Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Chilling
It seems that some people find my thoughts "chilling" (culled form a reader's comment to this writer's post)
read the blog u linked to also... the idea of one loving the memories instead of the person... and the type of person instead of the individual... itz a bit.... sad... shouldn't this be a connection on a higher level?? not juz based on wat has passed but wat u wanna live for? something that is more of the future than the past?
and worst of all... loving the type of person instead of the individual?? does that mean if he/she has changed he/she is no longer worthy of u love?? that's kinda chilling... cold... haiz...
*****
"How do you know?" she asked.
"..." he replied.
"How do you know you love me. Maybe you just love girls like me."
Years later, he thought as he drove home... it was a good hypothesis.
*****
The questions were not asked, and the answers assumed. As always.
*****
... it was a good hypothesis.
(Unspoken : It was also wrong.
Or at least, he never did find another girl remotely like Her.)
read the blog u linked to also... the idea of one loving the memories instead of the person... and the type of person instead of the individual... itz a bit.... sad... shouldn't this be a connection on a higher level?? not juz based on wat has passed but wat u wanna live for? something that is more of the future than the past?
and worst of all... loving the type of person instead of the individual?? does that mean if he/she has changed he/she is no longer worthy of u love?? that's kinda chilling... cold... haiz...
*****
"How do you know?" she asked.
"..." he replied.
"How do you know you love me. Maybe you just love girls like me."
Years later, he thought as he drove home... it was a good hypothesis.
*****
The questions were not asked, and the answers assumed. As always.
*****
... it was a good hypothesis.
(Unspoken : It was also wrong.
Or at least, he never did find another girl remotely like Her.)
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
The Eyes of the Watcher (2)
Something a friend said talking on the phone to him made him realise she saw him as someone who wanted to be different, but - unsaid, but implied - was not.
It made him realise how little this person on the end of the line really knew him.
He held his peace, and protested weakly.
But in truth, all his life he had been different. He'd been told it by teachers as a child - not a "good" different - just different. "Mature beyond his years" was a catchphrase that cropped up a lot - but they were just words to him. Hardly a compliment... just... empty words.
In a way, he was tired of being "different".
All his life he'd wanted nothing more than to be... ordinary.
Maybe it was the schooling, or the upbringing - but the die was cast. He couldn't help but be... a watcher.
*****
Watchers aren't wiser per se. They occasionally develop a knack of predicting the future, simply because they watch other people and develop the art of pattern recognition.
As much as we all want to believe it, we are none of us truly unique.
We're a thousand thousand people, a billion shades of skin, a boiling mass of innumerable petty wants, hopes, desires and lusts.
We're the same creature repeated ad infinitum, the same flesh molded around the same genetic code, granted a moments uniqueness in the unending chain of life that is time eternal.
Watchers observe the other people who live their lives trapped within their illusions of uniqueness. They watch them screw each other over; they watch them heal each other through little acts of kindness. They watch and almost become that person, for an instant. Many of them lose themselves in watching and begin to forget to live their own lives. Some of them become tired, or judgemental, or cynical. Some of them dream of immersing themselves in self-centredness and just losing their past.
Maybe a few of them really do.
*****
She had the eyes of a watcher. He couldn't help but notice them as he sat across her at the dinner table. They drew him to her, although he didn't know who she really was, or what she would be like away from the crowd.
They were attractive, because they were so instantly recognisable, and so rare.
They also reminded him of the eyes of another watcher.
But behind that watchers eyes lurked a burning humour. A strong desire to laugh - and make other people laugh. That watcher's eyes were afire.
*****
He didn't tend to look at himself much in the mirror, maybe he focused on parts of himself, for instance when he shaved. He didn't even like to look at photographs of himself, and he'd never really paused to think about it.
But that evening, as he sat entombed in the prison of the barber's chair, his gaze wandered across his reflection and he caught his own eye.
My God, he thought.
I look so old now.
*****
He used to lurk, partly waiting for his mother to pick him up after language class, and mostly waiting for that instant when She stepped out of Her own Japanese class and into her dad's black Peugeot, just so he could catch a glimpse of Her. He didn't know why he did it, and he refused to believe in infatuation. Too cynical.
It was always so fleeting and so quick, and yet for some reason he never thought to actually step up to Her, although they'd speak and laugh for what felt a lifetime on the 'phone every night.
It was plain silly.
But that's how it always went.
I watched from my window, always felt I was outside, looking in on you.
*****
He sat, crossed-legged on the floor with a cup of insipid tea cupped between his hands, leaning his head against the glass window and watching the world go by, and day turn to night.
The children around him sat immersed in their algebra, or thermodynamics, or flirting. He'd earned a close scrutiny from everyone in the room when he first walked in, but that was probably simply because he was nearly twice their ages.
He thought.
*****
It was so long ago, and it was this very spot. There was another restaurant here.
She said something, and everybody laughed, and he lowered his brow and looked at her across the edge of eyesight mock-menacingly.
"Ah, that's your dangerous look is it?" she drawled. She looked him levelly in the eye, and a side of her mouth crooked up in a tiny sideways smile.
The moment dragged, and for an instant he wondered if she was almost... flirting with him?
*****
Perhaps the one thing one should know about the author is that he has, over the years, become a consummate liar - sometimes he even manages to lie to himself.
And perhaps the one thing one should know about everybody else in his world is that they rarely think to ask him the right questions.
Or maybe they just can't be bothered anymore.
*****
And so, in a flash, another two thousand lives are extinguished.
Maybe it's just age catching up with me. But these last few years... these mass casualties and natural disasters seem to be occurring at an almost exponential rate.
Are these the Signs? Movie fodder.
Nonetheless, let us not forget.
And maybe pray a little.
It made him realise how little this person on the end of the line really knew him.
He held his peace, and protested weakly.
But in truth, all his life he had been different. He'd been told it by teachers as a child - not a "good" different - just different. "Mature beyond his years" was a catchphrase that cropped up a lot - but they were just words to him. Hardly a compliment... just... empty words.
In a way, he was tired of being "different".
All his life he'd wanted nothing more than to be... ordinary.
Maybe it was the schooling, or the upbringing - but the die was cast. He couldn't help but be... a watcher.
*****
Watchers aren't wiser per se. They occasionally develop a knack of predicting the future, simply because they watch other people and develop the art of pattern recognition.
As much as we all want to believe it, we are none of us truly unique.
We're a thousand thousand people, a billion shades of skin, a boiling mass of innumerable petty wants, hopes, desires and lusts.
We're the same creature repeated ad infinitum, the same flesh molded around the same genetic code, granted a moments uniqueness in the unending chain of life that is time eternal.
Watchers observe the other people who live their lives trapped within their illusions of uniqueness. They watch them screw each other over; they watch them heal each other through little acts of kindness. They watch and almost become that person, for an instant. Many of them lose themselves in watching and begin to forget to live their own lives. Some of them become tired, or judgemental, or cynical. Some of them dream of immersing themselves in self-centredness and just losing their past.
Maybe a few of them really do.
*****
She had the eyes of a watcher. He couldn't help but notice them as he sat across her at the dinner table. They drew him to her, although he didn't know who she really was, or what she would be like away from the crowd.
They were attractive, because they were so instantly recognisable, and so rare.
They also reminded him of the eyes of another watcher.
But behind that watchers eyes lurked a burning humour. A strong desire to laugh - and make other people laugh. That watcher's eyes were afire.
*****
He didn't tend to look at himself much in the mirror, maybe he focused on parts of himself, for instance when he shaved. He didn't even like to look at photographs of himself, and he'd never really paused to think about it.
But that evening, as he sat entombed in the prison of the barber's chair, his gaze wandered across his reflection and he caught his own eye.
My God, he thought.
I look so old now.
*****
He used to lurk, partly waiting for his mother to pick him up after language class, and mostly waiting for that instant when She stepped out of Her own Japanese class and into her dad's black Peugeot, just so he could catch a glimpse of Her. He didn't know why he did it, and he refused to believe in infatuation. Too cynical.
It was always so fleeting and so quick, and yet for some reason he never thought to actually step up to Her, although they'd speak and laugh for what felt a lifetime on the 'phone every night.
It was plain silly.
But that's how it always went.
I watched from my window, always felt I was outside, looking in on you.
*****
He sat, crossed-legged on the floor with a cup of insipid tea cupped between his hands, leaning his head against the glass window and watching the world go by, and day turn to night.
The children around him sat immersed in their algebra, or thermodynamics, or flirting. He'd earned a close scrutiny from everyone in the room when he first walked in, but that was probably simply because he was nearly twice their ages.
He thought.
*****
It was so long ago, and it was this very spot. There was another restaurant here.
She said something, and everybody laughed, and he lowered his brow and looked at her across the edge of eyesight mock-menacingly.
"Ah, that's your dangerous look is it?" she drawled. She looked him levelly in the eye, and a side of her mouth crooked up in a tiny sideways smile.
The moment dragged, and for an instant he wondered if she was almost... flirting with him?
*****
Perhaps the one thing one should know about the author is that he has, over the years, become a consummate liar - sometimes he even manages to lie to himself.
And perhaps the one thing one should know about everybody else in his world is that they rarely think to ask him the right questions.
Or maybe they just can't be bothered anymore.
*****
And so, in a flash, another two thousand lives are extinguished.
Maybe it's just age catching up with me. But these last few years... these mass casualties and natural disasters seem to be occurring at an almost exponential rate.
Are these the Signs? Movie fodder.
Nonetheless, let us not forget.
And maybe pray a little.
Monday, March 28, 2005
The Resurrection
My laptop died over the weekend. I've identified the root cause of the problem : a cooling fan on the back of it stopped spinning, and the resultant heat buildup must of done something nasty to one of the many bits, bolts and bobs and (I suspect) little blue pictsies that work the monitor. The laptop is still (barely) alive, but I can't see what it's thinking unless I plug a monitor into it, and prepare myself for the eventuality of it burning a hole through the table, the earth's mantle, and the fabric of the space time continuum.
So right now I'm sitting here surfing the net (for free!) in a service centre somewhere in the middle of Blueland waiting to present my case before my judge, jury andReaperman Repairman, in the hopes of being deemed worthy of The Great Gift of (Free) Resurrection (as dictated by my warranty agreement)
Fingers crossed. I repainted all the scratches and clawmarks on the casing. They'll buy it if I believe it enough...
Driving in here was a strange experience. I've been here many times in the past. A friend - or rather, I suspect, an ex-friend - of mine used to work here. It's a... blast from the past.
I've lost many friends through the decades, most of them to age and mutual neglect.
A select few cast me away.
And a very select few I cast aside.
The reasons for the former were usually stupid, and if only they knew the truth I suspect things would be... rather different.
In the aftermath of those, I'm just a little saddened, and mostly indifferent. Work and gym see to it that I'm too tired to dwell on low-priority situations. (Echoes of the past, a voice : You have to get your priorities straight)
But the one I cast away : I knew precisely what I was doing and the potential ramifications. I knew I was in the wrong when I did it, and I knew that I would regret it.
And I do.
*****
A friend of mine told me lately that she'd gotten past the self-abuse stage of her grief from a not-so-recent Mother of All Breakups (comes complete with mandatory male mindgames)
I paused for a moment and thought about all the time I spend in the gym trying to squeeze out that extra meter, to cut that extra minute, to set that extra 5 kg on the block... and wondered if perhaps I never really got past that point.
Maybe I'm just... slow.
*****
Said friend complains occasionally how her friend(s) get told they're so pretty, but she doesn't. Only once in a while completely random men rhapsodize to her that she's beautiful. She wonders (without quite saying it) if it's an approachability problem.
I just wonder why it's a problem at all. Damne, I never get saddled with these socio-moral-ethical dilemmas, bugger it.
And the odd time some strange looking bloke checks me out in the gym loo it just feels kinda yucky. purge from memory. delete. Backspace.
*****
Everytime I drive around the bend (in my car. In my car.) I notice, without quite noticing that the building is gone.
And suddenly I'm a teenager again, getting dropped off for German class by my mother.
I smile mechanically, wave goodbye robotically, and wait till she's out of eyesight.
And then I sprint, my lungs filling with the warm, moist miasma that is the afternoon's atmosphere, my legs never breaking stride as I run - I'm running in the same direction my mum drove, but I'm not running after her.
Because I stop just after I round the corner.
I'm here.
I step through the doors into the theatre. People are milling around, more - many more - people than I thought there would be. It's a mess of motion and sound, and somewhere in my mind I am disappointed... it's nothing the way I imagined it would be in my mind's eye. How will I possibly find...
... and then She is here.
Standing before me, resplendant (well I think so anyhow) in her blazer and tie, looking me dead in the eye and smiling.
She doesn't say anything - I beat her to the punchline for once, but she'll never really know what it meant this one time.
"This better be good... I'm missing German for this."
(Unspoken : This is the first class I've ever bunked off in my life.)
So right now I'm sitting here surfing the net (for free!) in a service centre somewhere in the middle of Blueland waiting to present my case before my judge, jury and
Fingers crossed. I repainted all the scratches and clawmarks on the casing. They'll buy it if I believe it enough...
Driving in here was a strange experience. I've been here many times in the past. A friend - or rather, I suspect, an ex-friend - of mine used to work here. It's a... blast from the past.
I've lost many friends through the decades, most of them to age and mutual neglect.
A select few cast me away.
And a very select few I cast aside.
The reasons for the former were usually stupid, and if only they knew the truth I suspect things would be... rather different.
In the aftermath of those, I'm just a little saddened, and mostly indifferent. Work and gym see to it that I'm too tired to dwell on low-priority situations. (Echoes of the past, a voice : You have to get your priorities straight)
But the one I cast away : I knew precisely what I was doing and the potential ramifications. I knew I was in the wrong when I did it, and I knew that I would regret it.
And I do.
*****
A friend of mine told me lately that she'd gotten past the self-abuse stage of her grief from a not-so-recent Mother of All Breakups (comes complete with mandatory male mindgames)
I paused for a moment and thought about all the time I spend in the gym trying to squeeze out that extra meter, to cut that extra minute, to set that extra 5 kg on the block... and wondered if perhaps I never really got past that point.
Maybe I'm just... slow.
*****
Said friend complains occasionally how her friend(s) get told they're so pretty, but she doesn't. Only once in a while completely random men rhapsodize to her that she's beautiful. She wonders (without quite saying it) if it's an approachability problem.
I just wonder why it's a problem at all. Damne, I never get saddled with these socio-moral-ethical dilemmas, bugger it.
And the odd time some strange looking bloke checks me out in the gym loo it just feels kinda yucky. purge from memory. delete. Backspace.
*****
Everytime I drive around the bend (in my car. In my car.) I notice, without quite noticing that the building is gone.
And suddenly I'm a teenager again, getting dropped off for German class by my mother.
I smile mechanically, wave goodbye robotically, and wait till she's out of eyesight.
And then I sprint, my lungs filling with the warm, moist miasma that is the afternoon's atmosphere, my legs never breaking stride as I run - I'm running in the same direction my mum drove, but I'm not running after her.
Because I stop just after I round the corner.
I'm here.
I step through the doors into the theatre. People are milling around, more - many more - people than I thought there would be. It's a mess of motion and sound, and somewhere in my mind I am disappointed... it's nothing the way I imagined it would be in my mind's eye. How will I possibly find...
... and then She is here.
Standing before me, resplendant (well I think so anyhow) in her blazer and tie, looking me dead in the eye and smiling.
She doesn't say anything - I beat her to the punchline for once, but she'll never really know what it meant this one time.
"This better be good... I'm missing German for this."
(Unspoken : This is the first class I've ever bunked off in my life.)
Delayed
I've been meaning to write this for a while now.
I heard... someone and the Flying Dutchman on the radio en route to work a few days back tutting about how preposterous and utterly disrespectful some people had been in pinning an aids unawareness badge on a - gasp - minister.
Disrespectful. Shocking. Disrespectful.
I've had it up to here now with this ridiculous little country.
Said minister is the same retard who ressurrected the first-generation hypothesis about AIDS and the gay community, namely that they are the vectors of the disease. That's one all us doctors thought had gone the way of the neanderthals, after numerous REAL studies (and not just "unnamed-experts unqualified but trustworthy opinions") proved the link flawed.
This rant isn't about being proud to be gay, or even about AIDs. I'm not, and I feel nothing but compassion for those with the disease, and when I treat them I always (like everyone else in the health sector) cut or stick my needles in real... carefully.
Respect. It's that ghetto word black men on TV spew at each other before beating the crap out of their brothers, and knifing them in the guts.
Respect is something that is earned.
If somebozo savvy minister has no choice but to set himself up because big brother wants to take a moralistic highground about sexual "deviancy", then no he doesn't deserve respect.
If he showed some intestinal fortitude and refused to play scapegoat, or perhaps resigned in protest...
... now that would earn respect.
But unfortunately that's not how it works here is it? Over here it's all about job security, holding on to your title and your ricebowl (even for the holy ministers!) and not rocking the boat. Resign today and tomorrow you'll be forgotten.
I don't think said unnamed minister should be upset that anyone was disrespectful towards him for his being a complete twit in public and arousing the fury of a subset of the general public (funny how big brother is so paranoid about stirring the racial hotpot, yet so blase about tossing the sexual salad...)
I think he earned that.
*****
We'd never fought, You and I. You called us faithful friends.
The fight, when it came wasn't just in words, but in silences as well. It wasn't loud; it bordered on dispassionate. Yet it was, for me anyhow, intense.
I let You down. I was... silly.
This is me, pinging empty air.
I heard... someone and the Flying Dutchman on the radio en route to work a few days back tutting about how preposterous and utterly disrespectful some people had been in pinning an aids unawareness badge on a - gasp - minister.
Disrespectful. Shocking. Disrespectful.
I've had it up to here now with this ridiculous little country.
Said minister is the same retard who ressurrected the first-generation hypothesis about AIDS and the gay community, namely that they are the vectors of the disease. That's one all us doctors thought had gone the way of the neanderthals, after numerous REAL studies (and not just "unnamed-experts unqualified but trustworthy opinions") proved the link flawed.
This rant isn't about being proud to be gay, or even about AIDs. I'm not, and I feel nothing but compassion for those with the disease, and when I treat them I always (like everyone else in the health sector) cut or stick my needles in real... carefully.
Respect. It's that ghetto word black men on TV spew at each other before beating the crap out of their brothers, and knifing them in the guts.
Respect is something that is earned.
If some
If he showed some intestinal fortitude and refused to play scapegoat, or perhaps resigned in protest...
... now that would earn respect.
But unfortunately that's not how it works here is it? Over here it's all about job security, holding on to your title and your ricebowl (even for the holy ministers!) and not rocking the boat. Resign today and tomorrow you'll be forgotten.
I don't think said unnamed minister should be upset that anyone was disrespectful towards him for his being a complete twit in public and arousing the fury of a subset of the general public (funny how big brother is so paranoid about stirring the racial hotpot, yet so blase about tossing the sexual salad...)
I think he earned that.
*****
We'd never fought, You and I. You called us faithful friends.
The fight, when it came wasn't just in words, but in silences as well. It wasn't loud; it bordered on dispassionate. Yet it was, for me anyhow, intense.
I let You down. I was... silly.
This is me, pinging empty air.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Hope
On this day God gave us hope.
... but only say the words.
*****
I´m so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish that you would just leave
´Cause your presence still lingers here
And it won´t leave me alone
These wounds won´t seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There´s just too much that time cannot erase
When you cried I´d wipe away all of your tears
When you´d scream I´d fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
And you still have all of me
You used to captivate me
By your resonating light
Now I´m bound by the life you´ve left behind
Your face it haunts my once pleasant dreams
Your voice it chased away all the sanity in me
These wounds won´t seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There´s just too much that time cannot erase
When you cried I´d wipe away all of your tears
When you´d scream I´d fight away all of your fears
and I held your hand through all of these years
And you still have all of me
I´ve tried so hard to tell myself that you´re gone
But though you´re still with me
I´ve been alone all along
When you cried I´d wipe away all of your tears
When you´d scream I´d fight away all of your fears
and I held your hand through all of these years
And you still have all of me
Evanescence : My immortal
*****
I am not a good Christian, Lord.
I am too self-centred. Too ready to fail. Too willing to win.
Too weak.
Thank you for believing in me. And all of us.
... but only say the words.
*****
I´m so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish that you would just leave
´Cause your presence still lingers here
And it won´t leave me alone
These wounds won´t seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There´s just too much that time cannot erase
When you cried I´d wipe away all of your tears
When you´d scream I´d fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
And you still have all of me
You used to captivate me
By your resonating light
Now I´m bound by the life you´ve left behind
Your face it haunts my once pleasant dreams
Your voice it chased away all the sanity in me
These wounds won´t seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There´s just too much that time cannot erase
When you cried I´d wipe away all of your tears
When you´d scream I´d fight away all of your fears
and I held your hand through all of these years
And you still have all of me
I´ve tried so hard to tell myself that you´re gone
But though you´re still with me
I´ve been alone all along
When you cried I´d wipe away all of your tears
When you´d scream I´d fight away all of your fears
and I held your hand through all of these years
And you still have all of me
Evanescence : My immortal
*****
I am not a good Christian, Lord.
I am too self-centred. Too ready to fail. Too willing to win.
Too weak.
Thank you for believing in me. And all of us.
Bedding Byes
Strange moment tonight, coming home from a pleasant meal at Buko Nero, after everyone had gone to bed. Slipping my key into the lock of my bedroom door, I glanced around at the garden my mum tends. It looks a mess in the day, but by moonlight it was so beautiful I was almost reluctant to step inside and turn on the lights. Standing in the garden under the pale moonlight... it was almost magical.
Maybe I'm just going slowly mad...
Must be sleep deprivation.
*****
My comments feature seems to be broken yet again, making it frustrating for anyone so-inclined to leave a mark.
I love enetation.
No, really, I do. Heh. Maybe I should make a donation to ensure the owner keeps up the current level of "quality" service.
*****
Supposed to write about some road sign today that proudly declared ECP (Jurong) dead ahead (ie up arrow).
Unexpectedly, we encountered a roundabout instead, and it was through happy chance that I noticed the tiny little ECP sign on the third turnoff.
Now other countries, they'd put a big sign with a circle on it and the words ROUNDABOUT, with each turnoff clearly marked.
We have straight arrows.
Everything in this country is straight...
*****
I forgot to write, the reason we worked triply hard after the MBBS was because it was all a bribe. You think patients volunteer to be poked repeatedly by wooden-faced medical students spouting the same phrase ad nauseum, out of some innate sense of good heartedness?
Hah. Think again. They get fifty bucks.
(Although to be fair, we probably don't explain it to them in enough detail. Heck, if someone told you you were going to get prodded by ten students over and over again in one day, would you bravely step forward to the fore(finger)?)
They also receive the promise of an operation straight after the exam (some of them have their surgery delayed too) to make up for their "inconvenience".
It's all give and take at the end of the day.
Although listening to some of the dear sweet old biddies misleading the confused little medical students into the quagmires of their irrelevant social and medical histories, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps more stringency in case selection might be an idea... Heck I wouldn't pay someone fifty bucks to have her make hordes of students go down flailing beneath the weight of her multiple comorbidities and misunderstood diagnoses...
Maybe I'm just going slowly mad...
Must be sleep deprivation.
*****
My comments feature seems to be broken yet again, making it frustrating for anyone so-inclined to leave a mark.
I love enetation.
No, really, I do. Heh. Maybe I should make a donation to ensure the owner keeps up the current level of "quality" service.
*****
Supposed to write about some road sign today that proudly declared ECP (Jurong) dead ahead (ie up arrow).
Unexpectedly, we encountered a roundabout instead, and it was through happy chance that I noticed the tiny little ECP sign on the third turnoff.
Now other countries, they'd put a big sign with a circle on it and the words ROUNDABOUT, with each turnoff clearly marked.
We have straight arrows.
Everything in this country is straight...
*****
I forgot to write, the reason we worked triply hard after the MBBS was because it was all a bribe. You think patients volunteer to be poked repeatedly by wooden-faced medical students spouting the same phrase ad nauseum, out of some innate sense of good heartedness?
Hah. Think again. They get fifty bucks.
(Although to be fair, we probably don't explain it to them in enough detail. Heck, if someone told you you were going to get prodded by ten students over and over again in one day, would you bravely step forward to the fore(finger)?)
They also receive the promise of an operation straight after the exam (some of them have their surgery delayed too) to make up for their "inconvenience".
It's all give and take at the end of the day.
Although listening to some of the dear sweet old biddies misleading the confused little medical students into the quagmires of their irrelevant social and medical histories, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps more stringency in case selection might be an idea... Heck I wouldn't pay someone fifty bucks to have her make hordes of students go down flailing beneath the weight of her multiple comorbidities and misunderstood diagnoses...
Friday, March 25, 2005
After math
The part that nobody hears about, after the MBBS finals.
(the bit in between was fairly boring, except for one student who was simply exceptional. Both examiners came alive then. It wasn't that she was pretty - she wasn't bad by re-minisce's books, but not a perfect ten... so scratch that theory. It was because she was good.
There are medical students, and medical students. The bulk who passed through were well rehearsed to the point of being robotic. Examining them was frankly - boring. They knew what to do; but they didn't apparently know why they were doing it. It was a bit like our local-made movies and tele-soaps : fair enough, but kinda wooden.
It was evident that this girl had a memory like a sponge, but she was also thinking. And she knew precisely why she was doing whatever she was doing... It was a pleasure just watching her in action.)
Anyway.
the Aftermath saw all the MOs missing lunch, and piling into theatre to assist their registrars and consultants. It was surgery on a massive scale with triple the usual number of theatres running long lists side by side.
We knocked off at eight, and I for one was exhausted. But it was a good day, in a strange, warped way. Especially for the 99.99% of the med students who, as I predicted, passed.
*****
As I suspected, it is possible to die of loneliness. I have proof now.
My brother's been keeping an acquarium full of tropical fish. You know, the skinny, irritating type that dart around and nibble on the walls and each other, and hyperactively do absolutely nothing at all.
He's also been keeping a solitary goldfish in with them. It spent its entire life (a few months) sitting in the corner of the tank, with its belly on the sand looking forlorn (yes, it really did) and not really doing anything at all other than breathe.
I always thought it looked kinda lonely.
Today, it wasn't in the tank anymore.
Barring an uncharacteristically energetic break for freedom, I'd postulate that our lonely hero has passed on to the next great fishtank in the sky.
moving swiftly on...
*****
He said something funny-ish as he ate, not really concentrating on the conversation, his eyes cast downwards on his food. He'd been doing that a lot recently.
She laughed, and there was a fraction of a second's pause as conversation slowed.
He glanced up, and she was smiling, her gaze lingering on his for a second more before wandering away.
Her shoulder-length brown-streaked hair was a bit frizzy at the ends. Her eyes weren't almond-shaped at all - they had a slightly tragic slant at the outer folds, which belied the smile she often wore.
Age hadn't quite caught up with her yet - she still had the flawless skin of a much younger woman, but something in his mind saw it - perhaps just the bias of friendship.
He thought, for just a moment, that she must have been quite a looker when she was younger.
Then he went back to concentrating on waiting for his raw-beef to turn to just the right shade of not-quite-medium. yum.
(the bit in between was fairly boring, except for one student who was simply exceptional. Both examiners came alive then. It wasn't that she was pretty - she wasn't bad by re-minisce's books, but not a perfect ten... so scratch that theory. It was because she was good.
There are medical students, and medical students. The bulk who passed through were well rehearsed to the point of being robotic. Examining them was frankly - boring. They knew what to do; but they didn't apparently know why they were doing it. It was a bit like our local-made movies and tele-soaps : fair enough, but kinda wooden.
It was evident that this girl had a memory like a sponge, but she was also thinking. And she knew precisely why she was doing whatever she was doing... It was a pleasure just watching her in action.)
Anyway.
the Aftermath saw all the MOs missing lunch, and piling into theatre to assist their registrars and consultants. It was surgery on a massive scale with triple the usual number of theatres running long lists side by side.
We knocked off at eight, and I for one was exhausted. But it was a good day, in a strange, warped way. Especially for the 99.99% of the med students who, as I predicted, passed.
*****
As I suspected, it is possible to die of loneliness. I have proof now.
My brother's been keeping an acquarium full of tropical fish. You know, the skinny, irritating type that dart around and nibble on the walls and each other, and hyperactively do absolutely nothing at all.
He's also been keeping a solitary goldfish in with them. It spent its entire life (a few months) sitting in the corner of the tank, with its belly on the sand looking forlorn (yes, it really did) and not really doing anything at all other than breathe.
I always thought it looked kinda lonely.
Today, it wasn't in the tank anymore.
Barring an uncharacteristically energetic break for freedom, I'd postulate that our lonely hero has passed on to the next great fishtank in the sky.
moving swiftly on...
*****
He said something funny-ish as he ate, not really concentrating on the conversation, his eyes cast downwards on his food. He'd been doing that a lot recently.
She laughed, and there was a fraction of a second's pause as conversation slowed.
He glanced up, and she was smiling, her gaze lingering on his for a second more before wandering away.
Her shoulder-length brown-streaked hair was a bit frizzy at the ends. Her eyes weren't almond-shaped at all - they had a slightly tragic slant at the outer folds, which belied the smile she often wore.
Age hadn't quite caught up with her yet - she still had the flawless skin of a much younger woman, but something in his mind saw it - perhaps just the bias of friendship.
He thought, for just a moment, that she must have been quite a looker when she was younger.
Then he went back to concentrating on waiting for his raw-beef to turn to just the right shade of not-quite-medium. yum.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
The Final Countdown
In a few days, final year med students across the country are going to panic en masse and trample each other to death in a mad scramble to flee the motherland.
Okay, maybe not. But it will be the final MBBS.
I'm not one of the kinds of MOs who pretends that he / she doesn't remember what final MBs were like. I remember it vividly, and a touch of the stark horror of being utterly and desperately unprepared still lingers with me today. And that was years ago.
Anybody who pretends it's all lost in the distant past is either raving loony or a complete twit.
Anyway, this is a note of sympathy to you med students across the country :
Don't worry.
You'll be just fine.
I remember what it was like to be told these exact same words by my seniors come finals season. I thought "yeah, yeah, you say that now. But I'm going to be the special one who flunks out, the one exception to the norm undeserving of your confidence." I thought "you don't understand at all, you've forgotten already". And I also thought "****!&&&&!! *!%!@#$(!%!@) I'm so 1@$!*ng A!@%!* unprepared!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (complete with all them exclamation marks)
So, don't worry kids.
We were all like you once,
and almost all of us passed.
The MBBS is really the last exam you will ever take designed to make you pass. (ah, except for ACLS and ATLS that is)
So just keep a calm head on your shoulders. When your moment of panic arrives, crush it brutally, and remember :
the examiners aren't interested in finding out how much you don't know.
They want to know how much you know... but more importantly, they want to know that you will be sensible, and above all : safe as a doctor.
It's really not that difficult to be sensible and safe. Anybody can do it.
And to those of you who aren't doctors or healthcare professionals reading this : sorry to dispel your illusions. You did not read this. You will go away now. This is a jedi mind trick. The manual guaranteed me it would work. You will send postal orders to...
Okay, maybe not. But it will be the final MBBS.
I'm not one of the kinds of MOs who pretends that he / she doesn't remember what final MBs were like. I remember it vividly, and a touch of the stark horror of being utterly and desperately unprepared still lingers with me today. And that was years ago.
Anybody who pretends it's all lost in the distant past is either raving loony or a complete twit.
Anyway, this is a note of sympathy to you med students across the country :
Don't worry.
You'll be just fine.
I remember what it was like to be told these exact same words by my seniors come finals season. I thought "yeah, yeah, you say that now. But I'm going to be the special one who flunks out, the one exception to the norm undeserving of your confidence." I thought "you don't understand at all, you've forgotten already". And I also thought "****!&&&&!! *!%!@#$(!%!@) I'm so 1@$!*ng A!@%!* unprepared!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (complete with all them exclamation marks)
So, don't worry kids.
We were all like you once,
and almost all of us passed.
The MBBS is really the last exam you will ever take designed to make you pass. (ah, except for ACLS and ATLS that is)
So just keep a calm head on your shoulders. When your moment of panic arrives, crush it brutally, and remember :
the examiners aren't interested in finding out how much you don't know.
They want to know how much you know... but more importantly, they want to know that you will be sensible, and above all : safe as a doctor.
It's really not that difficult to be sensible and safe. Anybody can do it.
And to those of you who aren't doctors or healthcare professionals reading this : sorry to dispel your illusions. You did not read this. You will go away now. This is a jedi mind trick. The manual guaranteed me it would work. You will send postal orders to...
Monday, March 21, 2005
In the Light
Before I forget : This is really funny.
*****
I've been meaning to, you know. For the longest time. Update my blogroll on the left. So many people are linking me now that it's a little overwhelming.
But.
So little time. So little energy.So many blondes at the gym.
Well okay there was only one today, and it wasn't the same gym as the last time, nor the same blonde. She didn't quite have the angellic face, but 99% of the men were not so surreptitiously undressing her with their eyes. The other 1%, I found out later as I luxuriated in a too-hot shower, were from Planet Fitness. (I overheard them, okay?)
ie, they were gay.
For those of you not plugged into the gym scene.
*****
"How do you know?" she asked.
"..." he replied.
"How do you know you love me. Maybe you just love girls like me."
Years later, he thought as he drove home... it was a good hypothesis.
*****
I'm sorry it felt the way it did; all I can say is that it wasn't the way it looked.
It wasn't planned.
That's probably a terrible apology. It is, in fact.
Nonetheless, it is an apology.
*****
I'm sad today. Can you tell? Probably not.
Something has happened which makes me remember what I hated most about this place.
We laugh about a climate of fear, once in a while some intrepid soul speaks or writes about it and loses his job, or becomes expelled from the country.
But the thing that bugs me most isn't the fear itself, but the fear of fear - the pre-emptory pre-fear.
The media censors itself, and apparently so too do other professional groups - for fear of offending the government.
And when they do, all it takes is an ominous invitation to dine with the head honcho, the son in the father / son / holy Goh trinity - a high-flying rap on the knuckles - and everything goes back to square one.
We will never grow up.
We're so goddamn childish.
And none of us have the intestinal fortitude to stand up and be heard, to band together and become more than we are - because we fear.
For our institutions. For our departments. For our careers, for our positions.
For our families.
And most of all, for ourselves.
I know now that I may live here for a while, but I will never, ever want to die here.
*****
One of the things that he loved most about her wasn't so much her easy-go-lucky ness. She was a very focused individual in many ways. Not averse to picking on pickpocket grannies either.
It may not even have been her. It might have been them.
Every moment of togetherness was intense, funny, magical - alive.
Sometimes bordering on slightly loopy. Email accounts bombarded to death within an hour, in a frenzied attempt to slip past the uni firewalls...
There were no boundaries. No time limits, no hurry to finish, yet no disappointment if it was fleeting - the moments were just... there.
He savoured them all. No expectations.
And he had a sense that she did, as well.
In between the moments, he didn't hunger. He didn't burn. He just lived his own life (although there were the odd moments when he walked down the street in winter, overcoat undone and arms akimbo, feeling... alive), not quite waiting with bated breath for that next moment... but knowing that it would come when it came. And every time it came, it was a fresh new surprise to be savoured.
Every hello? sounded faintly surprised.
Every goodbye was warm, amused. Contented.
Every coming together of beings was tentative, yet familiar.
No expectations.
Perhaps he was wishy washy... but that was how they were, together. That was why it was special.
Years later he knows that it isn't love that he misses - love, it's overrated. He isn't sure anymore if he still misses her. But perhaps part of him still misses them.
Still trying to get up and come alive.
Still waiting for the light... and another bringer of light.
*****
I've been meaning to, you know. For the longest time. Update my blogroll on the left. So many people are linking me now that it's a little overwhelming.
But.
So little time. So little energy.
Well okay there was only one today, and it wasn't the same gym as the last time, nor the same blonde. She didn't quite have the angellic face, but 99% of the men were not so surreptitiously undressing her with their eyes. The other 1%, I found out later as I luxuriated in a too-hot shower, were from Planet Fitness. (I overheard them, okay?)
ie, they were gay.
For those of you not plugged into the gym scene.
*****
"How do you know?" she asked.
"..." he replied.
"How do you know you love me. Maybe you just love girls like me."
Years later, he thought as he drove home... it was a good hypothesis.
*****
I'm sorry it felt the way it did; all I can say is that it wasn't the way it looked.
It wasn't planned.
That's probably a terrible apology. It is, in fact.
Nonetheless, it is an apology.
*****
I'm sad today. Can you tell? Probably not.
Something has happened which makes me remember what I hated most about this place.
We laugh about a climate of fear, once in a while some intrepid soul speaks or writes about it and loses his job, or becomes expelled from the country.
But the thing that bugs me most isn't the fear itself, but the fear of fear - the pre-emptory pre-fear.
The media censors itself, and apparently so too do other professional groups - for fear of offending the government.
And when they do, all it takes is an ominous invitation to dine with the head honcho, the son in the father / son / holy Goh trinity - a high-flying rap on the knuckles - and everything goes back to square one.
We will never grow up.
We're so goddamn childish.
And none of us have the intestinal fortitude to stand up and be heard, to band together and become more than we are - because we fear.
For our institutions. For our departments. For our careers, for our positions.
For our families.
And most of all, for ourselves.
I know now that I may live here for a while, but I will never, ever want to die here.
*****
One of the things that he loved most about her wasn't so much her easy-go-lucky ness. She was a very focused individual in many ways. Not averse to picking on pickpocket grannies either.
It may not even have been her. It might have been them.
Every moment of togetherness was intense, funny, magical - alive.
Sometimes bordering on slightly loopy. Email accounts bombarded to death within an hour, in a frenzied attempt to slip past the uni firewalls...
There were no boundaries. No time limits, no hurry to finish, yet no disappointment if it was fleeting - the moments were just... there.
He savoured them all. No expectations.
And he had a sense that she did, as well.
In between the moments, he didn't hunger. He didn't burn. He just lived his own life (although there were the odd moments when he walked down the street in winter, overcoat undone and arms akimbo, feeling... alive), not quite waiting with bated breath for that next moment... but knowing that it would come when it came. And every time it came, it was a fresh new surprise to be savoured.
Every hello? sounded faintly surprised.
Every goodbye was warm, amused. Contented.
Every coming together of beings was tentative, yet familiar.
No expectations.
Perhaps he was wishy washy... but that was how they were, together. That was why it was special.
Years later he knows that it isn't love that he misses - love, it's overrated. He isn't sure anymore if he still misses her. But perhaps part of him still misses them.
Still trying to get up and come alive.
Still waiting for the light... and another bringer of light.
She sells sea shells...
Okay someone explain this one to me.
Here we have the Speak Good English movement in full swing, proudly plastered across buses the country over (technically, it ought to be the Speaking English Well movement innit? But I shan't nitpick... for once...)...
... and yet we have, in large letters all over EVERYTHING else from a yacht to an entier street, the inspiring phrase, "Uniquely Singapore."
It has a certain ring to it (much akin to the sound one gets when you sustain a severe head injury from blunt trauma) no?
But... that's like saying Jealously Sheep. Or Drunkenly Goat. The point being that you can't put a noun after an adverb... at the very least make it an adjective.
Like Uniquely Singaporean.
Or Unique Singapore. That works too.
Anyway, I'm going to go Blurly Stone now.
(See? See? I'm getting the hang of this Singlish thing.)
Here we have the Speak Good English movement in full swing, proudly plastered across buses the country over (technically, it ought to be the Speaking English Well movement innit? But I shan't nitpick... for once...)...
... and yet we have, in large letters all over EVERYTHING else from a yacht to an entier street, the inspiring phrase, "Uniquely Singapore."
It has a certain ring to it (much akin to the sound one gets when you sustain a severe head injury from blunt trauma) no?
But... that's like saying Jealously Sheep. Or Drunkenly Goat. The point being that you can't put a noun after an adverb... at the very least make it an adjective.
Like Uniquely Singaporean.
Or Unique Singapore. That works too.
Anyway, I'm going to go Blurly Stone now.
(See? See? I'm getting the hang of this Singlish thing.)
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Tired
It's been... a rough week.
*****
Our Father,
who art in heaven,
Hallowed by Thy name
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven,
give us this day our daily bread
and forgive us our tresspasses
as we forgive those who tresspass against us
and lead us not into temptation
but deliver us from evil.
*****
Which of the two is the braver? The one who dares stay in the broken world all around us - or the one who dares try to give it all up : every last, wonderful, hideous drop of life's blood.
Which of the two is truly alive?
*****
We were telnet chatting one evening. It was early for me, and coming on late for You.
I asked you if you'd mind me going for a run. You said sure, you didn't mind.
I ran with a spring in my step; I'd never run that effortlessly before. I was back almost before I started.
I slumped into the chair, raggedly gasping for breath and typed in "hello?". The modem buzzed and flickered angrily at me a few times for keeping it waiting.
You were still there, waiting for me. Your reply came almost the instant I hit the enter key; half of me wasn't surprised at all.
Yet most of me, was.
We wrote, and I laughed.
*****
Our Father,
who art in heaven,
Hallowed by Thy name
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven,
give us this day our daily bread
and forgive us our tresspasses
as we forgive those who tresspass against us
and lead us not into temptation
but deliver us from evil.
*****
Which of the two is the braver? The one who dares stay in the broken world all around us - or the one who dares try to give it all up : every last, wonderful, hideous drop of life's blood.
Which of the two is truly alive?
*****
We were telnet chatting one evening. It was early for me, and coming on late for You.
I asked you if you'd mind me going for a run. You said sure, you didn't mind.
I ran with a spring in my step; I'd never run that effortlessly before. I was back almost before I started.
I slumped into the chair, raggedly gasping for breath and typed in "hello?". The modem buzzed and flickered angrily at me a few times for keeping it waiting.
You were still there, waiting for me. Your reply came almost the instant I hit the enter key; half of me wasn't surprised at all.
Yet most of me, was.
We wrote, and I laughed.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
I used to see the world in black and white, when I was younger. It made me very judgemental, and it made it difficult for me to relate to people with opinions different to mine.
"There are none so blind as those who will not see"
A lot has changed since leaving, and returning to this country. In my head that is.
Coming back now, I see that I was not alone. It is a malady that afflicts a great deal of us.
Until today, I still believed that the truth is paramount, and that the truth will set us free. In the Matrix, Neo chose the red pill - the real world - over the safe haven of the matrix. It was obvious why, the blue pill was harmful. Forgetting meant the death of life, and humanity.
I just watched Old Boy though, and now I'm wondering.
What if it is real life that chains us down, and forgetting the past that sets us free?
What if the death of life... lies in living?
"There are none so blind as those who will not see"
A lot has changed since leaving, and returning to this country. In my head that is.
Coming back now, I see that I was not alone. It is a malady that afflicts a great deal of us.
Until today, I still believed that the truth is paramount, and that the truth will set us free. In the Matrix, Neo chose the red pill - the real world - over the safe haven of the matrix. It was obvious why, the blue pill was harmful. Forgetting meant the death of life, and humanity.
I just watched Old Boy though, and now I'm wondering.
What if it is real life that chains us down, and forgetting the past that sets us free?
What if the death of life... lies in living?
Certified
well I now possess a little slip of paper that deems incompetent ol' me fit to mistreat even more conditions of a non chop-em-up nature. heh.
what will they think of next?
*****
... the call... wasn't what you thought.
*****
Okay, so here I am in the aftermath of a mini-exam of sorts, twiddling my thumbs and wondering why I bothered coming in early this morning...
anyhow, it appears I have been conscripted by a friend into writing a screenplay with effect from last night, for the something or other film something competition. shrug.
That's the way it always is isn't it. When faced with a big exam, first, distract yourself...
The prospect is intriguing. Now I just need a plot...
what will they think of next?
*****
... the call... wasn't what you thought.
*****
Okay, so here I am in the aftermath of a mini-exam of sorts, twiddling my thumbs and wondering why I bothered coming in early this morning...
anyhow, it appears I have been conscripted by a friend into writing a screenplay with effect from last night, for the something or other film something competition. shrug.
That's the way it always is isn't it. When faced with a big exam, first, distract yourself...
The prospect is intriguing. Now I just need a plot...
Friday, March 18, 2005
Moving on
His guard fell. Perhaps it was hypoglycaemia. Or perhaps it was insomnia-induced fatigue. Perhaps it was was hypothermia. Or maybe it was because he was assisting in theatre - one's mind does strange subconscious things to keep you awake sometimes.
Or maybe he was just slow...
But it hit him then as, holding on to his retractor, he remembered them - both, in full-colour detail. Exactly as they had been in life - grey. Pre-grey. Sobre. Drunk. Gentle. Cranky. And the permanence and enormity of it all struck him at last.
For an instant, perhaps just an instant before the cynic took over, he felt a welling breathlessness rise within his throat. And vision went very slightly hazy.
And then a voice told him Brace yourself. This is not the time, or place.
So he did.
Much later, he considered calling a friend who somehow, through the days started - quite unintentionally - becoming a port of call. But then he thought it best not to intrude. Too many problems of her own already, that one.
Let this be the end of the matter.
Or maybe he was just slow...
But it hit him then as, holding on to his retractor, he remembered them - both, in full-colour detail. Exactly as they had been in life - grey. Pre-grey. Sobre. Drunk. Gentle. Cranky. And the permanence and enormity of it all struck him at last.
For an instant, perhaps just an instant before the cynic took over, he felt a welling breathlessness rise within his throat. And vision went very slightly hazy.
And then a voice told him Brace yourself. This is not the time, or place.
So he did.
Much later, he considered calling a friend who somehow, through the days started - quite unintentionally - becoming a port of call. But then he thought it best not to intrude. Too many problems of her own already, that one.
Let this be the end of the matter.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Unspoken Eulogy
They got the hands slightly wrong.
*****
When it comes to my time, I think I should prefer to be interred in the ground.
(...Please.)
*****
Too much noise.
That's what he thought as he stepped through the door and away from the madding crowd. There was a slight desperation about it all, the frenzied catching up, the pleasantries and pleasant smiles one smiles at long-lost relatives that one never really sees, or ever gets to know... and he needed to escape all that.
He felt the sun on his skin as he skulked around outside, pausing for a moment at the old metal-frame swing that he used to play on as a child, that they don't seem to make anymore. He put a foot up on it, before noticing the rust-eaten hinges and smiling ruefully to himself.
He wandered back indoors but shunned the crowd, pausing for a while to sit down in a chair and stare aimlessly outside, through the ornately grilled windows, remembering a time when he used to do precisely this, and hope, and pray, for something... anything... to come and rescue him from... everything bad. From the chains in his mind.
He walked through her ghost, standing frozen in time on the corner with the bougainvillas, somewhere in the distance of the rear-view mirror cheerfully waving farewell to her children as the dad's car left her rapidly shrinking from view.
He smelt her scent, a rich, heady odour of mingled old-woman perfumes, harsh on the senses at first... powerfully breath-stopping stuff, musk almost, which gradually grew on you as you learnt to breathe again.
He remembered her smile; a kind, increasingly vacant and becoming more puzzled as the years passed, but always genuinely pleased and... kind.
Someone he wished he had known better, when he had the chance.
He played the piano for a while; this time nobody to ask the mother what he was playing, or to smile vacantly and lie that it was very nice... an empty house, full of familiar people. A shell of the past, haunted by memory.
Goodbye.
*****
When it comes to my time, I think I should prefer to be interred in the ground.
(...Please.)
*****
Too much noise.
That's what he thought as he stepped through the door and away from the madding crowd. There was a slight desperation about it all, the frenzied catching up, the pleasantries and pleasant smiles one smiles at long-lost relatives that one never really sees, or ever gets to know... and he needed to escape all that.
He felt the sun on his skin as he skulked around outside, pausing for a moment at the old metal-frame swing that he used to play on as a child, that they don't seem to make anymore. He put a foot up on it, before noticing the rust-eaten hinges and smiling ruefully to himself.
He wandered back indoors but shunned the crowd, pausing for a while to sit down in a chair and stare aimlessly outside, through the ornately grilled windows, remembering a time when he used to do precisely this, and hope, and pray, for something... anything... to come and rescue him from... everything bad. From the chains in his mind.
He walked through her ghost, standing frozen in time on the corner with the bougainvillas, somewhere in the distance of the rear-view mirror cheerfully waving farewell to her children as the dad's car left her rapidly shrinking from view.
He smelt her scent, a rich, heady odour of mingled old-woman perfumes, harsh on the senses at first... powerfully breath-stopping stuff, musk almost, which gradually grew on you as you learnt to breathe again.
He remembered her smile; a kind, increasingly vacant and becoming more puzzled as the years passed, but always genuinely pleased and... kind.
Someone he wished he had known better, when he had the chance.
He played the piano for a while; this time nobody to ask the mother what he was playing, or to smile vacantly and lie that it was very nice... an empty house, full of familiar people. A shell of the past, haunted by memory.
Goodbye.
Slightly surreal
On Eagle's Wings
You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord,
Who abide in His shadow for life,
Say to the Lord, "My Refuge,
My Rock in Whom I trust."
Refrain
And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.
The snare of the fowler will never capture you,
And famine will bring you no fear;
Under His Wings your refuge,
His faithfulness your shield.
Refrain
And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.
You need not fear the terror of the night,
Nor the arrow that flies by day,
Though thousands fall about you,
Near you it shall not come.
Refrain
And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.
For to His angels He's given a command,
To guard you in all of your ways,
Upon their hands they will bear you up,
Lest you dash your foot against a stone.
Refrain
And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.
You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord,
Who abide in His shadow for life,
Say to the Lord, "My Refuge,
My Rock in Whom I trust."
Refrain
And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.
The snare of the fowler will never capture you,
And famine will bring you no fear;
Under His Wings your refuge,
His faithfulness your shield.
Refrain
And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.
You need not fear the terror of the night,
Nor the arrow that flies by day,
Though thousands fall about you,
Near you it shall not come.
Refrain
And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.
For to His angels He's given a command,
To guard you in all of your ways,
Upon their hands they will bear you up,
Lest you dash your foot against a stone.
Refrain
And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Through the Looking Glass
The consultant had told the family : another day or two.
But one look at her and he knew.
She was so quiet, and so still today, making him think strange thoughts about death, and lonely journeys through motionless, twilit deserts, each tenuous step into the afterlife an un-re-traversable step further from the pasts we leave behind. From who we used to be. Sweet deliverence.
That's one of the things about being a doctor that gets to me sometimes. It's almost a form of clairvoyance. It takes the surprise out of everything; it almost drains the colour from life, and sometimes it feels like I'm watching a live-action replay from a fly-cam somewhere behind my head. I don't feel... much. Anymore. I just brace for impact, and when it comes, there is... nothing.
It's been like that for quite a while now - not just in medical aspects of this life. I have lost my ability to feel... truly surprised.
He looked up at the family. They did not know. They believed.
There's a sound someone makes before he or she dies. You read about it sometimes, it's called a death rattle. When I was a house officer, I (and all my other house officer colleagues) used to prescribe hyoscine, initially at the nurses prompting, and eventually as we began to recognise the sound, of our own initiative. It dries up secretions, stops the rattling, and lets the dying pass in peace - to give relief to the living they leave behind.
He spoke quietly, to himself, "hyoscine." But nobody heard him.
He was tempted to pen it onto the drug chart... but here and now his authority held no weight at all. Just this once.
The daughters wanted to know why their mother was rattling as she breathed. He kept his silence.
An hour later, the MO's voice droned on and on to the family about the process of death certification.
He looked around, into the eyes of the family members around him, one by one as the voice continued relentlessly on.
It was a strange experience.
*****
This is really funny.
But one look at her and he knew.
She was so quiet, and so still today, making him think strange thoughts about death, and lonely journeys through motionless, twilit deserts, each tenuous step into the afterlife an un-re-traversable step further from the pasts we leave behind. From who we used to be. Sweet deliverence.
That's one of the things about being a doctor that gets to me sometimes. It's almost a form of clairvoyance. It takes the surprise out of everything; it almost drains the colour from life, and sometimes it feels like I'm watching a live-action replay from a fly-cam somewhere behind my head. I don't feel... much. Anymore. I just brace for impact, and when it comes, there is... nothing.
It's been like that for quite a while now - not just in medical aspects of this life. I have lost my ability to feel... truly surprised.
He looked up at the family. They did not know. They believed.
There's a sound someone makes before he or she dies. You read about it sometimes, it's called a death rattle. When I was a house officer, I (and all my other house officer colleagues) used to prescribe hyoscine, initially at the nurses prompting, and eventually as we began to recognise the sound, of our own initiative. It dries up secretions, stops the rattling, and lets the dying pass in peace - to give relief to the living they leave behind.
He spoke quietly, to himself, "hyoscine." But nobody heard him.
He was tempted to pen it onto the drug chart... but here and now his authority held no weight at all. Just this once.
The daughters wanted to know why their mother was rattling as she breathed. He kept his silence.
An hour later, the MO's voice droned on and on to the family about the process of death certification.
He looked around, into the eyes of the family members around him, one by one as the voice continued relentlessly on.
It was a strange experience.
*****
This is really funny.
Passing of a Generation
She lay in bed.
So thin and fragile, but still so regal.
Enthroned on all sides by the pillows on her bed, breathing - too quickly,
and then too slowly, as he watched impassively from his lonely vigil in the corner.
His dull eyes fixed, unmoving at some inner point in space,
his jaw firmly set, his body a study in stillness. Who can tell where that churning mind fled, perhaps the comfort of the past, or perhaps just drifting aimlessly on, flailing at the filmy, surrealistic shrouds of the moment.
The mother arrived and held him in her arms, unspeaking.
She shifted restlessly in her bed, perhaps seeking some small comfort in her dream world between worlds, before settling back down to rest.
Words had no place here; there was no need to speak, no need to tell them that she would not wake from this slumber into the twilight.
The father and I stood shoulder to shoulder, mutely watching the numbers on the screen.
He asked to see the scans for himself.
The moment passed.
So thin and fragile, but still so regal.
Enthroned on all sides by the pillows on her bed, breathing - too quickly,
and then too slowly, as he watched impassively from his lonely vigil in the corner.
His dull eyes fixed, unmoving at some inner point in space,
his jaw firmly set, his body a study in stillness. Who can tell where that churning mind fled, perhaps the comfort of the past, or perhaps just drifting aimlessly on, flailing at the filmy, surrealistic shrouds of the moment.
The mother arrived and held him in her arms, unspeaking.
She shifted restlessly in her bed, perhaps seeking some small comfort in her dream world between worlds, before settling back down to rest.
Words had no place here; there was no need to speak, no need to tell them that she would not wake from this slumber into the twilight.
The father and I stood shoulder to shoulder, mutely watching the numbers on the screen.
He asked to see the scans for himself.
The moment passed.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Irony
He felt tired as he slotted the scans onto the light box and looked at them.
They weren't good. Pretty bad in fact. Remarkable for a small occipital fracture, that there would be such a large fronto-parietal subdural haematoma, and such a huge haemorrhagic contusion. It just goes to show, all that stuff we learn in med school about coup and contra coup, and big brain boxes and loose brains in the elderly, it's all true.
All the damage was left sided too. Not so good in a right handed individual. Nor the degree of midline shift.
He went to see her and noted the bilaterally fixed dilated pupils, and the previous note of dolls eye -ve and corneal reflex -ve. He put his hand on her head for a while in silence. She shifted about once in a while, somewhere in that dreamworld we stop by before we pass onto the next. She was deaf to his hello, and he didn't bother with a formal GCS.
She was so small, and so fragile now. And she looked so, so tired. The bruise on her head wasn't so much a bruise as a scrape; utterly trivial; easy to overlook.
He wondered if anything more could have been done for her; there's always so much more we could have all done in retrospect.
But here and now, this was very much the end. He knew it.
In a short while the family would arrive to go variously into shock, guilt, and denial. Right now, here in the silence of the cubicle, this was a sacrosanct moment but he didn't really know what to do with it, except stand in silence for a while, and just... watch.
Eventually he left, to find the living. Some of them needed him, and his time here was done.
We do this day in, and out, in an endless cycle of drab mundanity; we make our eyes sympathetic, we furrow our brows and bow our heads, we try to look like we care, and to some extent, we do. We steel ourselves and watch in silence as the crying begins. We wish the moment was over, but we stay, because
We all know what the pain must feel like.
But in truth, we will never, really, know.
We open our mouths and let the dying words gush out; we protect ourselves with medi speak, it turns everything less personal, somehow.
We leave the families to their grief, we...
... must not forget.
*****
Life can be so fragile; so transient. Sometimes the most trivial of accidents swoop down into a moment madness that changes everything.
As he dully watched his hands grasping the steering wheel, and somewhere up ahead, the road, and cars rushing up to meet his field of view, being engulfed whole by it, and vanishing into the past like a bad B grade movie, he wanted so very much to pick up his phone and tell Her it's bad this time; really bad, nevermind what it is, but just hear him out. He was sorry... for their past. And really just to say hello, and he knew it would be too much to ask, really, just as he had no right to do what he once did a long, long time ago, but maybe, if you agreed, maybe we could be friends again.
Because not knowing Her was bad for him. As everyone says, a part of you dies... The colour drains from your world. Etcetc. The old cliches... are the ones that hold fast.
But he didn't know if the number still worked, and part of him knew that it wouldn't.
I've missed You, kiddo.
Grace and Peace.
They weren't good. Pretty bad in fact. Remarkable for a small occipital fracture, that there would be such a large fronto-parietal subdural haematoma, and such a huge haemorrhagic contusion. It just goes to show, all that stuff we learn in med school about coup and contra coup, and big brain boxes and loose brains in the elderly, it's all true.
All the damage was left sided too. Not so good in a right handed individual. Nor the degree of midline shift.
He went to see her and noted the bilaterally fixed dilated pupils, and the previous note of dolls eye -ve and corneal reflex -ve. He put his hand on her head for a while in silence. She shifted about once in a while, somewhere in that dreamworld we stop by before we pass onto the next. She was deaf to his hello, and he didn't bother with a formal GCS.
She was so small, and so fragile now. And she looked so, so tired. The bruise on her head wasn't so much a bruise as a scrape; utterly trivial; easy to overlook.
He wondered if anything more could have been done for her; there's always so much more we could have all done in retrospect.
But here and now, this was very much the end. He knew it.
In a short while the family would arrive to go variously into shock, guilt, and denial. Right now, here in the silence of the cubicle, this was a sacrosanct moment but he didn't really know what to do with it, except stand in silence for a while, and just... watch.
Eventually he left, to find the living. Some of them needed him, and his time here was done.
We do this day in, and out, in an endless cycle of drab mundanity; we make our eyes sympathetic, we furrow our brows and bow our heads, we try to look like we care, and to some extent, we do. We steel ourselves and watch in silence as the crying begins. We wish the moment was over, but we stay, because
We all know what the pain must feel like.
But in truth, we will never, really, know.
We open our mouths and let the dying words gush out; we protect ourselves with medi speak, it turns everything less personal, somehow.
We leave the families to their grief, we...
... must not forget.
*****
Life can be so fragile; so transient. Sometimes the most trivial of accidents swoop down into a moment madness that changes everything.
As he dully watched his hands grasping the steering wheel, and somewhere up ahead, the road, and cars rushing up to meet his field of view, being engulfed whole by it, and vanishing into the past like a bad B grade movie, he wanted so very much to pick up his phone and tell Her it's bad this time; really bad, nevermind what it is, but just hear him out. He was sorry... for their past. And really just to say hello, and he knew it would be too much to ask, really, just as he had no right to do what he once did a long, long time ago, but maybe, if you agreed, maybe we could be friends again.
Because not knowing Her was bad for him. As everyone says, a part of you dies... The colour drains from your world. Etcetc. The old cliches... are the ones that hold fast.
But he didn't know if the number still worked, and part of him knew that it wouldn't.
I've missed You, kiddo.
Grace and Peace.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Honesty is the Best Policy
I think perhaps in retrospect I shouldn't have written this piece after all, so I'm removing it. Perhaps "me" is right and in a way it breaches confidentiality.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
The Importance of Being Ernest
Current location : Surgical Intensive Care Unit.
Crime in progress : unauthorised abuse of computer systems. shh.
Message of the day : Don't lie to your doctors. Ever. Or else you'll end up here.
Other messages of the day : While putting a big tube into a small hole may well sound pleasurable to some, for other unfortunate individuals it may well be the difference between life and death.
Always put a big tube into a big hole...
... explained later. When transmission secure.
Crime in progress : unauthorised abuse of computer systems. shh.
Message of the day : Don't lie to your doctors. Ever. Or else you'll end up here.
Other messages of the day : While putting a big tube into a small hole may well sound pleasurable to some, for other unfortunate individuals it may well be the difference between life and death.
Always put a big tube into a big hole...
... explained later. When transmission secure.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Let's think about this...
The intrepid white-maned wolverine cleaved soundlessly through the air en-route to its hapless prey... the lumbering brown grizzly bear glaced up and beheld a vision of doom bearing down on it. It bared its teeth and roared,
"yip!"
Paws scrabbled furiously as the little white dog saw the world as it really was for an instant and backpeddled abruptly to an almost-halt. The oversized pomeranian was twice as big as he, and glaring furiously to boot. Smoothly, and it must be confessed, rather stylishly, with scarcely a backward glance, he about-faced casually and strolled into a lamp post across the road, almost as if to say "I meant to do this all the time..."
"yip!"
Paws scrabbled furiously as the little white dog saw the world as it really was for an instant and backpeddled abruptly to an almost-halt. The oversized pomeranian was twice as big as he, and glaring furiously to boot. Smoothly, and it must be confessed, rather stylishly, with scarcely a backward glance, he about-faced casually and strolled into a lamp post across the road, almost as if to say "I meant to do this all the time..."
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Circle in the Sky
One of the last things I did before I flew back was fly the Eye.
It struck me at the last moment that it really was something I'd always wanted to do, as I walked through green park (Finding Neverland) and then St James Park, past buckingham palace.
For a moment I was worried I wouldn't make the flight back, then I thought sod it... so what? And got on.
It was a pleasant enough experience, but rather too fast - over before you knew it had begun. I suppose women say that a fair bit, haha.
It would have been a deal less pleasant had I gone any other day of the week. The view would have been of snowflakes in the sky, and puddles on the ground and not much else. It's hardly as romantic as you would think. And I bet it'd be !@%*ing cold in the all-metal-all-glass cars.
It was good.
*****
Listening to a friend bemoaning her sort-of male's seduction by Halo and Half Life, and near-criminal dereliction of his manly duties (eg worshipping her), I paused to reflect that that's really life in a nutshell, innit.
Some love their first-person shoothers with their big guns and shiny joy sticks.
Others prefer to push buttons and twiddle knobs and savour a little role-playing gaming.
Heh heh heh heh heh.
*****
As I left the gym today I couldn't help but notice a blonde bombshell starting her warmup routine, stretching out on a big inflatable ball thingie. It was almost enough to make a guy want to stay back andwatch work out some more.
We're talking serious FHM bombshell here.
Not FHM singapore either, all legs, and all... legs.
We're talking FHM (UK) here... some really dangerous curves and precipitous valleys, in all the right places, with a face to match framed with real flaxen hair (as opposed to blondy with brunette roots). The type of uh... geography that makes men go weak at the knees.
Not at all like the archtypical blonde cannot-make-it models who grace many of the "raunchier" ads in our shops (ie wearing fully concealing bra (and masking tape underneath), suggestively straddling trembly-handed man who amazingly manages to make absolutely zero body contact... quite a gymnastic feat) or the strange-eyed alien-looking ambassadorial creatures that wander around orchard road with a spaced-out look... but the real-life blondes you get from back hom... err I mean back in europe, walking the streets, talking, laughing and being simply human.
Muuwaa.
Anyhow, after the Y chromosome had settled down and stopped babbling incoherently, I couldn't help but observe that
1) all the men in the place were very fixedly not staring at her. Sweat was breaking out on many a brow. And once in a while when they thought nobody was looking, eyes would flicker... flicker back. Fixed concentration, one, two. laugh.
2) Women are such finicky creatures. Back here women whinge and want to look like that, proud twin peaks, impossible waistlines and slinky hips... voluptious.
Back in the wanton west women want to be more petite, more graceful (I went to Singapore once, the women were all thin and graceful and slender, I was so jealous!) and oriental-looking. (I have this on good authority from many of my female friends from assorted unsavory places in the world including Dujon, Athens and many others, so I know it's not just an English thing)
Us men, we much simpler. Not care other man body, just want shag woman body.
Heh.
*****
As he strode past the hospital in a hurry to get back to his place to meet the DHL man, coat billowing in the wind, he found his feet pulling him almost against his will towards it.
He didn't know anymore whether it was his heart holding him back, or his mind. That's what time does to some of us; It shrouds, and dulls.
(That and copious amounts of alcohol.)
He hadn't come all this way to do this.
But he had come all this way, and he'd done nearly everything he'd set out to do, and he was here, and he didn't know if it was a good idea or even if it was an acceptable idea, but...
he had to know.
He had to.
He had to know.
His mind raced as a million improbable and impossible scenarios, few good, many dire flashed through his mind.
After all this time. Part of him was... still alive.
Reawakened memories? Or repressed thoughts.
The sunlight - so rare on this visit, and on all his other previous visits come to think of it - glinted off the windows dreamily, painting the ugly brown facade a soft, muted gold.
He paused...
It struck me at the last moment that it really was something I'd always wanted to do, as I walked through green park (Finding Neverland) and then St James Park, past buckingham palace.
For a moment I was worried I wouldn't make the flight back, then I thought sod it... so what? And got on.
It was a pleasant enough experience, but rather too fast - over before you knew it had begun. I suppose women say that a fair bit, haha.
It would have been a deal less pleasant had I gone any other day of the week. The view would have been of snowflakes in the sky, and puddles on the ground and not much else. It's hardly as romantic as you would think. And I bet it'd be !@%*ing cold in the all-metal-all-glass cars.
It was good.
*****
Listening to a friend bemoaning her sort-of male's seduction by Halo and Half Life, and near-criminal dereliction of his manly duties (eg worshipping her), I paused to reflect that that's really life in a nutshell, innit.
Some love their first-person shoothers with their big guns and shiny joy sticks.
Others prefer to push buttons and twiddle knobs and savour a little role-playing gaming.
Heh heh heh heh heh.
*****
As I left the gym today I couldn't help but notice a blonde bombshell starting her warmup routine, stretching out on a big inflatable ball thingie. It was almost enough to make a guy want to stay back and
We're talking serious FHM bombshell here.
Not FHM singapore either, all legs, and all... legs.
We're talking FHM (UK) here... some really dangerous curves and precipitous valleys, in all the right places, with a face to match framed with real flaxen hair (as opposed to blondy with brunette roots). The type of uh... geography that makes men go weak at the knees.
Not at all like the archtypical blonde cannot-make-it models who grace many of the "raunchier" ads in our shops (ie wearing fully concealing bra (and masking tape underneath), suggestively straddling trembly-handed man who amazingly manages to make absolutely zero body contact... quite a gymnastic feat) or the strange-eyed alien-looking ambassadorial creatures that wander around orchard road with a spaced-out look... but the real-life blondes you get from back hom... err I mean back in europe, walking the streets, talking, laughing and being simply human.
Muuwaa.
Anyhow, after the Y chromosome had settled down and stopped babbling incoherently, I couldn't help but observe that
1) all the men in the place were very fixedly not staring at her. Sweat was breaking out on many a brow. And once in a while when they thought nobody was looking, eyes would flicker... flicker back. Fixed concentration, one, two. laugh.
2) Women are such finicky creatures. Back here women whinge and want to look like that, proud twin peaks, impossible waistlines and slinky hips... voluptious.
Back in the wanton west women want to be more petite, more graceful (I went to Singapore once, the women were all thin and graceful and slender, I was so jealous!) and oriental-looking. (I have this on good authority from many of my female friends from assorted unsavory places in the world including Dujon, Athens and many others, so I know it's not just an English thing)
Us men, we much simpler. Not care other man body, just want shag woman body.
Heh.
*****
As he strode past the hospital in a hurry to get back to his place to meet the DHL man, coat billowing in the wind, he found his feet pulling him almost against his will towards it.
He didn't know anymore whether it was his heart holding him back, or his mind. That's what time does to some of us; It shrouds, and dulls.
(That and copious amounts of alcohol.)
He hadn't come all this way to do this.
But he had come all this way, and he'd done nearly everything he'd set out to do, and he was here, and he didn't know if it was a good idea or even if it was an acceptable idea, but...
he had to know.
He had to.
He had to know.
His mind raced as a million improbable and impossible scenarios, few good, many dire flashed through his mind.
After all this time. Part of him was... still alive.
Reawakened memories? Or repressed thoughts.
The sunlight - so rare on this visit, and on all his other previous visits come to think of it - glinted off the windows dreamily, painting the ugly brown facade a soft, muted gold.
He paused...
