Sunday, September 07, 2003
On the Jocelyn-ong saga.
Jocelyn-ong.net was, for the unintiated, a website set up by an unknown Singaporean male about the Object of his Desires, a, surprise surprise, female.
I never got to see it first-hand. Thanks to some rather underhanded reporting by the local amatuer papparrazzi / scandal mongers who like to pass themselves off as full-fledged reporters, moral judgement has already been passed by the entire country, which HAS perused his page. And flooded it off the server. All I got to see was a snapshot image from MrBrown's webpage.
It was an intriguing read. On a very base level, part of me felt sympathy for the guy. It's my job to empathise, or, if I can't, to smile warmly and sympathise. That's what I do, and I'm damn good at it. I know it, I'm not proud of it. A&E doctors smile and pat people on the hands and say, you're going to get damn good care from the medics / geriatricians / (pause) surgeons. Nevermind that I've never once stepped onto a surgical ward in this hospital, and the little hovel that is A&E is my home. They'll take good care of you, I'm sure.
Reading his accounts of unrequited love saddened me. Part of me even, for an instant, felt an odd camaraderie with him. The mists of time thicken, it seems, with the years. As I forget the odd but sweet moments We shared, once upon a time, all that remains is the prolonged prelude, when I too felt like the forlorn, tragic-hero. When I, too was unable to step out of my head, and I loved someone who seemed unattainable to the point of distraction.
And then part of me steps back and says, but no. I would never, never have told the world about it; never have painted myself to the world as the Hero, and she the Villain (although, the way this guy writes, it's difficult to spot where one begins and the other ends). Because she was my hero, and I would have thought well of her, no matter what.
And a very integral part of loving someone, is not wanting to hurt her.
Reading his obsessed rants was almost frightening. He wanted her to see him. He wanted her to SEE him. He wanted her to humour him. HE wanted, to Be, with Her. Even if he scared the hell out of her. And he wanted EVERYONE ELSE to see HIM as the hero.
And as he terrorised her, he mused that she was too selfish; too influenced by her so-called bigoted friends to spare him a thought. And finally, he reached the "fuck her, she wasted my time" conclusion, and spewed forth his venom, on her, on the world.
The damndest thing is, there's always two sides to the coin. One of the unhappy lessons I learnt, over the years of playing moderator cum empathy-dispensor was that you can always see two sides to an argument. And when you're not on one or the other end of the stick, you're free to choose one you personally believe in - but also free to play devil's advocate, in case the other party doesn't think like yourself.
And while most of the country is up in flames because 1) He was a very scary, almost perverted, fixated nutcase, short of a case but full of nuts,
part of it is angry because
2) he made several comments about Singaporean society, in general.
I couldn't help but notice that this guy wrote well. As well as I write. Perceptively, dispassionately, and eloquently. (He wasn't, of course, half as funny as myself, or half as humble. Hmm while we're at it, let's add in...)
And somewhere in his rants he flailed out at the bigots that make up Singaporean society, who mumble behind backs, and turn a flock of clueless sheep into a vangard of resentful, hostile bores, with a mere flick of the lip.
And he was right. That is Singapore in a nutshell. We love rumours. We love to judge. Perhaps it's the oriental genes, hongkies seem to do the same. Scandal is in our blood, and melodrama is an artform. The world is always divided into our self-righteous selves, into Us, and the Villains. The Villains, Eee-yer, are the evil aiyo, perverted wahlau, mad fa-feng people, who are, of course nothing like ourselves. We have to protect ourselves from people like Them.
Even our government takes this stance, although on a macrocosmic scale. (We have to protect our Country, from influences, like That.) Nobody is allowed to simply exist, and anybody who does, and doesn't put much stock in the angry little buzzing in the background that tries subtley to shape him or her into its perception of themselves- is bohemian, and by definition, dangerous and subversive.
I too was judged relentlessly, once upon a time. The sad tragic-hero wannabe, he should stop wasting his time. SHE wouldn't like someone like him. They're nothing alike, and come on, SHE's so wonderful, whereas he's just.... I wasn't blind, in the depths of my self-protective reclusiveness. I kept my peace, and steeled myself for a lifetime of - hopelessness.
If they only knew how history wrote itself; if they only knew the strange things we did eventually say to each other, countless nights ago, continents and worlds apart, the fondnesses we exchanged, and memories we shared.
And they never will - because I will protect her memory, and her peace of mind. At the expense of mine.
That is the essence of love, Mr whoever-you-were. You can love someone from afar - but you only love her for real, if you love her more than yourself. You can well spend a lifetime pining, and writing about it. But focus on yourself, and terrorise her - and you will always be the Villain. Not just to the babbling bigoted mob you despise - but to the silent auditors and the quiet watchers as well. The people who might have been your allies, if you had had
that little bit of integrity, and intestinal fortitude.
And I take issue with his comments about Christianity - that religion of the upper-class two-faced wannabes, disappointing him.
Christianity is free, and available to all.
Walking past the tiny Anglican church next to my place in London the other day, I noticed a small, nondescript homemade shrine standing by a few heaps of sleeping bags that contained, somewhere within their midsts, a couple of homeless drunks. It consisted of a small cross, fashioned out of two bound sticks, leaned against an assorted collection of wilted flowers nicked from somewhere or other.
A large metallic figure of Jesus Christ watched over it, bound and nailed to his own crucifix on the wall above, watching them in their suffering, but giving them the hope to carry on, through his.
Christianity was not your enemy, sir.
You were.
May God forgive you.
Jocelyn-ong.net was, for the unintiated, a website set up by an unknown Singaporean male about the Object of his Desires, a, surprise surprise, female.
I never got to see it first-hand. Thanks to some rather underhanded reporting by the local amatuer papparrazzi / scandal mongers who like to pass themselves off as full-fledged reporters, moral judgement has already been passed by the entire country, which HAS perused his page. And flooded it off the server. All I got to see was a snapshot image from MrBrown's webpage.
It was an intriguing read. On a very base level, part of me felt sympathy for the guy. It's my job to empathise, or, if I can't, to smile warmly and sympathise. That's what I do, and I'm damn good at it. I know it, I'm not proud of it. A&E doctors smile and pat people on the hands and say, you're going to get damn good care from the medics / geriatricians / (pause) surgeons. Nevermind that I've never once stepped onto a surgical ward in this hospital, and the little hovel that is A&E is my home. They'll take good care of you, I'm sure.
Reading his accounts of unrequited love saddened me. Part of me even, for an instant, felt an odd camaraderie with him. The mists of time thicken, it seems, with the years. As I forget the odd but sweet moments We shared, once upon a time, all that remains is the prolonged prelude, when I too felt like the forlorn, tragic-hero. When I, too was unable to step out of my head, and I loved someone who seemed unattainable to the point of distraction.
And then part of me steps back and says, but no. I would never, never have told the world about it; never have painted myself to the world as the Hero, and she the Villain (although, the way this guy writes, it's difficult to spot where one begins and the other ends). Because she was my hero, and I would have thought well of her, no matter what.
And a very integral part of loving someone, is not wanting to hurt her.
Reading his obsessed rants was almost frightening. He wanted her to see him. He wanted her to SEE him. He wanted her to humour him. HE wanted, to Be, with Her. Even if he scared the hell out of her. And he wanted EVERYONE ELSE to see HIM as the hero.
And as he terrorised her, he mused that she was too selfish; too influenced by her so-called bigoted friends to spare him a thought. And finally, he reached the "fuck her, she wasted my time" conclusion, and spewed forth his venom, on her, on the world.
The damndest thing is, there's always two sides to the coin. One of the unhappy lessons I learnt, over the years of playing moderator cum empathy-dispensor was that you can always see two sides to an argument. And when you're not on one or the other end of the stick, you're free to choose one you personally believe in - but also free to play devil's advocate, in case the other party doesn't think like yourself.
And while most of the country is up in flames because 1) He was a very scary, almost perverted, fixated nutcase, short of a case but full of nuts,
part of it is angry because
2) he made several comments about Singaporean society, in general.
I couldn't help but notice that this guy wrote well. As well as I write. Perceptively, dispassionately, and eloquently. (He wasn't, of course, half as funny as myself, or half as humble. Hmm while we're at it, let's add in...)
And somewhere in his rants he flailed out at the bigots that make up Singaporean society, who mumble behind backs, and turn a flock of clueless sheep into a vangard of resentful, hostile bores, with a mere flick of the lip.
And he was right. That is Singapore in a nutshell. We love rumours. We love to judge. Perhaps it's the oriental genes, hongkies seem to do the same. Scandal is in our blood, and melodrama is an artform. The world is always divided into our self-righteous selves, into Us, and the Villains. The Villains, Eee-yer, are the evil aiyo, perverted wahlau, mad fa-feng people, who are, of course nothing like ourselves. We have to protect ourselves from people like Them.
Even our government takes this stance, although on a macrocosmic scale. (We have to protect our Country, from influences, like That.) Nobody is allowed to simply exist, and anybody who does, and doesn't put much stock in the angry little buzzing in the background that tries subtley to shape him or her into its perception of themselves- is bohemian, and by definition, dangerous and subversive.
I too was judged relentlessly, once upon a time. The sad tragic-hero wannabe, he should stop wasting his time. SHE wouldn't like someone like him. They're nothing alike, and come on, SHE's so wonderful, whereas he's just.... I wasn't blind, in the depths of my self-protective reclusiveness. I kept my peace, and steeled myself for a lifetime of - hopelessness.
If they only knew how history wrote itself; if they only knew the strange things we did eventually say to each other, countless nights ago, continents and worlds apart, the fondnesses we exchanged, and memories we shared.
And they never will - because I will protect her memory, and her peace of mind. At the expense of mine.
That is the essence of love, Mr whoever-you-were. You can love someone from afar - but you only love her for real, if you love her more than yourself. You can well spend a lifetime pining, and writing about it. But focus on yourself, and terrorise her - and you will always be the Villain. Not just to the babbling bigoted mob you despise - but to the silent auditors and the quiet watchers as well. The people who might have been your allies, if you had had
that little bit of integrity, and intestinal fortitude.
And I take issue with his comments about Christianity - that religion of the upper-class two-faced wannabes, disappointing him.
Christianity is free, and available to all.
Walking past the tiny Anglican church next to my place in London the other day, I noticed a small, nondescript homemade shrine standing by a few heaps of sleeping bags that contained, somewhere within their midsts, a couple of homeless drunks. It consisted of a small cross, fashioned out of two bound sticks, leaned against an assorted collection of wilted flowers nicked from somewhere or other.
A large metallic figure of Jesus Christ watched over it, bound and nailed to his own crucifix on the wall above, watching them in their suffering, but giving them the hope to carry on, through his.
Christianity was not your enemy, sir.
You were.
May God forgive you.
