P.S. I like you.

P.S. I Love You is unembellished in plot – but that adds, to its credit, an emotional depth rare in modern films. Those who didn’t watch the film suffer a loss they can scarce fathom. P.S.I L U revolves the death of Irishman Gerard Butler (the actor’s name), an incurably sweet romantic, who writes a series of 10 letters before his passing to his wife Holly (this actress’ name I cannot remember). In these letters he helps Holly restore her life, after the emotional cliff representing his death. Every single one is footnoted with the words “P.S. I Love You.” He books a trip for her and her friends to Ireland, where they first met, in the full hope she’ll get better.

And so here’s my version of P.S. I Love You, an equivalent decidedly less romantic, certainly more quirky, and assuredly less slang-ish. The 7 posts which follow (it would have been 10, but I’ll only be gone for 7 days) are sans Irish slang, so you dn’t hauve ter decoude thee lingo-cultural lauyerrs of complehxity (LCLC) in me lenguage.

Comment anyway. In Taiwan, I won’t know a thing you whisper in the comments. It’d be awfully nice to have a big bundle of comments to read when I return. You know that feeling – people respond, and you feel all warm and fuzzy (it’s really because of the weather).

The posts will come with the full might of mother earth.

Check back everyday. Bookmark this page with a little link in your trousers browser for your posterity pastime. Who knows, you might get to know me better. They will appear at 10a.m. each day. (yes, the first one appears in just 24 hours. fancy that!)

-

P.S. I love don’t love like you. Enjoy the snowflakes.

P100

that extra 4km

Just when I thought I would waste today by not learning a single thing, this day taught me something new and valuable. I was getting more confident of running long distances – it wasn’t the long distance that taught me, but the time taken to run that distance.

13.5km Original Route

17.6km Actual route

For those map-literate, keeping to the original route would mean running through Tanglin, bypassing Redhill and running along the MRT route. Yet the route I took indeed cut through Tanglin, but I somehow strayed into Jervois, and landed up in Ganges Avenue, into Bukit Ho Swee, and Tiong Bahru.

At point 6 it began drizzling; by the time I reached 7 it was pouring. I stayed in a bus-stop, seeking shelter and doing the typical stationary exercises (dips, etc.). Soon it lightened to a mild drizzle, signalling that I could now move on. Then the mistake: I went onto Jervois Road – a highly unintelligent move. At point 8 I felt lost, and at 9 I asked a nice lady with a mixed accent who directed me to Tiong Bahru. And another lady who displayed some concern at me running in the rain. (I have this thing for asking ladies – there was this man I asked, but he couldn’t speak English, twirled his umbrella, and vigorously shook his head. This effectively proves that only females can sing.) It took another question to get me to Tiong Bahru – by then, factoring in all the stop-starts and rain-induced delays, it was 7-ish.

I entered Tiong Bahru station and asked the info counter if they had 10 cents to dial. They kindly gave that, after some hesitation at helping a drenched runner, and I phoned home. The reaction from my mum was expected – she was livid on the time I would return home, which she estimated to be 1.5 hours. Hardly exciting conversation pointless to reproduce here.

And I began to run. Tiong Bahru, Red Hill, Queenstown, Commonwealth, Buona Vista, Dover. Apprently it’s 6.5 km, and I completed it in less than an hour – thinking constantly, praying incessantly. The chief concern was that my mum would be worried, anxious, fearful. I didn’t want that. Weird, though, considering I should be indignant. After running for quite a bit even an hour for that distance seemed difficult – a third of the distance in less than a third of the time, with delays thrown in. Usually that distance is covered in less than half an hour. In any case, the song Though the Rain by mariah kept running through my mind. Very apt and very nice.

Obviously when I went home she was very… dao. She told me about how she called dad, now on a business trip, and “told” him how important it was for me to know how to go about running as a sport.

Perhaps the only compensation for running so long is that I become almost soaked. The smell from rain is satisfying. Make that the second. In fact, here’s a third: add two kinks to today’s track and it becomes a Singapore F1 racecourse lookalike. I loved today’s experience.

Getting lost is wonderful – if only I had more time to wander, then I would find my way.

When you get caught in the rain
With noware to run
When you’re distraught
And in pain without anyone and you feel so far away

That you just can’t find your way home
You can get there alone
It’s okay
What you say is,

I can make it through the rain
I can stand up once again
On my own and I know
That I’m strong enough to mend
And every time I feel afraid
I hold tighter to my faith
And I live one more day
And I make it through the rain

And if you keep falling down
Don’t you dare give in
You will arise safe and sound
So keep pressing on steadfastly
And you’ll find what you need to prevail
What you say is

I can make it through the rain
I can stand up once again
On my own and I know
That I’m strong enough to mend
And every time I feel afraid
I hold tighter to my faith
And I live one more day
And I make it through the rain

And when the wind blows
As shadows grow close
Don’t be afraid
There’s nothing you can’t face
And should they tell you
You’ll never pull through
Don’t hesitate
Stand tall and say I

I can make it through the rain
I can stand up once again
On my own and I know
That I’m strong enough to mend
And every time I feel afraid
I hold tighter to my faith
And I live one more day
And I’ll make it through the rain

I can make it through the rain
And stand up once again
And I live one more day, and I
I can make it through the rain
Oh yes, you can
You’re gonna make it through the rain.

Tastebuds have feelings, too.

What are the odds that, after being well for 3 years straight, you have a flu on your birthday?

My flu began the day before my “beatific” birthday, and ended the day after. It was beatific all right. (thanks conan for that)

It’s like a sandwich, no? More cucumbers, more onions, more Chipotle Southwest and those black circular mushrooms (which, by the way, look like bread fungus compressed into many tiny blackcurrent lozenges) please. Oh, and a Macadamia with peanut butter cookie. Small cup, yes. No, I didn’t add extra cheese.

So yeah. I’m going to spend my birthday post on my new-found fascination with those prescription medicines.

One of the sins which pharmaceutical firms commit is their penchant for producing medicines either as tiny as possible (so you fumble and it drops off the table and you just can’t be bothered and just pop another out of those aluminium things), or as ugly as possible (hands up – those who think that the yellow-red capsules are pretty). It’s either this or that.

Then there’s those with drowsy effeczzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Oh, oh, those which pretend to cure you, but never do. Cough medicines are especially famous for this. I couldn’t sleep on the night of my birthday thanks to a whopping cough which – and you should take this less metaphorically – shook the bed.

But I think the worst, most unforgivable sin any pharmaceutical firm can commit is to make a cough syrup doused with “strawberry” or “blueberry” flavouring. Nothing can beat it. It’s stunningly revolting  – first, the texture is gooey and slides down your throat like an eel, which makes you squirm in your frame. Then the taste – good lord, the taste - attacks your tongue and all the taste-buds haplessly attached to it. You use your tastebuds to enjoy magical food, and now just because they have signed a MOU to remain on your body, you abuse the very organs which give you the glorious sensations. Tastebuds have feelings too.

CAT Syndrome

No matter how nicely you format your report or presentation or portfolio, someone’s bound to ask,

Is that Calibri?

or perhaps,

Did you use Arial?

and otherwise,

You used Times New Roman right? What font size?

Most of our understanding of what constitutes a beautiful or user-friendly font theme or style comes from Microsoft Word’s default formatting or our friends, the majority of whom invariably uses Microsoft’s default formatting.

It’s time that we changed some of that. The ugliness of and the ignorance surrounding the use of this “mainstream” variety fonts is unacceptable. We can overcome this through a proper cultivation of taste, beginning with a brief introduction of what makes a font practical and polished simultaneously.

The following are 3 categories of fonts which are readily used by a generic audience, and comprises at least 5 of my favourite fonts. Each of them have wonderful flavour, and each glyph (character) carries with it character and accomplishment. A word of caution: use them appropriately, use them well. Don’t ever abuse a font.

(For easy reference and high-quality zoom, use the pdf instead.)

*Simple Sophistication fonts are fully interchangeable.

Transformers, High School Musical 2 and Mamma Mia

I signed up for Y-camp because I wanted to try something new. I didn’t know it clashed with my revision schedule for the CT1s. And that straight 4As/5As is an ideal to work towards in JC  life, especially for a J1. And still I went for Y-camp.

I was attached to Bo (not real name), my buddy for the 3D2N camp with them. We call them “benes”, short for beneficiaries in the camp. The camp really was for intellectually disabled persons, from different welfare organisations, to challenge themselves (“Y Camp Challenge”) in creative arts, high elements, camp craft, and a little song & dance.

Bo didn’t dig any of that. He is 24 years old and has Down Syndrome. He is plump and is shorter than me by about 2 heads. He has a life, and a face, scarred, because another chromosome decided to slot its way to his genetic makeup. Since the 1-day orientation before the camp, I got to know him as a person whose life revolved around movies, songs, dances. That filled his life since he got to know the movies that would dominate a person of around 12.

Bo didn’t do much of the other activites. Where others were playing obstacle course games, he spent his time under the shade, singing. We sang songs anywhere from the range of Doh-Re-Me to “My Heart Will Go On”, from “You Are the Music in Me” to “Fabulous” from High School Music 2. It was pretty much the same for the rest of the camp too. Where others were doing high elements, he was under the pavilion writing letters, two apologising to our camp group leader (Val) and how he promised to “play the next time”. He wrote one for me, telling me how “we good brother” and “we sing high school musical and mamma mia together”, in kid-type. I still keep that piece of blue paper. Where others (even physically handicapped benes) went for dragon boating, we sat on the bench facing the sea, and started singing national day songs. He didn’t do the next activity (camp craft) either – he sat on the pavement drawing Transformers figures and Pokemon balls. So we integrated that drawing into the camp craft structure.

At the end of the camp, there was nothing short of a full-blown emofeste. Some volunteers cried – a few out of pity, others out of genuine friendship. I didn’t shed any tears, not because I didn’t already miss my bene, but I have never believed in emofestes as a good way to end anything.

It seems easy to form a friendship with Bo. Start singing a song he likes, and he’ll sing along. Start playing dance music, and you’ll see him race in front of the stage and dance with a passion you might have forgotten could exist in a person – a special person. (And naturally I became his dance partner.) Get him to talk to his “clique” (fellow benes from Y-stars, a YMCA dance group for down syndrome people) consisting Bjorn and Terry (not real names), and he’ll be very much involved. He admires Bjorn, in particular, although the latter is almost unresponsive to the brotherly love that Bo showers upon him.

I should state that we should reflect the ways to serve the disadvantaged. I did, but that wasn’t what struck me most. What puzzled me at the beginning of the camp is what they attach to a relationship. Their desires of their relationships and life are so transparent and unmistakably innocent it strikes anyone as almost inconceivable. It could well be, but my relationship with Bo was genuine.  I don’t think I’ll forget him for a long time, and on the last day he showed that this sentiment was mutual. Another bene’s mother was to help bring him home. Hugging me for the fifth time, he stared deep into my eyes.

“I’ll see you next Saturday at Y-stars outing. Okay?”

As he stepped into the cab, he asked that again.

And I nodded, knowing full well I might not see him again.

on new speakers and burnt MPs

I’ve got new speakers! For those who don’t know. They’re made by some Divoom company, and the audio is quite simply… divine. I don’t listen to rock, so the bass isn’t used to its max, but it can produce very low bass sounds (R&B) and very high sounds. Of course I tested it. I’ve used it to listen to all the Divas, and they work brilliantly.

Celine Dion’s “Think Twice” leaves each of the X3′s speaker in magnificence, laden with vocal and emotional texture that only she possesses. Whitney Houston’s “Lover for Life” pulsates through the air; her voice makes us nod our heads even more fervently than ever before: this is a Stradivarius trapped in human flesh. Leona Lewis’ “Bleeding Love” reveals a hidden heart-throbbing intensity you would never have discovered if you hadn’t chanced upon the X3. Roberta Flack’s “Tonight I Celebrate My Love” is crystal clear; her voice sounds like an angel’s. (You actually only realise there is a beat behind the song which makes it glide so smoothly.) And Barbra Streisand – or shall we say, the speaker’s reproduction of her “Evergreen” – makes me wish she could have more concerts and make the tickets slightly more affordable. Meanwhile, Mariah Carey 1.0′s “Love Takes Time” is filled with painful desperation locked in a voice that soars quite beyond any male’s comprehension. The X3′s rendition of Mariah Carey 2.0′s cheeky “Touch My Body” is done to  T – each beat, each finger-click snazzes up that sexy tune.

Message of the Day: Your ears are precious; feed them good vibrations!

The Old, and…

The New!

(For pictures, take a look at the website. The subwoofer and satellite speakers are not small, but I am very willing to invest in the paradise that follows. That’s especially because I have people actually worth listening to on my playlist. If you know me well enough, you know who I’m talking about. )

On the other hand, Mr Straits Times should realise that there is hardly any need to show the burnt MP’s progress. I know it’s quite sad and all – the PAP’s MP of some GRC got burnt at work – heroic stuff. But I think it should realise that it’s not exactly newsworthy stuff to fill the pages on. Get over it. Not many Singaporeans are that concerned that some MP got burnt a few weeks, months, years down the road to merit that sort of attention which Mr Straits Times tells us we should have. If they really have nothing to do with that front-page space, I don’t mind taking it.

So here’s my proposition to the Straits Times: syndicate this blog! I think the citizens of Singapore can find more to identify here than in MP Seng’s 14% burns. We deserve to learn more about our society from the perspective of a teenager dealing with “life” than how he cannot shake hands because he put on special gloves. Don’t we?

CAP, facebook and my idiotic notion of holidays

CAP’09 leaves me with a sense of bewilderment and astonishment. I have thought for five minutes how to put this, but even writing casually about it seems difficult. We had the “academic” stuff on one hand, which wasn’t excessively mind-nourishing. My greatest takeaway was Cyril Wong’s (the local poet) comment of my hastily scribbled poem:

“A bad Sylvia Plath.”
- Cyril Wong

So much for my lit capabilities. We had Agnes Meadows as well (a brilliant performance poet, but I accidentally blurted out “Meadowfields” instead – and have been mocked quite extensively ever since). The plenaries were sleepfestes, while the writing workshops were not bad. I was exposed to poetry writing – not my can of rootbeer, but still. For the performance workshop, I was allocated Contemporary Dance. Now I want you to imagine me. Then imagine me dancing. I know it looks bad. So stop imagining and get back to this post.

CAP was much more of a social event. We meet fellow students from different backgrounds and schools not as students, but as people waiting to socialise and be socialised with. I was privileged to be part of the “4AM gangzz” clique. (Somehow groups of friends make things more endurable.)

The 4AM gangz

this one with leon

Initially it was Rachelle (self-declared tyrant-tranny from VJ), Samuel (“good” samuel from TJ) and I. We caught on almost immediately, and stuck together throughout. It’s amazing how you can enter this camp and after 5 days feel as if you’ve known the person for such a long time. We were joined by Leon/TQ/Michelle (RJ), Liying (PJ), Yishu (AC) and Isaac (NUSH) soon after. On the last night 0f CAP, we stayed up at the campus’ “Reading Room” and went from playing iPhones to naughty gossip to music appreciation to plain talk. Some person lay sprawled across the length of the large tables, and some person – worse – spat blueberry waffles onto the iPhones! Various declarations were made – from Rachelle’s “I have eight boobs” and “all my underwear is on my bed” to Liying’s so-naughty-it-should-be-forbidden gossip – that it kept the conversation going. It was havoc.

I left at around 3:30 – apparently they stayed till 4:00 until some councillors caught the rest of them. I heard the next day that the councillors even thought that they were making love. The very idea still makes me laugh.

It all leads me back to my thesis: it’s darn refreshing to know people from other backgrounds.

The subsequent uploading frenzy of facebook photos was one of the most ferocious I’ve seen – scrolling, tagging, commenting – one entire night frizzled into virtual bits of colours joined together to represent friendships made. Camwhoring was another major feature in the last hour. Led by the indefatigable Rachelle, the 4AM gangz took over a hundred shots. (Facebook, we were sure, was going to crash that night, given the amount of photos taken. FB has created new purpose for digital cameras.)

And lastly, my recent invention is quite simply the most nifty thing in the World of Mugging: the Slack Quotient. It measures your work done over a period of time. Unlike IQ, it can vary at different intervals. For simplicity of use, Aaron Tang and Nigel have a moving SQ average of 1-24; while Wenjie has an average (self-declared) SQ of 180. This Wiki article uses almost humorous terms to describe IQ. On the same scale:

SQ Ranges	Slackness Classification
1-24	Profound Retardation in slacking ability
25–39	Severe Retardation in slacking ability
40–54	Moderate Retardation in slacking ability
55–69	Mild Retardation in slacking ability
70–84	Borderline Retardation in slacking ability
85-114	Average Intelligence in slacking
115-129	Bright in slacking
130-144	Moderately Gifted in slacking
145-159	Highly Gifted in slacking
160-175	Exceptionally Gifted in slacking
Over 175	Profoundly Gifted in slacking

the last day of school

The last day of school always holds some special significance. In A13A, it meant that a quarter of our JC life had finished. That held some form of significance. I hope A13A gets to bond more. It’s going to be a pity if a bunch of nice, genuine, and thinking people are trapped by divisions.

In any case, here’s a peak into an extraordinary day into my life (otherwise I wouldn’t have posted it here, would I?). I waited for about 2 hours for debates. I didn’t get to debate, i.e. I’m not selected into the ACJC I/C debates team. I am beginning to be quite immune to such disappointments, especially in debates. It’s hardly new – because you are lacking, therefore you should not enter the team. Because you do not enter the team, you are lacking. Because you are lacking, therefore you should not enter the team. Because… ad infinitum

But the purpose of this post is not for such banal things like competitions and selections – people who aren’t selected for anything, get over it! If people think you don’t matter, don’t make yourself matter to them. Be someone else altogether to someone else. You don’t need to be good for causes or people which demean you as a person. Don’t degrade yourself. So what if you aren’t good in that field? Don’t encourage yourself with the “you weren’t selected because the team requires synergy.” It’s only hasty, oops-i-can-think-of-anything-else-to-say-therefore-i’ll-say-this-feel-good-crap dialogue your ears should hardly bother about. Coaches use that often. It means i’m-sorry-but-you-suck. (Haha don’t you even think of labelling me a cynic, because you are thinking just that too. Own up to it – you aren’t good, so do something else. Be someone to who really matters.)

After being mildly worn out during debates of not doing anything, I deliberated, then went to AstroNight. The stars weren’t important; the people there were. I met wenjie, who went out with me for dinner. (teehehee, wenjie. better hope someone doesn’t read this!) I realised they – aaron, renyong and him – were going to aaron’s house for a competition the day after. So I decided to tag along for a stayover, with everyone else – after all, it was the last day of school.

It was 11:30 when they ended the Night officially, and packed up. So the four of us went to his house. The attic was large, and comprised two rooms. (For those who haven’t been there, it’s quite a treat. There’s childhood toys, music CDs, X Boxes, and even a drum set.) They were having a little trouble captioning their photos, so I started playing videos on Youtube. Music, Live performances, Vlogs. It was entertaining, though I admit I was initially quite a distraction.

Later aaron collapsed in fatigue, so wenjie and I stayed up with the Mac. We started to listen and sing pop songs – mainly the divas – and began about two hours worth of singing. Obviously only the divas featured in our playlist – Celine, Leona, Mariah (a pity no Whitney this time) – I’m positive that only they can sing, and sing well. Wenjie has perfect pitch, but he occasionally “over-estimates” the vocal latitude of the singer. So he is consistently about a semitone away from the note. (This is a problem which consistently plagues a good deal of guys when singing songs sung by ladies. The pitch goes high, the notes waver, the voice lacks punch. Transposing the song an octave or another lower is less of a sin than losing the power and tone, I realised. )

So anyway renyong joins us and it’s about half an hour before we sleep. I couldn’t go down and retrive my bottle, so I was left thirsty in the attic. It was really because of Snowball, aaron’s dog, who barked incessantly at the sound of our voices and footsteps down the stairs. It’s not wise to wake your host’s family up, but it is especially foolish to do so at 2:30 in the morning.

So we wake up at 8 the next day. They do their rehearsals and mock-ups. (They used a very considerable amount of effort and time – that much was evident.) I do my youtube. A little more singing resumes. But the mood is serious. We have brunch at 10. They leave for their competition, and I leave for home.

how’s life been?

Last week, I got (on average) as many as 2 queries daily from concerned buddies who ask me why I looked so “emo”. Of course, it seems that the most popular suggestion was that I should stop worrying about those people over “there”, in response to my previous post (with all the dreary news I post, it’s a wonder why people still visit this online repository of depression . WordPress stats tell me that readership rates have actually shifted upwards, which is somewhat surprising news.)

There is a reason, I reckon, as to why this blog seems to have survived for 3 years running, without dying out, and with a post at least every month. Blogging is a stamina sport, and it isn’t about regurgitating everything that happened that day with a few cutesy reflections to mark the occasions. That’s what I learned soon after a whole slew of my friends’ blogs died out at the start of this year – it is about putting some thought into each post, so it isn’t a shallow confession of the day past, but sustained intervals of quality stuff. Mine’s not all “quality”, though , it’s really more of a motley of random readings and reflections strung together.

Anyway. (what a junsean-esque way of beginning!)

How’s life been for me? GREAT. Really, not bad at all.

I haven’t reported the events since january began; nor do I plan to faithfully to do so. So here’s a nice little summary.

Orientation was good – my OG (O’ops I did it again!) and OGLs were wonderful people. It wasn’t the all-out-chiong sort of group, but we got to know each other really well, judging by the time we were put together. We have had a number of lunches so far, which were all pleasant affairs.

My class is 10A13A, a HELM-GELM-other combo class. It’s very diverse, and the people are, as most humans people are, outgoing and very friendly. RJC operates in a vacuum of group-work projects (in academic subjects besides PW), so there’s less breeding ground for conflict. Right now, everyone tends to stick to their invidual cliques, also divided along gender lines. (So much for faithful reporting.) Still, there have been promising signs of better class bonding, and more guy-girl interactions, so we’ll be great friends with each other at this rate.

Meanwhile, the lecturers and tutors seem to be reasonbly good, with some exceptional ones like Mrs Uma Chong and our expatriate teachers (Mr Reeves and Mrs Perry).

Right now, I’m also dabbling with poetry. It seems to have taken on a fresher meaning. Prose is still my favourite, though. Maybe I’ll compile some of my short stories (Short as in short, not rambling ones.) and post them here. You’ll need to ask me!