories she still had my full attention. Actually, it was more of feeling sad for her.

My friend reckoned that it is “the system of this world” that’s the root of all these problems. She was reading Exodus, the part where Aaron and Moses approached the Egyptian pharaoh and asked for a 3-day reprieve for the Israelite slaves to make sacrifices to God. But the request backfired and the pharaoh was like, hey let’s make these lazy Israelites do more work, since they are paying attention to all these lies about sacrifice.

Are people hamsters? Trapped running on a tyrannical money-wheel that screams faster, faster, faster? How much productivity is enough? How much money is enough?

Sigh.

The brainwashing continues…Outdo! Outsell! Outrun! Out-think! Very soon it would be lights out, kiddo. And our lives would have accounted for little more than just having existed to make up the numbers.

Never had contentment been that elusive. Never had it been more needed.

Fatigue

In the past 24 hours, two guys (on separate occassions) whom I had not met in a couple months told me my face had turned green. As much as I appreciated their honesty, I didn't find their observation very flattering. Of course, it was tactless but at least it was the truth. I checked in the mirror. Disturbing. Sure, I had just recovered from a frozen arm and fever, but I hadn't realised my skin had turned to the colour of chrolophyll in the process.

Sheesh... I hate it when I tire easily and feel weak! There are so many things I cannot do (but would still attempt anyways). I felt so groggy today that I almost became a road menace while driving. Ugh. I hate it when my body doesn't obey. Hate, hate... think I need to sleep now. Too tired to think...

Left-handed Momentarily

Aaaargh! Lost use of right arm and now typing with 1 finger on left hand!!! Several possible reasons - Tennis Elbow. Writers' Cramp. Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. Stressed nerves clumped at base of neck.

Either way it is not good.

Alistair

I met Alistair Davidson in 1997 when LP and I were visiting the Carlisle Cathedral. In his 50s, portly and good-natured, he was the guide who really kept us entertained and interested in gothic structures and the "rich history of north England's religious past".

It must have been some sort of wild chemistry, coz the three of us hit it off straightaways. Imagine wicked humour, mischevious demeanour and witty sarcasm all lumped into one brewing concoction. No stirring needed.

Anyways, Alistair had a ball of a time (which prob explained why he invited us to his home for Sunday dinner that week). Since LP had gone back to London, the invite was directed at me.

I accepted with glee, being the social animal that I was (and still am). Any kind of social activity was most welcomed in Carlisle, and I was eager to know Alistair and his wife Pat better.

Unfortunately, as the dinner drew nearer, I started to have reservations and doubts. Why had I been so rash to accept? What if they are serial killers who prey on foreigners and proceeded to serve body parts the following meal? Eeek... paranoia working overtime....

The big day arrived. I had to keep to my word. Made my way to their house on the other side of town with a real sense of unease. I just didn't know what to expect.

When Pat opened the door, I thought I was doomed. She reminded me of the photo of the English serial killer I saw while browsing the crime section of the bookstore. It didn't help when their house was dimly lit, stuffy and overheated. I was asked to sit on the sofa, and was offered a drink while we made small talk.

All these while my mind and heart were racing, "calm down... locate the nearest exit, lock your attention there while showing these people how interested you are in their conversation...and don't drink too much... might be spiked..."

Finally dinner was served. It took me a while to get used to mushy peas and really tender roasts, but Pat's Yorkshire puddings were to die for... until today I can still taste it at the tip of my tongue...

We talked a lot that evening, about everything and anything. In fact, I spent almost every Sunday evening with Alistair and Pat for the next 2 years. Alistair retired working at the train station and was an avid modeler. He made all those 'cute toy soldiers' which he would display on his shelves at home. He loved history, and would take me to the much lesser-known parts of northern England and Scotland to show me castles, cathedrals and churches. Of course, I accompanied him on his trainspotting trips as well, though that has never really caught on.

Alistair loved to paint too, oil, watercolours, you name it. I had grown to love this man and his wife, both unassuming, kind and just regular people. We did something every Sunday. In the summer months it would be fishing, visiting the Fells or birdwatching at his huge backyard. One year he wrangled an invitation for me to speak to the children in his grand-daughter's school (they wanted to know more about people from Asia). During winter we would stay heated indoors while talking about anything from the state of world affairs to the price of beans.

During the last few months of my time in England, Alistair's health had taken a turn for the worse. Instead of his usual walking stick, he needed to be put on a wheelchair. Still, he was spirited, and even attended one of my church's services. Later, he would be confined to his wheelchair in his bedroom upstairs. Even so, he would be snarky when I spoke to him over the phone halfway across the world. I realised his strength was failing, even though his spirit wasn't.

During our last few conversations, we talked about life, death and eternal salvation. He assured me we will meet again, if not on earth.

Meanwhile, I miss my friend.

Wed and Dead

Just got the news. Alistair passed away couple hours back, in his home in Carlisle, north England. Don't feel anything yet - prob because the reality hasn't sunk in. I still have his paintings and cards and stuff in my room, his wife Pat had sent them years ago.

Right after Pat's email bringing the sad news, another friend messaged her anticipation at her upcoming wedding. Life goes on, we are hardly masters of our fate.

Not a Pervert Title

Aaaah... read "The First Time I Got Paid For It" at Kinokuniya this afternoon, during a downpour downtown. Mostly 2-pager snippets describing rags-to-riches accounts of (now) famous writers who were scraping-barrel-bottom poor at one point of their lives (but now have their dream Swiss chalets, villa in the country and are just short of heaping more onto their money pile at the expense of the hapless book buyer).

Strange thing is, books as such seem to be very popular, mostly coz they hit a vulnerable spot - a weak link, chink in the armour or what-have-you in their targetted audience (ie, those who walk around with a "In need of recognition... of any kind" sign emblazoned on their foreheads).

Anyways, with nose buried between the pages I read thru' half the book in two hours (had to be extremely good or really bad - go figure...)

Of course the Hollywood bigwigs had their obligatory say, most of them describing how their big break came about. It was pleasant reading, you know, writers reading about other writers, and wishing stuff that happened to them would happen to you too... (actually if they are real writers, probably half the stuff are gross exaggeration anyways...) And it wasn't just about the money either (though that would help). If you are writing for money, you may as well jump into the feng-shui bandwagon and get rich telling people what common sense had been trying to do all these while. While at it, throw in some obligatory seminars, workshops and TV appearances to cash in on the rakings-er-ratings. Perfect.

Anyhow, it was good encouragement to know that even writers like Bocho, Alda, Ephron and Goldberg had suffered the short end of the hustling game at some point... then again, for every Alda, there are probably 376 wannabes still bussing tables trying to edge their scripts onto the studio executives' desks.

One fella they didn't have in there was Akiva Goldsman (he wasn't a 'somebody' during time of print). And who could ever leave Orson Welles out? And live? No matter what stories other writers tell about themselves, nothing beats personal experience, I believe. That way, there's always a ring of authenticity to the story, no matter how many times it has been rehashed.

And yeah, decided to save my money and not contribute to Swiss chalet #3 for some hot writer who already make a ton of money.

Whenever I kick myself senseless over the rubbish I churn out, remind me God, to be thankful for the ability to write in the first place.

Lately unschooled

I often wondered what they teach kids at schools. Today I had a sneak preview. In fact, Joyce, this 8-year-old daughter of a friend, had sneaked up on me and pipped a question about geometry. Which was great, considering I had a consistent record of failing miserably in all manner of mathematics - applied or implied.

Joyce was undeterred.

"Jie-jie, do you know what a vertex is?"

"Do you mean a vortex?" I asked.

"No, no, it's a vertex. Can you tell me where the vertex is?" she opened a textbook that revealed an array of different geometric shapes, their names and descriptions.

"I have never heard of a vertex, are you sure it is part of your lesson?"

"Yes!" she thundered, getting impatient. "How come my teacher knows what it is and you don't??" A hint of exasperation there.

"Tell you what, Joyce," I said, "we'll google it, go to wikipedia and sort the entire thing out in 2 minutes, ok?"

One minute later, two other adults joined in to decipher the wikipedia explanation. "In 3D computer graphics, the a vertex is a point in 3D space with a particular location, usually given in terms of its x, y, and z coordinates. It is one of the fundamental structures in polygonal modelling... etc."

"OK, Joyce," I cooed in my most assuring tone,"don't sweat it. We now only have to find out what a polygonal model is, and then we will know what a vertex is all about! Easy, right?"

"But my teacher knows it and it is very simple! Why can't you explain it to me???? I just need to know where (in relation to the diagram) it is...!"

"Be patient, Joyce, ok, here is the explanation for a polygonal model.... (blah, blah)..."

By this time, all three adults were staring at the computer screen trying to crack the polygonal code. It may as well have been in hieroglyphics.

Joyce meanwhile, has disappeared from the room. (Maybe she finally decided that she wasn't going to waste her youth talking to baloney-spewing bozos, albeit articulate ones.)

When she returned, she opened another textbook which showed in great detail the different shapes, their names, and what each line and edge and corner is called. And there, there was the mighty vertex, in full view and in unmissable, distinct wording.

"Nah," she said, "look at the book. It says the vertex is the pointed tip of a cone or a pyramid (which traditionally points to the sky)." Satisfied, she finished her homework and went her merry little way, leaving us adults in a wake of incredulous shame.

I need an aspirin. Or go back to school.

Aspirin. Less tormenting.