Truths of Old

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
you get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger,
may you never take one single breath for granted,
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
when every one door closes, I hope one more opens,
promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance,
and when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance
I hope you dance

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance,
never settle for the path of least resistance,
living might mean taking chances, but they're worth taking,
loving might be a mistake, but it's worth making

don't let some helping heart leave you bitter,
when you come close to selling out, reconsider,
give the heavens above more than just a passing glance,
and when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,
when every one door closes, I hope one more opens,
promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance,
and when you get the choice, to sit it out or dance

dance.

- Leanne Womack, I hope you dance

From Guy B, to Girl A. Wherever you are.

My last day in Singapore is passing quietly and uneventfully in a blur of sleep, Terri Pratchett and my mother's incessant hovering. So many trips back I've been spending - emotionally, over females. Meeting someone maybe?- heart hop skips jumps, not meeting someone, gut plummetts, meeting someone's parents blah blah blah. Frankly, I'm sick of it :) This has been a nice, quiet holiday. Fourteen days of bliss. Tomorrow I'll be a world away, returned to reality - or perhaps Unreality? Perhaps all this has been but a ripple in the matrix. But it's been a good one - I do feel rested now, and if not ecstatic, at peace at least.
What a shame I haven't got an early retrenchment to secretly look forward to!
On "the lost", and denial. Actually, I remember being in denial myself, once. Sometimes there're forces at work that are greater than one's own personal resolve - and that's what makes everything all the sweeter when denial is grudgingly forced into retreat. :) And watching one particular story unfold, watching a master craftsman chipping unconsciously, but extremely skillfully away at the granite face of someone's resolve, I can't help but laugh and wonder how his sculpture will turn out. Here's rooting for you, Icarus. :)
Re-minisce has decided to embark upon a campaign of reconciliation, which he seems to have done pretty well so far. Two out of three isn't so bad I guess. And the proverbial post-breakup enmity need not exist. Maybe he's growing old?
Two cases in particular stand out because the separations weren't entirely born of selfishness. The third was entirely born of feeling helpless and hapless, and unable to continue. Fatigue, and sheer self-centredness. I remember LKY once saying you should love the person you marry, and not the other way around. Well lah dee dah. LKY was a batty old fool by then, already, anyhow :)
One of the cases was motivated by a lot of factors, mainly in my head. An inescapable one (which I tried weakly to explain retrospectively to the "subject") was the passage of years. I'm not age-ist. In fact I'm almost a complete failure as a wannabe cynic, when it comes to romance. Cynicism is easy in the aftermath, but surprisingly difficult when you're caught in the initial heady throes. But at the end of the day, I took a step back, because I realised she didn't have time. She was (still is) four years older than myself. Not such a big deal, and I guess if we'd been in our early twenties it'd have been fine. But a twenty nine year old doesn't have time to waste, on a kid who may or may not be making a mistake. Said kid didn't think he was making a mistake, but that tiny cynical voice started buzzing "what if?" and he realised that to try to follow it through, possibly to wind down lukewarmly (too many factors against) years later would be almost criminal. Cos then the female in question would be a little older, a little less shiny, and very possibly in our sad little society, a little less appealing to the blokes around her. And, as he's tried to tell her - a girl like that is too good to go to waste. And so he ran.
One of the other cases was motivated by common sense, in Her head, and self-preservation, in His. He didn't want to watch his best friend's (one of) wedding and pull a Julia Roberts. And he'd grown tired of concealing his emotions, which is very much what you have to do when you stay friends with someone you're still in love with. And so he ran.
Love, and concealment.
Scrolling back down there I find myself writing I've only been in love once.
That's untrue. I've been in love three times.
The first was epic. And unfortunately, it may not quite have faded completely; I'm still puzzling that one out.
Epic being defined by silly, childlike movie moments, and the sheer roller-coaster-esque feel of it all. Head over heels at first sight, love at second. Flying, but strangely, with feet on the ground. Practical flying. Sustainable for life? Would've been, given different circumstances.
The second was also epic, in its own way. Not quite a roller coaster, but definite movie moments, although mostly available in audio only. Attraction (or intrigue?) at first sight, and love at second speak. lol. Flying for a bit, then mostly running, with head firmly in clouds. Sustainable? Maybe, but it didn't happen that way.
The third wasn't so much epic as long-drawn. A sensible, sane start, and a lacklustre end. No first-sight element to speak of, and walking most of the way. Sustainable - no. Falling into love, as opposed to falling in love.
Concealment. I started this blog initially because I'd grown tired of my webpage. All names had to be concealed. References made had to be oblique, for preservation of identities, privacy and God knows what else. It was very trying. So I decided to start a blog nobody would know about, and just be myself. Looking back over what I've just written, the names seem to have fallen out again, and the references are becoming rather confused in their attempts not to divulge revealing facts.
So I've decided to have two blogs. This will remain, as my personal blog, consisting mainly of touchy feely sad rants at the world, and the people around me that paint me as your typical, depressed, angsty individual. Names will continue to be dropped from time to time, except those involving individuals who may be reading this since you all already know who you are. There's so few of you anyhow! :)
The other is going to be at http://drgoat.blogspot.com and is going to be modelled after drsheep.com - unabashedly, shamelessly plugging the author, and how wonderful he thinks he is. Also to poke fun at all things shiny, Singaporean, and generally pathetic.
It's time, methinks, I grew up and joined my own genre. The guys like http://tictactone.com and http://the2ndrule.com - peeps who were once my classmates and friends, and contemporaries.

As an aside.
I dedicate this moment to The Lost. The lost are the various people out there who have happiness within their grasp, but can't seem to find the strength to close their hands. Time, unfortunately, is not the friend of the Lost. I can attest to that.
I pray that He will grant you all the insight, to Find the courage to close those hands.

And back to our main feature.
More on The RJ case. Apparently, according to hearsay from assorted websites, said teacher loses her temper often and is not the most popular of educationists. I'm disturbed that most contributers appear to want to crucify the teacher and support the courageous student who dared to make his post public.
Well, I'm sorry, but no. The teacher may or may not have been provoked into her tirade. (In Good English too! Maybe we should promote her and put her in the ministry) We don't have the facts at hand and yet we're all ready to condemn her, based on a three minute video clip. What about the "last week" she mentions? OR the countless other "last weeks" she doesn't? And I'm disgusted that we're trying to elevate a student - who HAS confessed to questioning his own ethics - into something of a local hero for daring to challenge the system and expose the "truth". (which for fecks sakes, we ALL already knew. We've all been students once...)
That's not how it happened at all. It was a moment's thoughtlessness, apparently, that led to the student posting the video on the internet. MrBrown caught a scent of it and everything snowballed from there.
Since then the student has humbly confessed that he hadn't forseen the consequences. His own web server restricted his access! Oh deary me.
Well, to "bw", there's more at stake than your hide, and your web server (although, I suppose it's regrettable that you didn't see this coming, and you have some of my sympathy) - the teacher's employment history is going to be irreversably altered. She may well, unofficially, suffer for this in the long run. She may not be your teacher much longer - are you happy now? And all because... she took the time and effort to care about a student's poor performance.
And what's all this claptrap about teachers having to nurture the young in the gentlest, most caring way? I'm sorry, but again - No. It's the role of the parent to nurture a child. It's the role of the teacher to educate the child. Isn't it often said that Life is the Hardest Teacher? (And I'm not referring to the Strait's Times either). Education has to be tailored to suit the child. If tender encouragement will do the job - I'm sure most teachers would take that route. Far less stressful. If it takes a bit of pyrotechnics to break through a "bad" kid - so be it.
The "Bad" teacher, in my books is the one who doesn't care. Who's too jaded to care anymore about the student's he or she is teaching. Who just sticks a random grade on stuff, and runs off home. The Bad teacher doesn't educate, she fulfils her job requirements and nothing more. In fact, I recall a biology teacher I once had, who spent all her time crying in class. Over her unborn children, in fact. A miscarriage from years ago, became our fault. And biology... was a mystery to us.
You tell me. Is a bad teacher someone who rants loudly to make her student wake up and smell the bovine excrement he's immersing himself in? Or the teacher who doesn't care if he's mired in **** and going down, baby, down.

Been following the Case against the RJC Teacher / Case Against the RJC Student with interest. I can't believe it's become a major talking point. Everyone's acting so offended because a teacher called a student a crafty old rat? Err. what exactly am I missing here. How does a teacher reprimanding a student become an issue. How does a civilised (albeit loud) chastising imply evil intent? As to the issue of the student surreptitiously filming the teacher - this is an excerpt of a comment I made on someone else's blog. I'm cutting and pasting for my convenience, but it sums up what I think.

RJC was my alma mater as well.
I'd like to say that a teacher is vested with the authority to punish, as well as reward a student, as one of the tools (or weapons?) to be employed in his or her education. The choice is ultimately a personal one, when to dangle the carrot and when the employ the cane? (And well do I remember the days when the cane was still employed...) Often the distinction is obvious; very occasionally there's a grey-area when different teachers would take different approaches. The problem here is we don't even know what the circumstances leading up to the scolding are. And I can't for the life of me find the video anywhere on the net; like most half-baked Singaporeans voicing their armchair opinions out there, I'm just going on hear-say and very-tentative news reports. To the author of this webpage, (grace) do you think you could send me the URL for that webpage privately, for my personal viewing (and not for the sake of public circulation). I'm contactable on the URL above.
As in any career, there will always be black sheep; there will always be bad teachers amongst the good who abuse their positions of authority. The same can be said of doctors, lawyers, and politicians. It is a fact of life. I don't feel that we have enough information to make a value-added judgement in this instance, and whether or not she was over-reacting, or reacting appropriately to the situation (for instance, if what we haven't seen includes footage of the student swearing at her?) is anyone's guess.
What I can say is that the act of filming without consent, and posting that footage onto the internet for public - and international! viewing is unethical and quite possibly illegal, not to mention downright despicable. It falls in the same category of voyeuristic changing-room videos and hidden sex-cams. It is sensationalistic, thoughtless, and doesn't so much make a statement as pander to a depraved (but in this instance ironically self-righteous) public. It is time for our youth to realise that personal autonomy comes with personal responsibility; the price of freedom IS eternal vigilance, and without it comes only decay. If we were to promote (and support!) a culture of senseless, self-righteous rage-against-the-machine angstiness our country is going to go down, baby, down. The ends do NOT always justify the means. The teacher in question, whether good or bad, has now had her reputation irreparably damaged. I can only hope that the pinheaded pupil who posted that video is now feeling remorse, and overwhelmingly out of his depth - as opposed to childish glee at his teacher's predicament.
Where will this go from here? Online voyeur cams of teachers having sex with each other? (I can imagine our public tut-tutting self-righteously. No right for teachers to indulge in evil sexual acts as educationalists and molders of our childrens' futures...) Or doctors in consultation with their patients? (Doctor violates patient with instrument in suggestive manner because he blinked!) Under-table footage of footsy games at business conferences? Are we such a sad public that we NEED to create a scandal out of something as mundane, and as commonplace (come on! all of us have witnessed, or been subject to scoldings by teachers as students) as a teacher holding a student to task for his tardiness - no matter how loudly she shouted? If she'd hit him or knocked him over, I might begin to understand - but are we such a pathetic bunch that we're going to molly coddle our poor underaged teenagers (who, I wonder, will be going into the army next year and facing far worse scoldings than that little trifle we saw on the news?) from verbal chastising? And sly old rat? Come on. Even my parents call me worse things than that, from time to time. :)

I once had a web page where i tended to write about the good things in my life; this blog, however focuses on the mundane, everyday existence. Upon discussion with someone I realised that this blog may well paint a darker picture of my life than it is, in reality; someone else, though commented that this site is better written than the last - for it's honesty.
So that leaves me wondering what to write about... the nice things? There've been a few. Getting hit on by a patient's daughter is well worth a laugh; picture her as an angelina jodie lookalike (minus the oversized lips) and it's positively hysterical :) Other nice things? Feeling a - rare - strong attraction at first sight to someone, and discovering mutuality was worth a laugh too, nevermind that it couldn't go anywhere.
But no, I'd rather write about the things I feel like writing about. And so, instead I'll write that I feel like I'm in stasis, here on holiday; alternately sleeping, and occasionally meeting with friends, but by and large feeling trapped by sheer ennui. Surfing the web constantly to find that everyone else's blog seems to have gone into suspended animation; that nothing, at all is happening, and I can't just wander out of the house and take a random walk, like I do in London, because back here, back home, I am not my own master.

The world's looking a very strange place for me, tonight.
Went to a wedding yesterday, and it was beautiful. aren't they always? Playmobile couple, with beautiful voices to boot. Congratulations, and apologies for not being able to show for the dinner, Lucian. Didn't go for the dinner, because I decided to go for the concert instead. Figured that if I was going alone, maybe that was a small mitigation, and the playlist included almost every favourite of mine. In the end, although I tried to go alone, my mother typically tried to sit me with her friend, and friend's daughter, a local celebrity in the classical world. Was most unimpressed by said daughter who has half the country (namely XY) raving about her stunning good looks and talent on instrument, but most impressed by the concert. Never seen him play with such wild abandon before, closing my eyes, I could hear the tears / raindrops / joyful *oomphs* ... everything you never really hear at a classical concert - singing forth from a solitary grand piano. And it was beautiful.
Today. Met a friend, and once more-than-friend. Things didn't go as badly as she imagined they would, I think. I wasn't expecting bad or good, just figured it's good to stay in touch, try to stay friends, with people who are Worth it. Retrospectively, definitely worth it. She's still quirky, intelligent, funny, pretty and mildly unhinged. Deserves the world on a platter, and I hope she gets it! Well, perhaps not the world. I want the world for myself :)
After that, met with, another old friend, from longer ago. Caught up, yakked, moaned and groaned, and laughed. It's been a very long time since we spoke, and it was nice. I suppose I ruined it by mentioning my "ghost", which first friend firmly believes I should exorcise, to give me a shot at the world. Alice thinks so as well. Virtually everyone seems to think that is how it should be done; me, it wouldn't feel right, and doesn't seem necessary. que serra, serra. (?sp)
so tonight, alone in the dark, at my brother's computer screen, the world seems a very strange place indeed. I want to go and play my soul out on the piano, but the door is locked. sigh.

My uncle's giving a recital tomorrow night, so my mum asked me if I wanted to get 2 tickets, better ask early if you do.
I remember yesteryear, when she asked me the same and I said yes, please. And had two tickets and the difficult decision of who to ask along. In the end I couldn't summon up the guts to ask You, since you probably wouldn't want to go anyway, and it might seem odd to you if I asked you since we weren't that close, (and all sorts of other lame excuses not to ask at all) so I asked someone else instead. I remember suffering countless inappropriate comments and questions by my late (but sweet!) grandfather about my supposed "girlfriend" and grinding my teeth in frustration; I could almost imagine my friend's teeth grinding as well...
And then, some time later you said you'd have loved to go, and I remember feeling completely - stricken. I'd asked the wrong girl. The one person I wanted to go with... had actually wanted to go with me.
And so, now history repeats itself. Except now I'm a little older, and a little wiser; and I'd rather not go at all, than go with the wrong person. I can't bring myself to.

I dreamt about dreaming about You last night.
I've had the dream before, sort of. We were talking and laughing next to each other, there was a table but I think this time we were sitting on the same side on a sofa thingy. I was happy, and so were you. I cast my eye about the room, listening to you laughing about something, and then I woke up. And as I woke I remembered my happiness sleepily, and thought that things weren't so bad now. And then I noticed little differences in the room I'd woken up in - a book wasn't in the same place as before - and I felt fear, and as I came fully away from that land somewhere between the realms of sleep and wakefulness, I realised it had all been a dream. I was speaking to Kenneth dejectedly about it, telling him my despair, the sheer extent of how tired I'd become of the story I'd written for myself. How much I missed You. And then I woke up, again. I haven't had a dream within a dream before - is it possible? And I haven't felt so sad on waking up in a long while.
The phone rang today, and after "hello?" I was met only with a pause, and the sounds of background ambient noises, people in the background. And as the silence lengthened, I suddenly thought I don't know why, that it might be Her. That familiar voice charged with life and amusement, that slightly drawly accent. And the sheer absurdedness of it made me feel like - any moment now - and then the line went dead.
I watched AI today, for the first time. I'd read a lot of bad things about it in assorted movie reviews, about how it didn't have enough tecchy scenes and hi-fi action sequences. But I loved it. It was as pure a movie as you could ask for - a simple, unadulterated story, written for the sake of the story, and not the audience. From the first tentative "??"s at the start of the movie, till the end when I was near to tears. A beautifully sad story. And that, I suspect, is why it didn't make it big at the box office. It didn't have big bang special effects, it didn't have a sweet happy ending. It didn't try to make a statement. In short, it wasn't superficial enough for most of the world.
It's been four days since I got back home and I don't know what to do with myself anymore. I realise that I'm lonely, but not for any human company. I miss having someone who felt about things the way I did, who expressed herself in ways I appreciated, who had similar dreams and ideals to myself, who I could relate to without trying. Who I could speak to, so, so easily.

This very moment, I am undeniably and frustratingly jetlagged. three am and wide eyed; dunno about bushy tailed. I watched How to Lose a Guy in Ten days on the 'plane, and thought, how funny. I could write a movie called "How to Lose a Girl in Ten Years". It turned out to be yet another sentimental chick flick, which, I suspect guys are really drawn to - or perhaps it's just me? Morbidly drawn to, like a moth to the fire. Sweet, sentimental, interspersed with loads of funny moments, then towards the end, a painful, bittersweet buildup to the ultimately saccharrine ending. And as always, I felt sad watching the sweet finale. Part of the reason why I hate sentimental movies; part of the reason perhaps I can identify with women and not-quite need to pretend to be teary (although, thankfully, I don't actually tear! I swear!) at the end of a sweet, funny movie. And in the deepest recesses of my heart, I tell myself yet again, I will NEVER watch another chick flick, even in the darkest, deepest emptiness of ennui, even if I've finished reading Harry Potter 6 or what have you, and am stuck with nothing to do on the 'plane, ever again. Never ever.
And I know I'll do it again on the flight back to Hearthrow.
And why do I get sad? Probably because I know that's not how it happens in real life. Haven't you noticed they almost all invariably end the same way? With someone, usually the guy, realising he's been wrong and that it is of the utmost import that he has to run headlong, on motorcycle or open-topped convertible, after the object of his desire and mouth off some cheesy, sweet line that melts her heart and persuades her not to leave.
Except in real life, what really happens is dejection, and the conviction that she really doesn't really want to see him anymore, ever. What happens is a quiet form of cowardice, is an overwhelming desire not to hurt her anymore, not to do anything she doesn't want. What happens, is no flurry of flailing limbs, but instead a quiet lean-to against the cold concrete walls somewhere at Baker Street station, sliding limply to the floor to sit there, in the cold darkness of winter, trying to blot out the million thoughts flitting through a mind feeling wholly unable to contain them anymore; is several hours of quiet, sightless contemplation; trying to hold back the flood of sadness. And eventually, an unfolding of limbs and a mundane train-ride back home.

The night before I fly home. Walking out to buy myself dinner, and I'm seized by an urge to forget dinner, and keep walking, and walking, and walking. Forever. Slightly chilly night out, and I'm feeling alone in London.
Reading someone else's blog I can't help but feel her hesitation, and her fear. Fear of losing her direction, of having to choose new directions, of being lost. I want to reach out to her and help. Walking along the road a little later toying with the thought of wildly following my impulses and walking till daybreak - nevermind that I should be packing, nevermind that I'll be on a plane this time tomorrow night, and the fragmented pieces of the puzzle fall drearily into place.
This friend of mine, whom I'm closer to now than I ever have been, is probably my friend because I feel like we have something in common; something easy to understand and empathise with - except that I am somewhere further along the road of fears, and I have chosen wrong. Other people have noticed, other people have voiced to her - and to me although I've never told her, that we should be together, it would make sense. When I hear it, usually I'm seized with an emotion - not quite laughter - oh, if they only knew the forces that drove us. Soemtimes, in a rare fit of humanity, I consider it and think, yes perhaps it would make sense, and yes she is attractive... And then I remember a time when nothing made sense.
And, walking along the sidewalk, placing my feet obsessively in the middle of cobblestones, a sad realisation that I've always known.
I want to help her. I wanted to help my best friend, and was his best man. I want to help my patients.
I've just finished Harry Potter 5. Potter is supposed to have that same wanting to help, that so-called nobility.
I don't know that it's called nobility. Perhaps I want to help because of where I am now. Who I am now.
I remember You, and I remember losing You. I remember what You used to sound like; I remember the moment I brought your world? and mine! crashing down around us. I have faith that yours was rebuilt considerably quicker than my own; my own was a holocast. And gradually, the anger, the guilt, the overwhelming sadness, the wracking reminiscence, the obsession faded. And gradually now, the slow regret is fading as well; and as everything fades, they are replaced with - desolation. A lonely desolation; trudging towards a cash machine and so, so sorely tempted to cast responsibility to the wind and keep walking, mind clear, like the dolls did. To surrender myself, as Potter yearns to, to oblivion when he's under the Imperious curse. And I want to help, because I don't want anyone else to become as desolate, as surely I alone must feel. And then I laugh and realise how self centred that sounds, and that many other people must feel as, or worse than, myself.
Time is passing, and I'm getting older. In a flash, it's been five years. If we were still friends, it would have been 13 years we'd known each other. I've filled the five years... meaninglessly. I've had a meaningless relationship that went nowhere. I've desecrated your memory, almost. I've tried to erase it. I've... gone wrong. And it frustrates me to know that you're only a press of a button a way; just a telephone call away - a very, taboo, telephone call that will never be made.
Maybe part of why I was so drawn to You, was because you gave me hope, that somewhere out there, there was someone else who wanted to help other people other than herself; just simply because she could.