Monday, December 3, 2012
Untitled (for drawing on the left)
Monday, November 19, 2012
Meditation
Sing Man Temple was located at Geylang Lorong 29. Previously, the place had been known as Sing Man Abode, a Buddhist monastery with a history of more than seventy years. The abbot was Venerable Sin Min, an elderly woman in her eighties. Next to the monastery, Venerable Long Zhen had set up Zen Garden, a relatively new Zen organisation, in the Liau Association Building. Zen Garden occupied one storey in the building. A monk in his forties, Venerable Long Zhen lectured extensively on the Platform Sutra and the Sutra of Perfect Enlightenment, and managed to attract a following of Zen practitioners. He became a monk when he was only seventeen years old, and not too long ago, he had worked closely with the notable Venerable Jing Hui. Zen Garden had moved for a few times, from Telok Kurau to Balestier to Geylang. With an increasing number of students, Venerable Long Zhen had been trying to find a suitable venue for his Zen classes, but without much success. Shortly after, Venerable Long Zhen and Venerable Sin Min knew each another and visited each other frequently. They eventually reached an agreement: they would reconstruct Sing Man Abode into Sing Man Zen Temple, and Zen Garden would raise the funds, which amounted to approximately three million dollars.
The first time I saw Venerable Long Zhen, I thought he looked extremely ordinary. Could this really be someone who had spent years practising Zen? Perhaps I knew as much as he did? After all, I was not unfamiliar with Zen literature. Alan Watts, D. T. Suzuki, Dogen’s Shobogenzo, the Diamond Sutra, the Blue Cliff Records, the Mumonkan (or Gateless Gate)… … I have sampled them all. The only text I had not read was perhaps the Platform Sutra by the Sixth Patriarch.
Less than a week ago, Dr Ho took me to the Cheng Huang Temple at Pandan Gardens. “I can pretend to meditate while you draw,” I told him. “Then you can tell the caretaker that you are waiting for me so he won’t chase you away.” I sat down the normal cross-legged way; I did not try the half lotus or full lotus position because I did not want my legs to become numb. I tried to meditate, but instead I found myself worrying about bird droppings landing on me. There were a few stray mynahs flying in and out of the temple and some were making their nests on the wooden beam above me. I wondered how the monks in the past meditated in the forests. It must have been worse with the ants and mosquitoes and heat and all. Then I dozed off…
Back to the Zen temple. The meditation hall was a large spacious hall with wooden floor. The tatami and futons had been arranged in neat rows. Everything had a Japanese-style design to it, except for a large golden Buddha statue; I had expected the statues in a Zen temple to be white or grey, not golden. Long Zhen entered the meditation hall in a composed manner. Around me, about sixty to eighty other people have filled the hall, mostly middle-aged uncles and aunties. They were already seated in their half lotus or full lotus position. Long Zhen made a gassho in front of the Buddha before walking to the low table next to it. He sat on the low table, made himself comfortable, and struck the wooden fish once, then twice. The meditation had begun.
I sat in the half lotus position, my right foot resting on my left thigh. I tried to focus my attention on my breathing, but my monkey mind would not remain still and my thoughts wandered from place to place. I thought about the waxed canvas bag at Wanderwonder boutique. It was dark green with light brown leather straps and cost a staggering three hundred over dollars. It would go very well with the Japan Blue jeans I saw at The Denim Store. Then perhaps I could also pick up one or two contemporary Japanese novels (preferably a thriller) and get a few CDs…
I had strayed too far. I returned to my breathing. Inhale, exhale. One. Inhale, exhale. Two. Inhale, exhale. Three…ah, a newcomer. I cast a furtive glance. A somewhat young and pretty lady. I started to think about pretty girls. The beautiful waitress at the café. The lady in the long black dress. The stranger on the train last weekend…inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale…I had lost count. Return to zero. Inhale, exhale. One. Inhale, exhale. Two. Inhale, exhale…I thought about my students’ art projects. I thought about my incomplete drawing. Before I knew it, my right foot became numb, and the numbness coursed through my entire leg. My left foot had become numb too. I fidgeted. I tried to sit straight. I wriggled my toes. I wondered about the rest. Surely some of them were beginning to feel uncomfortable? Then I remembered a visualisation technique I had read about in a book. I tried to imagine a glass of murky water before me, the particles slowly sinking and settling to the bottom as the top part of the glass slowly turned clear. It helped for a while. Inhale, exhale. Fifty-four. Inhale, exhale. Fifty-five…Where was the pretty latecomer seated? Inhale, exhale. Fifty-six…Should I visit the café later to see if the pretty waitress was working that day? Inhale, exhale. Fifty-seven. Inhale, exhale. Fifty-eight. I began to feel sleepy. When was Long Zhen going to strike the wooden fish and put an end to my misery? Inhale, exhale. Forget it – I was not going to count anymore. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. My eyelids became heavy…inhale…I gave up on observing my breathing. I waited. And waited. And waited…and still waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And wa…w…z…zzz…zzz…zzz…(dozed off)…zzz…zzz…zzz…z…w…woke up with a start. My legs were completely numb and I felt extremely uncomfortable. I wanted to get up and walk out. Why had Mum even brought me to this place? Be still, be still. Do it all over again. Inhale, exhale. One. Inhale, exhale. Two…it would not last very long. All I felt was restlessness.
As I was one of the later ones, I was seated in the front row. The back rows had been occupied. Time stood still. The old uncle to my right seemed to be doing well. The young man next to him seemed to be doing well too. In front of me, Long Zhen sat very still, like a Buddha statue, composed amd relaxed, neither stiff nor uneasy. I recalled one of Alan Watts's sayings about people confusing what is spiritual with what is geological. Long Zhen was as still as a piece of rock. I thought he was just being geological. Perhaps I could challenge him on a discourse on the Shobogenzo or Joshu's koan? Or perhaps I could ask him if the Medicine Buddha and Amitabha Buddha physically exist or if they were merely symbolic? What is, what if, why, where...
For all my knowledge and theory, the truth was I was sinking fast. I was struggling. Then I was struggling against struggling. Soon I was struggling against struggling against struggling, ad infinitum. I told myself I must outlast them all, but there was no way I could hold on to my pretence. Each passing second seemed like an eternity. I began to feel as if both my legs had become paralysed and useless. I was certain that if I should be made to stand up I would not have been able to do so, or assuming that I could, I would be unsteady and I might even fall. All of them (including Mum) were pretentious posers! Geological artifacts! Dead, dead, dead...they were all dead! What was so spiritual about sitting like a stone? Then I remembered what Dogen said about zazen, and I was not sure if I still wanted to engage in a dialogue with Long Zhen about the Shobogenzo. When he finally struck the wooden fish to signal the end of the first segment, I was convinced that I was in the presence of a true Zen master.
I uncovered my legs and folded my towel. My legs were so stiff and numb that I could only move them slowly and with much difficulty. I tried to stretch and massage my legs. Meanwhile, Long Zhen had distributed a photocopied handout on Bodhi Dharma's teachings to everyone. He began his discourse:
'For one to enter the Way, the paths are many, but they can be reduced to two: the first is through understanding, the second is through practice...'
...
For all my knowledge and theory, the truth was I was sinking fast. I was struggling. Then I was struggling against struggling. Soon I was struggling against struggling against struggling, ad infinitum. I told myself I must outlast them all, but there was no way I could hold on to my pretence. Each passing second seemed like an eternity. I began to feel as if both my legs had become paralysed and useless. I was certain that if I should be made to stand up I would not have been able to do so, or assuming that I could, I would be unsteady and I might even fall. All of them (including Mum) were pretentious posers! Geological artifacts! Dead, dead, dead...they were all dead! What was so spiritual about sitting like a stone? Then I remembered what Dogen said about zazen, and I was not sure if I still wanted to engage in a dialogue with Long Zhen about the Shobogenzo. When he finally struck the wooden fish to signal the end of the first segment, I was convinced that I was in the presence of a true Zen master.
I uncovered my legs and folded my towel. My legs were so stiff and numb that I could only move them slowly and with much difficulty. I tried to stretch and massage my legs. Meanwhile, Long Zhen had distributed a photocopied handout on Bodhi Dharma's teachings to everyone. He began his discourse:
'For one to enter the Way, the paths are many, but they can be reduced to two: the first is through understanding, the second is through practice...'
...
Saturday, November 17, 2012
a brief history of the last 100 years
2015 -the Constitution was amended to provide for automatic citizenship in the case of people who had lived and worked on the island for more than 5 years and did not partake in voting in any other country.
2022 -the Housing Development Board shifted all of its housing development to the Iskandar region to focus on providing universal housing for all who lived in the region. Prices for subsidised HDB apartments start from as low as sg$10000.
SMRT and the Delgro Group will receive a total of up to sg$10 billion from the Ministry of Transport to develop transport services in Iskandar, including a new train service.
2023 -the Malaysian government stops national subsidies for goods sold in the Iskandar region.
2024-the Ministry of Transport will extend their public transport subsidies to citizens living in the Iskandar region using SMRT and Delgro services.
2027-the new National Productivity Act made it possible for working couples to apply for exceptions to the Maintenance of Parents Act of 1996 if their parents have lived in the Iskandar region for more than 5 years and thus qualify for Malaysian citizenship under the terms of the Accelerated Emigration Agreement between the 2 countries signed in 2022.
Anyone who took advantage of the Accelerated Emigration Agreement to transfer to Malaysian citizenship also received a one time payout of sg$10000 as a token of appreciation.
2032-the Constitution was amended to replace the Identity Card with the Work Permit and thus let everyone who had an economic stake in the country to vote in decisions that affected its future. A deposit could be paid to the Ministry of Manpower in lieu of an employer's application, to receive a Work Permit.
2034-responsibility to administer the Work Permit was transferred from the Ministry of Manpower to the newly created Ministry of Identity and along with the transfer, the Work Permit was renamed the Identity Card.
The Ministry of Transport stops public transport subsidies on the island, citing low usage and its focus on the Iskandar region, where utilisation is high.
2036 -James de Souza selected to be the new Minister of Identity. He's been working in Singapore for the last 20 years and did not vote in the 2031 filipino presidential elections.
2037 -proof of land ownership on the island is accepted as qualification to receive a Identity Card from the Ministry of identity.
2038 -the Treaty of Iskandar establishes Malaysia as the island's priority supplier of water, electricity and fuel. Work on dismantling the NeWater Project and the transfer of ownership of the island's power stations will begin immediately.
2041 -Peter Chen , a property investor who has been based in singapore for the last 10 years, is elected president.
2042 -the Constitution is amended to allow for the Elections Department to charge fees for their services rendered to the citizenry.
The Elections Department will employ professional vote counters and organisers and will not rely on volunteers for its operations.
The initial price for each vote is set at sg$400, which will be adjusted in the future according to demand.
2047 -the Constitution is amended to allow for more than 1 vote per voter.
The Elections Department have decided that the number of votes per voter will be capped by the number of non-voting family members(e.g. children not of voting age) the voter has. Voters will be allowed to register their intentions to vote in the next election with the Elections Department as soon as one week after the preceding election has taken place.
Peter Chen, now in his second term as President, is quoted as saying:" the people who care more will vote more, we are a democratic country".
2022 -the Housing Development Board shifted all of its housing development to the Iskandar region to focus on providing universal housing for all who lived in the region. Prices for subsidised HDB apartments start from as low as sg$10000.
SMRT and the Delgro Group will receive a total of up to sg$10 billion from the Ministry of Transport to develop transport services in Iskandar, including a new train service.
2023 -the Malaysian government stops national subsidies for goods sold in the Iskandar region.
2024-the Ministry of Transport will extend their public transport subsidies to citizens living in the Iskandar region using SMRT and Delgro services.
2027-the new National Productivity Act made it possible for working couples to apply for exceptions to the Maintenance of Parents Act of 1996 if their parents have lived in the Iskandar region for more than 5 years and thus qualify for Malaysian citizenship under the terms of the Accelerated Emigration Agreement between the 2 countries signed in 2022.
Anyone who took advantage of the Accelerated Emigration Agreement to transfer to Malaysian citizenship also received a one time payout of sg$10000 as a token of appreciation.
2032-the Constitution was amended to replace the Identity Card with the Work Permit and thus let everyone who had an economic stake in the country to vote in decisions that affected its future. A deposit could be paid to the Ministry of Manpower in lieu of an employer's application, to receive a Work Permit.
2034-responsibility to administer the Work Permit was transferred from the Ministry of Manpower to the newly created Ministry of Identity and along with the transfer, the Work Permit was renamed the Identity Card.
The Ministry of Transport stops public transport subsidies on the island, citing low usage and its focus on the Iskandar region, where utilisation is high.
2036 -James de Souza selected to be the new Minister of Identity. He's been working in Singapore for the last 20 years and did not vote in the 2031 filipino presidential elections.
2037 -proof of land ownership on the island is accepted as qualification to receive a Identity Card from the Ministry of identity.
2038 -the Treaty of Iskandar establishes Malaysia as the island's priority supplier of water, electricity and fuel. Work on dismantling the NeWater Project and the transfer of ownership of the island's power stations will begin immediately.
2041 -Peter Chen , a property investor who has been based in singapore for the last 10 years, is elected president.
2042 -the Constitution is amended to allow for the Elections Department to charge fees for their services rendered to the citizenry.
The Elections Department will employ professional vote counters and organisers and will not rely on volunteers for its operations.
The initial price for each vote is set at sg$400, which will be adjusted in the future according to demand.
2047 -the Constitution is amended to allow for more than 1 vote per voter.
The Elections Department have decided that the number of votes per voter will be capped by the number of non-voting family members(e.g. children not of voting age) the voter has. Voters will be allowed to register their intentions to vote in the next election with the Elections Department as soon as one week after the preceding election has taken place.
Peter Chen, now in his second term as President, is quoted as saying:" the people who care more will vote more, we are a democratic country".
Monday, November 12, 2012
Word Play
I saw a banner outside SAM and decided to do some word play:
Recent Art in Contemporary Asia
Contemporary Art in Recent Asia
Recent Contemporary Art in Asia
Art in Recent Contemporary Asia
Not sure if it's the art, or Asia,
that is contemporary, or recent,
or both, or neither,
but I guess it doesn't really matter.
Recent Art in Contemporary Asia
Contemporary Art in Recent Asia
Recent Contemporary Art in Asia
Art in Recent Contemporary Asia
Not sure if it's the art, or Asia,
that is contemporary, or recent,
or both, or neither,
but I guess it doesn't really matter.
Random writing
When I went to Ayer Rajah Food Centre his morning, I was surprised to see it open; the banner stated that it would be closed from 1 - 15 November. Upon re-reading the banner, I realised it was the market that was closed, not the food centre. What a blunder! What carelessness! And thus I had subjected myself to the inferior food at West Coast Market for the past two weeks. How silly! Anyway, I ordered a kopi-c and a vegetarian prawn noodle. When it came, I slurped down my noodles voraciously. A bit spicy, and I realised, to my dismay, I had not brought my tissue paper. More carelessness. Thirty cents unnecessarily spent.
My feeble attempt at writing local poetry:
Lallang lallang
Layang layang
Sayang sayang
...whatever it means. Grass grass kite kite love love?
(Friend adds a touch of Zen humour with 'wayang wayang'.)
Two weeks to a month have passed since my attempt at 'serious' writing. It is about myself and my family. The story (if I may use the word) is somewhat particular and peculiar, nothing quintessential or archetypal at all. It is not representative of a typical Singaporean or Singaporean family...
I hate Chinese ink; I can never get it right! The Forbidden City -- it is supposed to be Halloween and haunting and all, but it looks more horrid than horrifying. Rushed work, lacklustre attempt. Exploring medium, process etc.
Inadequacy. Incompetency.
My feeble attempt at writing local poetry:
Lallang lallang
Layang layang
Sayang sayang
...whatever it means. Grass grass kite kite love love?
(Friend adds a touch of Zen humour with 'wayang wayang'.)
Two weeks to a month have passed since my attempt at 'serious' writing. It is about myself and my family. The story (if I may use the word) is somewhat particular and peculiar, nothing quintessential or archetypal at all. It is not representative of a typical Singaporean or Singaporean family...
I hate Chinese ink; I can never get it right! The Forbidden City -- it is supposed to be Halloween and haunting and all, but it looks more horrid than horrifying. Rushed work, lacklustre attempt. Exploring medium, process etc.
Inadequacy. Incompetency.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Breakfast, books, bye for now.
When I alighted from the bus, I was pleasantly surprised to run into her.
'Hey,' I called out.
She turned around and saw me. 'Oh hi! I didn't see you.'
'Are you having breakfast?'
'Yup. Where are you eating?'
'Near the stall behind. There are very few stalls I can eat from. You okay with that? Or are you packing?'
'I'll join you,' she said.
She told me she had read the book I recommended, but had not watched the DVD.
'The book was really engrossing. I was reading it till eleven plus and my hubby asked me if I was going to finish it by twelve or thereabouts.'
'Oh dear. Doesn't sound like a good idea...'
'It's okay. Sometimes he plays online games till twelve plus too.'
'I read the author you recommended. She's really not my cup of tea. A bit dark and depressing. I don't think I'll ever pick up another of her books again.'
We talked about other things -- the past, fashion (I liked her olive green bag; but then I like everything olive green), colleagues, gaming (I know nuts of course) etc.
It was time to go. She asked for my number. I gave my number to her and she gave me a missed call.
'Bye, see you.'
'Bye.'
'Hey,' I called out.
She turned around and saw me. 'Oh hi! I didn't see you.'
'Are you having breakfast?'
'Yup. Where are you eating?'
'Near the stall behind. There are very few stalls I can eat from. You okay with that? Or are you packing?'
'I'll join you,' she said.
She told me she had read the book I recommended, but had not watched the DVD.
'The book was really engrossing. I was reading it till eleven plus and my hubby asked me if I was going to finish it by twelve or thereabouts.'
'Oh dear. Doesn't sound like a good idea...'
'It's okay. Sometimes he plays online games till twelve plus too.'
'I read the author you recommended. She's really not my cup of tea. A bit dark and depressing. I don't think I'll ever pick up another of her books again.'
We talked about other things -- the past, fashion (I liked her olive green bag; but then I like everything olive green), colleagues, gaming (I know nuts of course) etc.
It was time to go. She asked for my number. I gave my number to her and she gave me a missed call.
'Bye, see you.'
'Bye.'
Monday, November 5, 2012
a little colloqialism
eh fuck, you eat glass grow up one is it?
cheebye whats your problem?
you fucking blocking the tv, can stand one side or not?
kan ni na watch my tv still want to talk big voice at me. when you return me my $500?
fuck you la, my payday still 2 weeks away, like you don't know like that.
then you fucking owe people money cannot return then don't talk so loud
wha. now owe you money like owe you what like that. ask you siam from in front of the tv must talk lanjiao owe money. you think i want to watch your fucking tv ah?
don't want then don't watch, fucking jiak liao bi, only come here leech.
ah fuck you la i going liao. cheebye watch your tv like owe you money like that.
chao cheebye fuck off la. remember to return me money when your cheebye pay come.
Mind Games
Another long day, another late night. I sit here, recalling the conversations we had ('How did she manage to poison the coffee?') and imagining what I would say ('Her writing is really not my cup of tea. By the way, have you watched the DVD yet?') But no, none of this would materialise, because of the games we play -- mind games, mind my words, mind my own business; but always on my mind, at the back of my mind, everything -- it is all in the mind.
Do they take bus in Switzerland?
He's not yet ah pek. Still in uncle territory. Hair very gray,still some little smatterings of black left. His shirt had repeated light brown geometric shapes on thin man made material and a mauve collar.
It'd cost maybe two dollars. At most 3 for ten dollars.
I imagined myself frugal wearing only on sale g2000 polos,bought in threes or more.
Without looking. I imagine his sandals cost $5 at most. I'd shopped queensway half a evening to find a pair of adidas at $40:i thought it cheap enough for a pair of casual shoes..that i don't wear to work.
Shops in hdb estates,and along little india, sold clothing and bags and shoes and many other things at these prices.
Then those shoes will be worn until they half disintegrate. Whereupon they'll be held together by that yellow glue that came in little cans, cured under the phone book,some parts with the help of clothespegs.
Back in the day they wore no name automatic watches, but now he wears a fake tag heuer.
Including his watch what he wore probably cost less than two packs of cigarettes. He probably quit a long time ago during one of the many tax increases on tobacco.
Nowadays he'd go out a couple of times a week to meet his friends,discussing the relative merits of horses and soccer teams,the various places that denied them subsidies,how life is now the shipyards and factories all won't hire them and how well the neighbours' sons and daughters treated their parents over a couple of beers.
It'd cost maybe two dollars. At most 3 for ten dollars.
I imagined myself frugal wearing only on sale g2000 polos,bought in threes or more.
Without looking. I imagine his sandals cost $5 at most. I'd shopped queensway half a evening to find a pair of adidas at $40:i thought it cheap enough for a pair of casual shoes..that i don't wear to work.
Shops in hdb estates,and along little india, sold clothing and bags and shoes and many other things at these prices.
Then those shoes will be worn until they half disintegrate. Whereupon they'll be held together by that yellow glue that came in little cans, cured under the phone book,some parts with the help of clothespegs.
Back in the day they wore no name automatic watches, but now he wears a fake tag heuer.
Including his watch what he wore probably cost less than two packs of cigarettes. He probably quit a long time ago during one of the many tax increases on tobacco.
Nowadays he'd go out a couple of times a week to meet his friends,discussing the relative merits of horses and soccer teams,the various places that denied them subsidies,how life is now the shipyards and factories all won't hire them and how well the neighbours' sons and daughters treated their parents over a couple of beers.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Why am I thinking of her?
Why am I thinking of her? Shoulder-length hair, longish face, unremarkable features, skinnier than thin and taller than I: do not be mistaken; I have no romantic intention. She had a ring on her finger, a sign that she might be married, though my intuition told me otherwise. A chance meeting, the briefest of encounters, over three days, and she found her way into my diary. On an evening like this, the air chilly and the weather cold, would she be reading her Chinese novels or Japanese manga, or drawing, or watching TV, or simply doing nothing? Or would she be browsing my books or watching my DVD? Beyond a certain age, can’t a man and a lady simply be friends, without cares or concerns, without reservations, so that we could have coffee together, watch movies, view exhibitions, shop, exchange ideas, take long walks, et cetera et cetera, without worrying about whether we would be a part of each other or apart from each another?
Friday, November 2, 2012
The Old Cabinet
Many years ago, we had an old cabinet. It stood quietly in the shared bedroom (Dad and I shared the bedroom); its legs rested on the ugly green tiles and its back almost leaning against the dirty cream-white walls. It was a sturdy old cabinet, about five feet in height, of a light brown colour, and coated with a thin layer of varnish. It had one large shelf on top and two smaller shelves below. The shelves had sliding glass planes. Next to the smaller shelves there were three drawers, one with a lock and the other two without.
One day, while cleaning the shelf, Mum removed a glass pane from the top shelf in an effort to wipe it. As Mum was wiping the glass pane, a lizard suddenly appeared from beneath the cabinet, and, momentarily startled by the lizard, she loosened her grip for a second, and the glass pane fell and broke into pieces. After the incident, Dad removed the other glass pane from the top shelf. The cabinet looked somewhat awkward or incomplete since then.
In those days, Dad put a lot of things on top of the cabinet. There were friends’ name cards (but he never contacted them), medicine bottles, court letters (Dad was an illegal hawker), and Dad’s favourite picture of Brother when he was a year old. The picture was framed in a yellow plastic frame. When Brother left home a few years back, Dad was so upset he smashed the picture with a hammer and threw it away.
Dad also occupied the large shelf with other items. He collected crystals, scissors, nail clippers, knives (yes, knives), old photographs (most of these were black and white) and other curios, such as wooden carpenter pencils, Taoist and Buddhist talismans and fishing lines (Dad was probably a good fisherman when he was young). However, when the cabinet was still around, I never understood that objects have their stories to tell.
The cabinet also contained some of Brother’s belongings: these were left behind after he had left home. There was a chocolate box containing old bus passes, a few fake Harley Davidson handkerchiefs and stickers of ninjas and skulls. An old postcard from Bendemeer Secondary School dated back to 1993 read: your child has not been in school for seven days. Those were days of family violence, and the cabinet contained these memories. Each time I picked up the postcard, Dad’s beatings and Brother’s cries replayed in my mind, though I was the only one who could hear the voices in the quiet room.
The locked drawer belonged to Mum. It contained needles and rolls of thread of different thickness and colours. Mum used to have sharp eyes and soft fingers. She was once a beautiful and lively lady, then a dutiful and conforming housewife, but now what was left of her was a jaded and forlorn ageing woman resigned to her fate. She also kept a few very old song books in there. In the recent years, she still sang some of these songs to my niece, who was with us for a short while, but had left for China a year ago.
The other two drawers belonged to me. The act of opening and closing the drawers drew me into a world of memories and untold stories contained in various memorabilia. These stories and memories changed as I added new things or removed old ones. I used to keep stamps and old chewing gum wrappers, and I concealed love letters in the drawers. New Year cards came and went with each New Year; letters came and went as friends did the same. I kept cassette tapes and lyrics of love songs. All these things were gone now.
It was exactly two years ago, when we decided to sell the house. ‘Come, help me dismantle the cabinet into pieces.’ Mum said. I used screwdrivers to pry the pieces of wood apart and hammered them loose. Then I emptied the drawers of their contents and removed them, after which I carried the drawers and wooden planks downstairs to discard them. All that remained of the cabinet was a wooden box with four legs, like an empty shell. It was quite heavy and bulky, and Mum and I had to carry it to the bin compound. I imagined it being shoved into the incinerator – a large angry fire consuming it as thick black billowing smoke continued to rise, consuming it with all its memories and family history, reducing them to ashes that blew about in the dry wind, and finally to nothing.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
grandma's funeral (sketch part 1)
The house was a two-storeyed house along a crackly and sandy tar road. It faced a dingy coffee shop and an abandoned construction shed, where a lonesome thin tree, leafless and bare, quietly waved a faltering branch. The tree would be gone soon. Like smoke. Like ashes.
An old dying fence separated our house from the neighbours’, as creepers and vines sprawled all over, strangling and entangling it, causing it to lean and bend. Uncle and Cousin had parked their motorbikes and van at the porch. The family dog, Boxy or Brownie as I used to call him, lazed in the sweltering heat with half-opened eyes, oblivious to the flies buzzing around him. Two ghostly white lanterns swayed lightly above the doorway -- someone from this house was dead.
A narrow walkway surrounded the house. To the right of the porch, dripping wet laundry hung from thin bamboo poles. An old stone well, damp and overgrown with moss and algae, rested behind the laundry area. To the left, Uncle had piled dusty gunny sacks, junk metal, rubber hoses, and deflated tyres. The back of the house was crammed with broken buckets, tubs, wooden boxes, old woks, and crates of used glass bottles. Pigeons and crows scattered themselves on the weathered roof, while the drain was crawling with centipedes and black ants. 'Remember to pay your respects to Grandma,' Father said. I nodded, but remained silent. A feeling of dread and impending despair filled the air.
Inside, the aunties and cousins folded joss papers in quiet gloom. No one lifted a head when we entered. An unearthly smell of incense filled the hall, as thin clouds of smoke drifted like spirits in the shadowy darkness. The stiff wooden coffin was placed in the centre, right in front of the alter, which was then covered with large pieces of crisp red papers.
Without a word, I lit the joss sticks and paid my respects. Dad went alone to the kitchen while I helped the rest fold the joss papers. 'Hi,' Cousin Yun broke the silence at last. It was a restrained sob, and her red eyes averted my gaze. I could only forge a wistful smile.
We folded the joss papers beside the wooden staircase. If one had walked straight to the kitchen and turned left, one would see a slightly ajar door, leading to a tiny poorly-ventilated room. This was where Grandma slept and died. The room was cluttered with decade-old furniture and worn-out mattresses. It smelled of medicated ointment and urine. Grandma's prayer beads were strewn about in disarray. An old radio was moaning in a monotonous drone, 'Namu-Amida-Butsu, Namu-Amida-Butsu...' repeating itself in an endless cycle, as one would mourn for the dead. However, it was perhaps Grandma's only source of comfort and solace when she was still alive.
As I carelessly folded the joss papers, I tried to conjure memories of Grandma in my mind. I tried very hard, but nothing came. I could not even imagine her face clearly. Were her spectacle rims golden or silver? Did she wear a bangle on her right wrist, or on her left? All these I could not remember. To me, Grandma was only a kindly old lady, with a gentle smile, bending over a plump and aged body, dressed in a floral blue shirt and black pants.
(... ...)
***
Evening came. 'Come and eat,' Grandma would call out when she was still alive, and the children would flock to the dinner table and gather. But the laughter and gaiety was gone; it was replaced by a sombre silence. We had all grown anyway. We were no longer children. 'Eat,' Auntie said gravely when she passed the bowls of rice around. She had prepared a table full of food for dinner -- a dull-looking pomphret steamed with plums and ginger, a half-cooked white chicken oozing with blood, poorly-chopped slices of roast duck, a dish of preserved vegetables, fishball soup with thin lettuce slices, and a pot of fat pork braised in oily soy sauce. I stuffed myself with the white rice and plain water.
After dinner, Auntie Hun's sons and daughters came over. Their loud voices and boisterous laughter filled the hall. 'Where's the mahjong table?' Ah Leong asked as he put aside a can of beer. 'We'll stay up till dawn to accompany Grandma.' Ah Hong, who had recently won in a pageant, sashayed across the hall in a tight black T-shirt that clung snugly to her curvaceous figure. 'It's sad that Grandma died,' she remarked casually after offering her joss sticks. Then she purred a 'hi' to my mum, sank herself into an old sofa's welcoming embrace, and switched on the television. Soon, the hall was drowned in the noise of clattering mahjong tiles, tossing chips and drunken voices. Right next to Grandma's coffin.
It was cold and damp outside, for there had been an evening drizzle. My parents and I left the hall. In a tentage, the temple priests and nuns were conducting a prayer ceremony. ‘Na….mo…..’ the chief priest began to chant in Chinese syllables, as I knelt and leafed through the pages of an unknown sutra. It depicted fantastical things of the Afterlife, speaking of parrots in a myriad of colours, and peacocks that had a thousand eyes on their feathers. It spoke of flowers that were more fragrant than all the perfumes of the world, and lights that shone more brightly than all the stars in the heavens and cosmos. I did not know why, but an image of a bridge suddenly came to me. For a while, I thought I saw Grandma. She was holding a cane in one hand, and taking small deliberate steps from one end of the bridge to the other. At midway, she turned and smiled, and waved a goodbye before she continued her way. It was a calm and peaceful smile -- full of assurance and wisdom -- and I thought that was the most beautiful smile I had seen of Grandma. ‘I saw Grandma,’ Cousin Yun whispered to me secretly after the prayer ceremony. I smiled at her, but said nothing. The hall was still noisy with the gamblers and the television. I stole a glance at Cousin Hong before I climbed upstairs, my feet made a thumping sound as I went up the wooden steps. That night, I could not sleep well. I fell off my bed once. I also dreamt about black cats.
The second day, two quarrels broke out.
It was morning, and I was having a quiet breakfast in the hall when I heard voices shouting from the kitchen. I quickly went over to take a look. Dad was quarreling with Cousin Chin.
‘Son of a gun!’ Dad spat and shouted. ‘If you’re unhappy, we can have a one-on-one behind the house!’
Dad’s face was flushed in anger. He was waving his arms about in violent wild gestures while Auntie tried to push him aside to pacify him. Cousin Chin ignored Dad and walked away. I later found out what had happened. Cousin Chin had urinated in the bathroom, and he called Dad ‘a silly useless old man’ when Dad chided him for not using the toilet instead. After the incident, Cousin Chin had a quiet smoke beside the old well, while I returned to the hall quietly and read, having lost my mood for breakfast. I thought it was unfortunate to start the morning like this, but this was not the end of it.
Just before lunch, a loud wail sounded from the kitchen. I rushed over and saw Auntie bursting into tears and sobs. She was beating her chest furiously with her right fist. At that sight, I thought that the sadness in the house was becoming insufferable, and I was overcome with a strong desire to get out of that miserable place. At first, I thought Aunite was overwhelmed with grief by Grandma’s death. I later realised that Aunite had quarreled with Uncle. Uncle was angry that Auntie did not bring him the dustbin when he had asked her to do so, and he threatened to beat her. ‘My dad had tried to hit my mum with a belt when I was only five years old,’ Cousin Ghim told me. The incident was clearly a misunderstanding. Auntie was too far in the kitchen, so she could not hear Uncle. Besides, the dustbin was only a few steps away from Uncle. The very fact that quarrels, or even violence, could occur over such trivial issues made life seem more depressing than Grandma’s death itself. The women of the house decided to confront Uncle in the hall.
‘What a lazy man you are! Can’t you even move from your seat and take the dustbin yourself? Is it not depressing enough that Mum had died?’ Aunt Bee assailed Uncle with an avalanche of useless questions.
‘Your wife had been taking care of Mother when she was ill. What had she done to deserve this ill-treatment from you?’ Aunt Hun added.
Uncle suddenly stood up and spoke with authority. ‘For the last twenty or thirty years, I have slogged and slaved for this family. Is this how I should be spoken to?’ He was now the patriarch of the house, being the eldest son.
Father cut into the conversation quickly. ‘This is your family matter. Remember that Mother had said that half of the old house belongs to me.’ Father was referring to the old house some two kilometres down the road that Grandma had left behind. What had begun as a silly fuss over a dustbin escalated quickly into a discussion on dividing the family property.
“Let us talk about this outside. It’s not nice to be like this in Mother’s presence.’ Auntie Hun reminded everyone.
At that utterance, everyone suddenly quietened down. The cousins started to whisper in hushed voices. The adults looked nervous and uneasy, trying to wipe guilty looks off their faces. I cast a glance at the wooden coffin, imagining how Grandma could rest peacefully like this. Cousin Yun’s eyes were welled with tears again.
An old dying fence separated our house from the neighbours’, as creepers and vines sprawled all over, strangling and entangling it, causing it to lean and bend. Uncle and Cousin had parked their motorbikes and van at the porch. The family dog, Boxy or Brownie as I used to call him, lazed in the sweltering heat with half-opened eyes, oblivious to the flies buzzing around him. Two ghostly white lanterns swayed lightly above the doorway -- someone from this house was dead.
A narrow walkway surrounded the house. To the right of the porch, dripping wet laundry hung from thin bamboo poles. An old stone well, damp and overgrown with moss and algae, rested behind the laundry area. To the left, Uncle had piled dusty gunny sacks, junk metal, rubber hoses, and deflated tyres. The back of the house was crammed with broken buckets, tubs, wooden boxes, old woks, and crates of used glass bottles. Pigeons and crows scattered themselves on the weathered roof, while the drain was crawling with centipedes and black ants. 'Remember to pay your respects to Grandma,' Father said. I nodded, but remained silent. A feeling of dread and impending despair filled the air.
Inside, the aunties and cousins folded joss papers in quiet gloom. No one lifted a head when we entered. An unearthly smell of incense filled the hall, as thin clouds of smoke drifted like spirits in the shadowy darkness. The stiff wooden coffin was placed in the centre, right in front of the alter, which was then covered with large pieces of crisp red papers.
Without a word, I lit the joss sticks and paid my respects. Dad went alone to the kitchen while I helped the rest fold the joss papers. 'Hi,' Cousin Yun broke the silence at last. It was a restrained sob, and her red eyes averted my gaze. I could only forge a wistful smile.
We folded the joss papers beside the wooden staircase. If one had walked straight to the kitchen and turned left, one would see a slightly ajar door, leading to a tiny poorly-ventilated room. This was where Grandma slept and died. The room was cluttered with decade-old furniture and worn-out mattresses. It smelled of medicated ointment and urine. Grandma's prayer beads were strewn about in disarray. An old radio was moaning in a monotonous drone, 'Namu-Amida-Butsu, Namu-Amida-Butsu...' repeating itself in an endless cycle, as one would mourn for the dead. However, it was perhaps Grandma's only source of comfort and solace when she was still alive.
As I carelessly folded the joss papers, I tried to conjure memories of Grandma in my mind. I tried very hard, but nothing came. I could not even imagine her face clearly. Were her spectacle rims golden or silver? Did she wear a bangle on her right wrist, or on her left? All these I could not remember. To me, Grandma was only a kindly old lady, with a gentle smile, bending over a plump and aged body, dressed in a floral blue shirt and black pants.
(... ...)
***
Evening came. 'Come and eat,' Grandma would call out when she was still alive, and the children would flock to the dinner table and gather. But the laughter and gaiety was gone; it was replaced by a sombre silence. We had all grown anyway. We were no longer children. 'Eat,' Auntie said gravely when she passed the bowls of rice around. She had prepared a table full of food for dinner -- a dull-looking pomphret steamed with plums and ginger, a half-cooked white chicken oozing with blood, poorly-chopped slices of roast duck, a dish of preserved vegetables, fishball soup with thin lettuce slices, and a pot of fat pork braised in oily soy sauce. I stuffed myself with the white rice and plain water.
After dinner, Auntie Hun's sons and daughters came over. Their loud voices and boisterous laughter filled the hall. 'Where's the mahjong table?' Ah Leong asked as he put aside a can of beer. 'We'll stay up till dawn to accompany Grandma.' Ah Hong, who had recently won in a pageant, sashayed across the hall in a tight black T-shirt that clung snugly to her curvaceous figure. 'It's sad that Grandma died,' she remarked casually after offering her joss sticks. Then she purred a 'hi' to my mum, sank herself into an old sofa's welcoming embrace, and switched on the television. Soon, the hall was drowned in the noise of clattering mahjong tiles, tossing chips and drunken voices. Right next to Grandma's coffin.
It was cold and damp outside, for there had been an evening drizzle. My parents and I left the hall. In a tentage, the temple priests and nuns were conducting a prayer ceremony. ‘Na….mo…..’ the chief priest began to chant in Chinese syllables, as I knelt and leafed through the pages of an unknown sutra. It depicted fantastical things of the Afterlife, speaking of parrots in a myriad of colours, and peacocks that had a thousand eyes on their feathers. It spoke of flowers that were more fragrant than all the perfumes of the world, and lights that shone more brightly than all the stars in the heavens and cosmos. I did not know why, but an image of a bridge suddenly came to me. For a while, I thought I saw Grandma. She was holding a cane in one hand, and taking small deliberate steps from one end of the bridge to the other. At midway, she turned and smiled, and waved a goodbye before she continued her way. It was a calm and peaceful smile -- full of assurance and wisdom -- and I thought that was the most beautiful smile I had seen of Grandma. ‘I saw Grandma,’ Cousin Yun whispered to me secretly after the prayer ceremony. I smiled at her, but said nothing. The hall was still noisy with the gamblers and the television. I stole a glance at Cousin Hong before I climbed upstairs, my feet made a thumping sound as I went up the wooden steps. That night, I could not sleep well. I fell off my bed once. I also dreamt about black cats.
The second day, two quarrels broke out.
It was morning, and I was having a quiet breakfast in the hall when I heard voices shouting from the kitchen. I quickly went over to take a look. Dad was quarreling with Cousin Chin.
‘Son of a gun!’ Dad spat and shouted. ‘If you’re unhappy, we can have a one-on-one behind the house!’
Dad’s face was flushed in anger. He was waving his arms about in violent wild gestures while Auntie tried to push him aside to pacify him. Cousin Chin ignored Dad and walked away. I later found out what had happened. Cousin Chin had urinated in the bathroom, and he called Dad ‘a silly useless old man’ when Dad chided him for not using the toilet instead. After the incident, Cousin Chin had a quiet smoke beside the old well, while I returned to the hall quietly and read, having lost my mood for breakfast. I thought it was unfortunate to start the morning like this, but this was not the end of it.
Just before lunch, a loud wail sounded from the kitchen. I rushed over and saw Auntie bursting into tears and sobs. She was beating her chest furiously with her right fist. At that sight, I thought that the sadness in the house was becoming insufferable, and I was overcome with a strong desire to get out of that miserable place. At first, I thought Aunite was overwhelmed with grief by Grandma’s death. I later realised that Aunite had quarreled with Uncle. Uncle was angry that Auntie did not bring him the dustbin when he had asked her to do so, and he threatened to beat her. ‘My dad had tried to hit my mum with a belt when I was only five years old,’ Cousin Ghim told me. The incident was clearly a misunderstanding. Auntie was too far in the kitchen, so she could not hear Uncle. Besides, the dustbin was only a few steps away from Uncle. The very fact that quarrels, or even violence, could occur over such trivial issues made life seem more depressing than Grandma’s death itself. The women of the house decided to confront Uncle in the hall.
‘What a lazy man you are! Can’t you even move from your seat and take the dustbin yourself? Is it not depressing enough that Mum had died?’ Aunt Bee assailed Uncle with an avalanche of useless questions.
‘Your wife had been taking care of Mother when she was ill. What had she done to deserve this ill-treatment from you?’ Aunt Hun added.
Uncle suddenly stood up and spoke with authority. ‘For the last twenty or thirty years, I have slogged and slaved for this family. Is this how I should be spoken to?’ He was now the patriarch of the house, being the eldest son.
Father cut into the conversation quickly. ‘This is your family matter. Remember that Mother had said that half of the old house belongs to me.’ Father was referring to the old house some two kilometres down the road that Grandma had left behind. What had begun as a silly fuss over a dustbin escalated quickly into a discussion on dividing the family property.
“Let us talk about this outside. It’s not nice to be like this in Mother’s presence.’ Auntie Hun reminded everyone.
At that utterance, everyone suddenly quietened down. The cousins started to whisper in hushed voices. The adults looked nervous and uneasy, trying to wipe guilty looks off their faces. I cast a glance at the wooden coffin, imagining how Grandma could rest peacefully like this. Cousin Yun’s eyes were welled with tears again.
uncle and his new house (old sketch)
We got into Cousin’s car and Cousin and Dad started talking.
‘He started it again this morning. In fact, he started it yesterday morning the minute I got off my car.’
‘What happened?’ Dad asked.
‘God knows what got into him. He’s a possessed madman of some sort. I was so pissed off I told him that I am back to celebrate Chinese New year, not to get scolded. In fact, I was very tempted to leave.’
I listened to the conversation quietly. It was not my nature to talk to my relatives. Cousin continued to talk about Uncle while his daughter, Han, sat quietly beside him. She fidgeted a little because the sun was glaring through the windscreen and shining into her eyes.
‘That impossible old man – do you know how ridiculous he was? Once, someone’s Indian worker came to deliver something. He shouted at the poor Indian worker for no reason. I believe even the poor man’s boss would not have scolded him so badly. But that’s not the only ridiculous thing he did. He also scolded neighbours who refused to do business with him.’
‘Well, you know your Dad’s temper. When he’s in a bad mood, he scolds anyone without a reason.’ Dad interrupted.
‘Let me tell you what happened the other day.’ Cousin continued. ‘He and I went to a Malay kampong. Now, this is Malaysia, dammit. At least even if you want to be king, you do not do it in a Malay kampong. Guess what? He cursed and swore at a Malay chap in the Malay kampong, as if he were ready to pick a fight anytime. I say again – in a fucking Malay kampong! Those people must have thought him a crazy old man. If he were in his thirties – now you know the Malay gangsters here are far worse than those in Singapore – he would have been hospitalized or lost his life there and then. I told him if he wanted to throw such foolish tempers again, don’t do it in a Malay kampong. And above all, if he’s keen to die, go alone. Don’t bring me along.’ Cousin was apparently exasperated as he recounted Uncle’s utter foolishness.
The conversation topic shifted to the new house.
‘So is he pleased with the new house?’ Dad asked.
‘Oh, of course he’s happy and proud of it. We’ve told him to save the money and not to build it, but he insisted. I guess it is his own wish, though he keeps saying that the old neighbour has been asking him. It’s not as if we borrowed any money from our old neighbour or owe him anything. Why should he bother if our family builds a new house with my dad’s savings? Ultimately, I think it’s the old man himself. It’s his pride… … It’s a joke really, if you think about it. The old man saved every single cent he earned. What’s the big deal about building a three-hundred-thousand-dollar house, if one does not even sit at a roadside stall for coffee with a friend? If anyone had been a miser like him, anyone could have built a three-hundred-thousand-dollar house in Malaysia.’
The car turned into Sungei Renggit.
Johore had not changed the least bit since I last visited the place some eight or nine years ago. The roads were still narrow and sandy, flanked by old houses with weathered walls and rusty zinc roofs. The vehicles looked worn out and more than a decade old. Like eight or nine years ago, children were playing in the porches of the houses. Dogs barked as bicycles and motorcycles went by. Roadside stalls and peddlers were still a common sight when I thought they would have become obsolete.
***
The car turned into the car park of an unfamiliar house.
‘Welcome to our million-dollar mansion.’ Cousin said to me half-sarcastically. I got off the car and Cousin ushered me up a flight of stairs on my right. All this while, I thought we were going to put up at the old house, but I was wrong. We were going to put up at Uncle’s new house. No more creaking wooden steps that made a thumping sound. No more old well with a metal bucket. I suddenly felt a sense of loss and nostalgia.
We soon reached the second floor. The floor of the new house was tiled with marble and there was a balcony at the hall overlooking the road and houses. Forty-five degrees to our right was a true million-dollar mansion fashioned in modern architectural design. There was a rooftop dining area and a huge plasma TV (or LCD TV ) visible even from our side of the road. There was a gym and swimming pool too.
‘My dad often says that the guy across the road shouldn’t have built such an expensive house. That way, our house would seem like the finest and most expensive house along this stretch of the road.’ Cousin said. ‘Anyway, my dad would give you a more comprehensive guided tour of the house. He would put his hand on this railing and say “this is real steel”, and hopefully you’d say a word of praise or two to please him. As if any idiot would mistake it for iron or aluminum…’
I thought it was a good thing that Uncle was not in when we arrived, for I thought he would scold me for not having visited him at his place for eight or nine years.
After Auntie served drinks to Dad and myself, Cousin and I went to sit at the rooftop to chat.
‘Sigh, I could talk about that old man for three months,’ Cousin said. ‘How’s your brother?’
‘My brother? Still in Thailand.’ I answered somewhat absent-mindedly, for I was not keen to start talking about my brother.
‘Why are the two of you so different? Was he like that when he was young?’ Cousin asked.
‘Well, how shall I put it…it’s not just your dad that’s problematic. My dad’s problematic too. And my brother is what he is today largely due to my dad…’
At this point, Dad joined us at the rooftop.
‘Whoa, the house is larger than I thought. When it was still under construction, I didn’t think it would be this large.’ Dad remarked. I thought Uncle would have been pleased if Dad were to speak these very words to him.
Cousin continued to talk about Uncle.
‘You should have seen my dad when he’s looking for something. The whole family would be flustered and busy even if he were to lose something as small as a pen or nail-clipper. Once he misplaced a pen and he started to slam the cupboards and drawers in the house and started scolding everyone in the house, so we all helped him look for it. I even went to get a new one for him, but that old moron insisted that he wanted back the very same pen. That is what a miser he is. I wanted to tell him to stop being an asshole. A millionaire like Li Jiacheng would not even bother to pick up money if he indeed dropped some, for the time he would spend to pick up the money would cost him more than the money he dropped.’
I tried to imagine Uncle upsetting the whole family over a pen that might cost less than thirty cents in Singapore currency, and wondered how such people find joy and meaning in their lives. I wished I could tell Cousin that my dad was not too different from Uncle in this aspect.
‘He’s back,’ Auntie came up and announced Uncle’s return. He probably went out to get the papers.
‘Remember to wish him health and pass him the hundred-dollar ang-pow I told you to prepare,’ Dad reminded me. I was somewhat apprehensive.
***
‘Ah, Ah Ming, I see you’ve come.’ Uncle muttered.
He was old, a sixty-six year old man with thinning grey hair and a tanned lean body from decades of toil and labour. His skin was all wrinkled and dry.
‘Uncle, Happy New Year.’ I passed him the hundred-dollar ang-pow I had prepared, but he took it and just carelessly placed it near the kitchen sink. For a while, I was at a loss of what to do.
Cousin’s wife, Jingyi, was preparing lunch in the kitchen. I wanted to pick up the ang-pow and pass it to Uncle again, but Jingyi gave me a look to tell me to wait.
Uncle finished his drink and started to reprimand Jingyi.
‘In many families, sons and daughter-in-laws bring their fathers out to restaurants to dine or travel to other places, but my own son and daughter-in-law avoid me and treat me as if I were less than a dog in their eyes.’
Jingyi and I started to feel tense. Someone please come to our rescue, I thought to myself quietly.
‘Uncle, this is for you,’ I picked the red packet from the sink area and passed it to him again, hoping that perhaps money would cheer him up a little.
‘Uh…oh,’ he took a glance at it. ‘Never mind, it’s okay, you’re still young and have not started to earn money.’ He said.
‘I’m working,’ I tried to push the red packet to him.
He took it and left it on the dining table while he sat down and started to drink his coffee. At least Jingyi could now prepare the lunch in peace.
‘Sit down,’ Uncle said, as he lit a cigarette. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘The new house is very big and nice,’ I tried to appease him.
Uncle took a puff and began his story, his eyes looking into the distance.
‘When I was twenty-four, I married your auntie. I worked very hard for this family… You know I have four children. I worked tirelessly every day, collecting junk and odds-and-ends to sell. I brought up my four children. You know the old shed where I dumped my things? Do you still remember our old house further down the road? I built two houses. Now we are here…I built this fine house too. Three houses in all. It’s not easy…’
I nodded silently.
‘I heard from your father that you are always very busy. I understand that teaching is not an easy job, but you must still have time for relatives.’
There was momentary silence. My eyes looked away from his.
‘I also heard from your father that you do not have much savings or money. You must learn to save. Of course I’m not asking you to be a miser or a slave to money. Spend on what is necessary, but save up for the future too. Do you think that I’d be able to build this house if I didn’t save?’ He looked around him with some pride and dignity as he spoke, and I remembered Cousin saying that Uncle only brought bread and plain water out with him when he worked. But of course, Uncle did not know that I had been supporting Brother.
‘Three decades…time flies…’ Uncle took another puff. ‘If this house had been built in Singapore it would have been worth millions.’ He wouldn’t be able to afford a house like this in Singapore, I thought. That amount of money would probably amount to a tiny condominium in Singapore at most.
‘I might not be very educated, but there are many people who respect me,’ he said. I thought he just complained that his own son and daughter-in-law treated him like a dog. ‘That old neighbour of mine – he did not even invite me to his son’s wedding. Why, does he think he can match me in terms of wealth, or in terms of capabilities and intelligence? I am part of the committee of a Chinese school here. I know about politics and education very well…’
I had to agree that Uncle is better versed in politics than I am. He reminded me of those uncles sitting in kopi-tiams complaining about the PAP policies and cursing Old Lee. I would very much prefer to live in my own little world of books and pictures and be ignorant of these things, though many might call me apathetic.
‘Respect,’ Uncle continued with great deliberateness. ‘You are a Chinese, you are educated, and you are already a teacher. How can you not find time to visit an uncle? No matter what, I’m still your father’s elder brother. How can you teach your students if you cannot even live by such a simple principle? … … Respect… I am not a dog. Neither am I invisible or dead. I may be uneducated, but I brought up four children and built this house. It is not easy. I wonder why so many people are avoiding me as if I were a dog…’
‘Well, if you stop barking around at everyone as if you were one, you would have a lot more people around you,’ I thought to myself, but I said nothing.
***
‘Lunch is ready…’ Jingyi announced as she laid out the dishes on the table. Cousin Sen (whom I have addressed simply as Cousin up to this point) came into the kitchen with little Han-girl.
‘Grandpa, eat,’ little Han called and Uncle looked at her and smiled. Little Han was very adorable and pretty. She was merely two years old, and I would dare say that of all the children I had known, she was the only child cuter than my brother’s daughter Serene. She would be our saviour angel to keep the family peaceful for the next few days, I thought.
‘Whoa, you are so pretty,’ Dad said to little Han. Then he turned to Jingyi and said, ‘You are becoming the mother of a celebrity!’
‘Ming, you are only eating the vegetables,’ Jingyi noticed.
‘Oh, I heard from your father that you are not eating fish or meat or chicken, or even eggs. What are we going to cook for you?’ Auntie asked.
‘Huh? You do not eat so many things? Is it true?’ Uncle looked at me. ‘You cannot not eat so many things. In fact, you must eat a little of everything so that you have a balanced diet.’
The atmosphere got a little tense, and I decided I should just stop my vegetarian diet for two or three days to avoid a confrontation or conflict of any sort.
‘Just ignore him and make him eat,’ Dad said.
I said nothing and took some fish quietly. I decided that the next best thing to do was to finish my meal and leave the table quickly, but that would be very rude.
‘Aiyah, even though I’m a Buddhist, I do not observe such a strict diet as you do,’ Auntie sort of lamented.
It was useless to explain anything to these people. Nevertheless, unlike Uncle, Auntie was someone whom I greatly respected.
‘Try these too,’ Jingyi passed me some scallops. ‘This is my best dish.’
‘Yeah yeah,’ Cousin Sen sneered. ‘Four years ago it was this dish. Four years later it’s still the same dish. But I have to admit you’ve not lost the touch.’ Cousin then turned and smiled at his wife.
At that moment, I suddenly thought about how difficult life was for the women who were married into our family. So Jingyi had been preparing New Year dishes for many years now. She would probably help Auntie wash the dishes later too. I was extremely thankful that I was neither married nor attached. And Auntie… how difficult it must had been on her, to live with my uncle all these years and to help bring up the four children. Jingyi was more fortunate because Cousin Sen was at least a decent and reasonable man. I suddenly felt very sorry for the women, and I hated my very own family and surname.
‘The fish doesn’t taste good,’ Uncle’s face twisted into a scowl and laid down his chopsticks. ‘The sea cucumber isn’t very fresh too.’
‘Ma, you shouldn’t buy things for the sake of buying,’ said Cousin Sen. ‘I know things are hard to find and they are costly around this time, but if you know that the things are not fresh, do not buy them for the sake of buying them. We can settle for a simple meal.’ Cousin Sen spoke truth in a cool rational manner, paying no regard to what Uncle said earlier.
I understood Auntie’s position very well. After all, Chinese New Year is nothing more than going through the motion for unhappy families. You buy New Year goodies because everyone else does the same, not because you like or enjoy them. You put up New Year decorations even though your family has three quarrels or more on the same day. You give and collect ang pows because the Chinese had been doing so for thousands of years. Everything has nothing to do with joy or meaning.
My heart bled and ached a lot over that simple lunch. I felt very sorry for Auntie.
***
It was a hot sultry afternoon after lunch. I stayed quietly in my room, reading Natsume Soseki’s ‘Grass On The Wayside’. All the bedrooms in the house had air-conditioners, but being a person who was used to the tropical heat and climate I only switched on the ceiling fan. The bedroom window overlooked a dense patchwork of rusty zinc rooftops, and one could see trees and the sea in the distance. As I read, I thought that Soseki’s ‘Grass On The Wayside’ could be interpreted as a study of an unimportant or insignificant life.
‘He started it again this morning. In fact, he started it yesterday morning the minute I got off my car.’
‘What happened?’ Dad asked.
‘God knows what got into him. He’s a possessed madman of some sort. I was so pissed off I told him that I am back to celebrate Chinese New year, not to get scolded. In fact, I was very tempted to leave.’
I listened to the conversation quietly. It was not my nature to talk to my relatives. Cousin continued to talk about Uncle while his daughter, Han, sat quietly beside him. She fidgeted a little because the sun was glaring through the windscreen and shining into her eyes.
‘That impossible old man – do you know how ridiculous he was? Once, someone’s Indian worker came to deliver something. He shouted at the poor Indian worker for no reason. I believe even the poor man’s boss would not have scolded him so badly. But that’s not the only ridiculous thing he did. He also scolded neighbours who refused to do business with him.’
‘Well, you know your Dad’s temper. When he’s in a bad mood, he scolds anyone without a reason.’ Dad interrupted.
‘Let me tell you what happened the other day.’ Cousin continued. ‘He and I went to a Malay kampong. Now, this is Malaysia, dammit. At least even if you want to be king, you do not do it in a Malay kampong. Guess what? He cursed and swore at a Malay chap in the Malay kampong, as if he were ready to pick a fight anytime. I say again – in a fucking Malay kampong! Those people must have thought him a crazy old man. If he were in his thirties – now you know the Malay gangsters here are far worse than those in Singapore – he would have been hospitalized or lost his life there and then. I told him if he wanted to throw such foolish tempers again, don’t do it in a Malay kampong. And above all, if he’s keen to die, go alone. Don’t bring me along.’ Cousin was apparently exasperated as he recounted Uncle’s utter foolishness.
The conversation topic shifted to the new house.
‘So is he pleased with the new house?’ Dad asked.
‘Oh, of course he’s happy and proud of it. We’ve told him to save the money and not to build it, but he insisted. I guess it is his own wish, though he keeps saying that the old neighbour has been asking him. It’s not as if we borrowed any money from our old neighbour or owe him anything. Why should he bother if our family builds a new house with my dad’s savings? Ultimately, I think it’s the old man himself. It’s his pride… … It’s a joke really, if you think about it. The old man saved every single cent he earned. What’s the big deal about building a three-hundred-thousand-dollar house, if one does not even sit at a roadside stall for coffee with a friend? If anyone had been a miser like him, anyone could have built a three-hundred-thousand-dollar house in Malaysia.’
The car turned into Sungei Renggit.
Johore had not changed the least bit since I last visited the place some eight or nine years ago. The roads were still narrow and sandy, flanked by old houses with weathered walls and rusty zinc roofs. The vehicles looked worn out and more than a decade old. Like eight or nine years ago, children were playing in the porches of the houses. Dogs barked as bicycles and motorcycles went by. Roadside stalls and peddlers were still a common sight when I thought they would have become obsolete.
***
The car turned into the car park of an unfamiliar house.
‘Welcome to our million-dollar mansion.’ Cousin said to me half-sarcastically. I got off the car and Cousin ushered me up a flight of stairs on my right. All this while, I thought we were going to put up at the old house, but I was wrong. We were going to put up at Uncle’s new house. No more creaking wooden steps that made a thumping sound. No more old well with a metal bucket. I suddenly felt a sense of loss and nostalgia.
We soon reached the second floor. The floor of the new house was tiled with marble and there was a balcony at the hall overlooking the road and houses. Forty-five degrees to our right was a true million-dollar mansion fashioned in modern architectural design. There was a rooftop dining area and a huge plasma TV (or LCD TV ) visible even from our side of the road. There was a gym and swimming pool too.
‘My dad often says that the guy across the road shouldn’t have built such an expensive house. That way, our house would seem like the finest and most expensive house along this stretch of the road.’ Cousin said. ‘Anyway, my dad would give you a more comprehensive guided tour of the house. He would put his hand on this railing and say “this is real steel”, and hopefully you’d say a word of praise or two to please him. As if any idiot would mistake it for iron or aluminum…’
I thought it was a good thing that Uncle was not in when we arrived, for I thought he would scold me for not having visited him at his place for eight or nine years.
After Auntie served drinks to Dad and myself, Cousin and I went to sit at the rooftop to chat.
‘Sigh, I could talk about that old man for three months,’ Cousin said. ‘How’s your brother?’
‘My brother? Still in Thailand.’ I answered somewhat absent-mindedly, for I was not keen to start talking about my brother.
‘Why are the two of you so different? Was he like that when he was young?’ Cousin asked.
‘Well, how shall I put it…it’s not just your dad that’s problematic. My dad’s problematic too. And my brother is what he is today largely due to my dad…’
At this point, Dad joined us at the rooftop.
‘Whoa, the house is larger than I thought. When it was still under construction, I didn’t think it would be this large.’ Dad remarked. I thought Uncle would have been pleased if Dad were to speak these very words to him.
Cousin continued to talk about Uncle.
‘You should have seen my dad when he’s looking for something. The whole family would be flustered and busy even if he were to lose something as small as a pen or nail-clipper. Once he misplaced a pen and he started to slam the cupboards and drawers in the house and started scolding everyone in the house, so we all helped him look for it. I even went to get a new one for him, but that old moron insisted that he wanted back the very same pen. That is what a miser he is. I wanted to tell him to stop being an asshole. A millionaire like Li Jiacheng would not even bother to pick up money if he indeed dropped some, for the time he would spend to pick up the money would cost him more than the money he dropped.’
I tried to imagine Uncle upsetting the whole family over a pen that might cost less than thirty cents in Singapore currency, and wondered how such people find joy and meaning in their lives. I wished I could tell Cousin that my dad was not too different from Uncle in this aspect.
‘He’s back,’ Auntie came up and announced Uncle’s return. He probably went out to get the papers.
‘Remember to wish him health and pass him the hundred-dollar ang-pow I told you to prepare,’ Dad reminded me. I was somewhat apprehensive.
***
‘Ah, Ah Ming, I see you’ve come.’ Uncle muttered.
He was old, a sixty-six year old man with thinning grey hair and a tanned lean body from decades of toil and labour. His skin was all wrinkled and dry.
‘Uncle, Happy New Year.’ I passed him the hundred-dollar ang-pow I had prepared, but he took it and just carelessly placed it near the kitchen sink. For a while, I was at a loss of what to do.
Cousin’s wife, Jingyi, was preparing lunch in the kitchen. I wanted to pick up the ang-pow and pass it to Uncle again, but Jingyi gave me a look to tell me to wait.
Uncle finished his drink and started to reprimand Jingyi.
‘In many families, sons and daughter-in-laws bring their fathers out to restaurants to dine or travel to other places, but my own son and daughter-in-law avoid me and treat me as if I were less than a dog in their eyes.’
Jingyi and I started to feel tense. Someone please come to our rescue, I thought to myself quietly.
‘Uncle, this is for you,’ I picked the red packet from the sink area and passed it to him again, hoping that perhaps money would cheer him up a little.
‘Uh…oh,’ he took a glance at it. ‘Never mind, it’s okay, you’re still young and have not started to earn money.’ He said.
‘I’m working,’ I tried to push the red packet to him.
He took it and left it on the dining table while he sat down and started to drink his coffee. At least Jingyi could now prepare the lunch in peace.
‘Sit down,’ Uncle said, as he lit a cigarette. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘The new house is very big and nice,’ I tried to appease him.
Uncle took a puff and began his story, his eyes looking into the distance.
‘When I was twenty-four, I married your auntie. I worked very hard for this family… You know I have four children. I worked tirelessly every day, collecting junk and odds-and-ends to sell. I brought up my four children. You know the old shed where I dumped my things? Do you still remember our old house further down the road? I built two houses. Now we are here…I built this fine house too. Three houses in all. It’s not easy…’
I nodded silently.
‘I heard from your father that you are always very busy. I understand that teaching is not an easy job, but you must still have time for relatives.’
There was momentary silence. My eyes looked away from his.
‘I also heard from your father that you do not have much savings or money. You must learn to save. Of course I’m not asking you to be a miser or a slave to money. Spend on what is necessary, but save up for the future too. Do you think that I’d be able to build this house if I didn’t save?’ He looked around him with some pride and dignity as he spoke, and I remembered Cousin saying that Uncle only brought bread and plain water out with him when he worked. But of course, Uncle did not know that I had been supporting Brother.
‘Three decades…time flies…’ Uncle took another puff. ‘If this house had been built in Singapore it would have been worth millions.’ He wouldn’t be able to afford a house like this in Singapore, I thought. That amount of money would probably amount to a tiny condominium in Singapore at most.
‘I might not be very educated, but there are many people who respect me,’ he said. I thought he just complained that his own son and daughter-in-law treated him like a dog. ‘That old neighbour of mine – he did not even invite me to his son’s wedding. Why, does he think he can match me in terms of wealth, or in terms of capabilities and intelligence? I am part of the committee of a Chinese school here. I know about politics and education very well…’
I had to agree that Uncle is better versed in politics than I am. He reminded me of those uncles sitting in kopi-tiams complaining about the PAP policies and cursing Old Lee. I would very much prefer to live in my own little world of books and pictures and be ignorant of these things, though many might call me apathetic.
‘Respect,’ Uncle continued with great deliberateness. ‘You are a Chinese, you are educated, and you are already a teacher. How can you not find time to visit an uncle? No matter what, I’m still your father’s elder brother. How can you teach your students if you cannot even live by such a simple principle? … … Respect… I am not a dog. Neither am I invisible or dead. I may be uneducated, but I brought up four children and built this house. It is not easy. I wonder why so many people are avoiding me as if I were a dog…’
‘Well, if you stop barking around at everyone as if you were one, you would have a lot more people around you,’ I thought to myself, but I said nothing.
***
‘Lunch is ready…’ Jingyi announced as she laid out the dishes on the table. Cousin Sen (whom I have addressed simply as Cousin up to this point) came into the kitchen with little Han-girl.
‘Grandpa, eat,’ little Han called and Uncle looked at her and smiled. Little Han was very adorable and pretty. She was merely two years old, and I would dare say that of all the children I had known, she was the only child cuter than my brother’s daughter Serene. She would be our saviour angel to keep the family peaceful for the next few days, I thought.
‘Whoa, you are so pretty,’ Dad said to little Han. Then he turned to Jingyi and said, ‘You are becoming the mother of a celebrity!’
‘Ming, you are only eating the vegetables,’ Jingyi noticed.
‘Oh, I heard from your father that you are not eating fish or meat or chicken, or even eggs. What are we going to cook for you?’ Auntie asked.
‘Huh? You do not eat so many things? Is it true?’ Uncle looked at me. ‘You cannot not eat so many things. In fact, you must eat a little of everything so that you have a balanced diet.’
The atmosphere got a little tense, and I decided I should just stop my vegetarian diet for two or three days to avoid a confrontation or conflict of any sort.
‘Just ignore him and make him eat,’ Dad said.
I said nothing and took some fish quietly. I decided that the next best thing to do was to finish my meal and leave the table quickly, but that would be very rude.
‘Aiyah, even though I’m a Buddhist, I do not observe such a strict diet as you do,’ Auntie sort of lamented.
It was useless to explain anything to these people. Nevertheless, unlike Uncle, Auntie was someone whom I greatly respected.
‘Try these too,’ Jingyi passed me some scallops. ‘This is my best dish.’
‘Yeah yeah,’ Cousin Sen sneered. ‘Four years ago it was this dish. Four years later it’s still the same dish. But I have to admit you’ve not lost the touch.’ Cousin then turned and smiled at his wife.
At that moment, I suddenly thought about how difficult life was for the women who were married into our family. So Jingyi had been preparing New Year dishes for many years now. She would probably help Auntie wash the dishes later too. I was extremely thankful that I was neither married nor attached. And Auntie… how difficult it must had been on her, to live with my uncle all these years and to help bring up the four children. Jingyi was more fortunate because Cousin Sen was at least a decent and reasonable man. I suddenly felt very sorry for the women, and I hated my very own family and surname.
‘The fish doesn’t taste good,’ Uncle’s face twisted into a scowl and laid down his chopsticks. ‘The sea cucumber isn’t very fresh too.’
‘Ma, you shouldn’t buy things for the sake of buying,’ said Cousin Sen. ‘I know things are hard to find and they are costly around this time, but if you know that the things are not fresh, do not buy them for the sake of buying them. We can settle for a simple meal.’ Cousin Sen spoke truth in a cool rational manner, paying no regard to what Uncle said earlier.
I understood Auntie’s position very well. After all, Chinese New Year is nothing more than going through the motion for unhappy families. You buy New Year goodies because everyone else does the same, not because you like or enjoy them. You put up New Year decorations even though your family has three quarrels or more on the same day. You give and collect ang pows because the Chinese had been doing so for thousands of years. Everything has nothing to do with joy or meaning.
My heart bled and ached a lot over that simple lunch. I felt very sorry for Auntie.
***
It was a hot sultry afternoon after lunch. I stayed quietly in my room, reading Natsume Soseki’s ‘Grass On The Wayside’. All the bedrooms in the house had air-conditioners, but being a person who was used to the tropical heat and climate I only switched on the ceiling fan. The bedroom window overlooked a dense patchwork of rusty zinc rooftops, and one could see trees and the sea in the distance. As I read, I thought that Soseki’s ‘Grass On The Wayside’ could be interpreted as a study of an unimportant or insignificant life.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Untitled (words in progress)
I had painted by the roadside, under an orange sky, while the joss papers burnt and smoke continued to rise. I had drawn the old banyan tree in the graveyard and urinated into the drain beside it, without a thought for the dead...
Let me talk about that eventful night, or morning, since it was already past twelve. The street was dark and deserted; there was no one around. I knelt under the street lamp, my drawing block and Chinese ink laid out on the ground, a stick or leaf in my hand. I had not brought my brushes, so I had to draw with whatever I could find. At a nearby coffee shop, Adrian and Liang Zhu were having coffee and prata. "Come back one and a half or two hours later," I told Adrian. He was driving that night... The moon shone through the ghostly roots and branches. The tree had probably stood for more than a century. I thought about the famous novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, "One Hundred Years of Solitude", and imagined an illustration of the banyan tree as its cover...
Let me talk about that eventful night, or morning, since it was already past twelve. The street was dark and deserted; there was no one around. I knelt under the street lamp, my drawing block and Chinese ink laid out on the ground, a stick or leaf in my hand. I had not brought my brushes, so I had to draw with whatever I could find. At a nearby coffee shop, Adrian and Liang Zhu were having coffee and prata. "Come back one and a half or two hours later," I told Adrian. He was driving that night... The moon shone through the ghostly roots and branches. The tree had probably stood for more than a century. I thought about the famous novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, "One Hundred Years of Solitude", and imagined an illustration of the banyan tree as its cover...
Just like that i reach pandan already!
A 97 went by.
And then a 10.
Followed by a 100.
And then a 57.
A stick of djarum finished.
A 80 that doesn't stop here.
A rws8.
A 145.
And oh yes, 30 is right behind it.
And behind its probably a 143 but the 30 came first.
30 seats empty on the upper deck.
Soccer was being played on the phablet in front, and a hard time was had trying to figure out who's on which side. But soon the whistle blew. And then it alighted before play resumed.
Its already the haw par villa.
A noisy menage a trois across the aisle, a banter between patchy singlish and monosyllabic 'hur'; theirs the only punctuation in the 'rawr' of the air conditioning, the only couple seeming not to mind either in their silent contented huddle.
The others,we wait solemnly our turn,to reach our bath,the bed; and beyond that more djarums at bus stops, more waiting our turns to, rehash,replay,redo, re-each,every day,month,year until finally the clock stops.
And then a 10.
Followed by a 100.
And then a 57.
A stick of djarum finished.
A 80 that doesn't stop here.
A rws8.
A 145.
And oh yes, 30 is right behind it.
And behind its probably a 143 but the 30 came first.
30 seats empty on the upper deck.
Soccer was being played on the phablet in front, and a hard time was had trying to figure out who's on which side. But soon the whistle blew. And then it alighted before play resumed.
Its already the haw par villa.
A noisy menage a trois across the aisle, a banter between patchy singlish and monosyllabic 'hur'; theirs the only punctuation in the 'rawr' of the air conditioning, the only couple seeming not to mind either in their silent contented huddle.
The others,we wait solemnly our turn,to reach our bath,the bed; and beyond that more djarums at bus stops, more waiting our turns to, rehash,replay,redo, re-each,every day,month,year until finally the clock stops.
Monday, October 29, 2012
30 on the way back
A couple sits in front.
And in front of them another couple.
And another.
Ignoring the foreign workers half the people on this upper deck are coupled.
They smile at each other. They snuggle against the roaring air conditioning. They talk in low voices beyond the air conditioned roar.
How did they meet? Or decide to couple? Have they coupled? Did they start there? How young were they then? How long more will they go at it? Why couple? Will it hold true?
How short is a scholarship bond or handphone contract against the til death do us part of coupling; he won't change,she changed. A year may be all it takes. A new iphone. A new couple. Its faster to give her the house and stop seeing her right away.
And cheaper by far,cash on delivery. What do amateurs know? Hire professionals that will do a good job of it. After all, bus drivers and air conditioning servicemen are,too.
And in front of them another couple.
And another.
Ignoring the foreign workers half the people on this upper deck are coupled.
They smile at each other. They snuggle against the roaring air conditioning. They talk in low voices beyond the air conditioned roar.
How did they meet? Or decide to couple? Have they coupled? Did they start there? How young were they then? How long more will they go at it? Why couple? Will it hold true?
How short is a scholarship bond or handphone contract against the til death do us part of coupling; he won't change,she changed. A year may be all it takes. A new iphone. A new couple. Its faster to give her the house and stop seeing her right away.
And cheaper by far,cash on delivery. What do amateurs know? Hire professionals that will do a good job of it. After all, bus drivers and air conditioning servicemen are,too.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Dead Cat
Dead Cat
After my meditation session last Sunday, I saw a dead cat under a tree with all its entrails. I was shocked and horrified...I wanted to take a photograph of it to do art, but I did not, partly because I was scared for some unknown reason, and partly because I thought I had given up on drawing dead animals and had moved on to art that is more life-affirming and less depressing. The image haunted me for a week. Of course, when I walked past the tree this afternoon, the dead cat was no longer there.
Earlier this year, I was working on a series of dead birds, which turned out to be rather unsucessful. The works were based on the same photograph of a dead bird which had mysteriously lost its head. My works have often been labelled as morbid or depressing because they are black and they dwell on the darker side of life. Nonetheless, the dead cat screamed out at me 'This is art! This is the very substance of life itself!' I regretted not taking photographs of the dead cat, though I must admit that the entrails were too gory and revolting for anyone to bear. I wonder if the cat had died as a result of human cruelty or simply a case of bad labour. I suspect it was the latter, for who in the right mind would dissect a cat like this, except for the purpose of demon-worship?
After my meditation session last Sunday, I saw a dead cat under a tree with all its entrails. I was shocked and horrified...I wanted to take a photograph of it to do art, but I did not, partly because I was scared for some unknown reason, and partly because I thought I had given up on drawing dead animals and had moved on to art that is more life-affirming and less depressing. The image haunted me for a week. Of course, when I walked past the tree this afternoon, the dead cat was no longer there.
Earlier this year, I was working on a series of dead birds, which turned out to be rather unsucessful. The works were based on the same photograph of a dead bird which had mysteriously lost its head. My works have often been labelled as morbid or depressing because they are black and they dwell on the darker side of life. Nonetheless, the dead cat screamed out at me 'This is art! This is the very substance of life itself!' I regretted not taking photographs of the dead cat, though I must admit that the entrails were too gory and revolting for anyone to bear. I wonder if the cat had died as a result of human cruelty or simply a case of bad labour. I suspect it was the latter, for who in the right mind would dissect a cat like this, except for the purpose of demon-worship?
Jeans
Jeans (Dec 2011, edited August 2012)
A pair of legs wearing a pair of dirty worn-out jeans -- blue, brown and grey. The jeans must have survived a war or years of toil at a construction site. They must have survived barbed wires and bullets, knives and nails, thorns and teeth. They must have been soiled in mud and washed in rain. They must have seen labourers and soldiers, vagabonds and artists, prostitutes and beggars. Stained with grease and paint, torn and ripped apart at various places, stitches and patches here and there with strands of loose thread hanging, they seem to have a story to tell. The stitches remind one of wounds and scars, as well as poverty and a violent history. Never have I seen a pair of jeans so beautiful, so alive...
A pair of legs wearing a pair of dirty worn-out jeans -- blue, brown and grey. The jeans must have survived a war or years of toil at a construction site. They must have survived barbed wires and bullets, knives and nails, thorns and teeth. They must have been soiled in mud and washed in rain. They must have seen labourers and soldiers, vagabonds and artists, prostitutes and beggars. Stained with grease and paint, torn and ripped apart at various places, stitches and patches here and there with strands of loose thread hanging, they seem to have a story to tell. The stitches remind one of wounds and scars, as well as poverty and a violent history. Never have I seen a pair of jeans so beautiful, so alive...
A pair
A pair boarded the bus. And they're seated across the isle.
Chitter,chatter, about some flim flam or the other.
The kid some rows behind still emanating glassy crashes and now this pair.
Steals a sideways glance.
Spaghetti top,blue straps,low slung,chilly in strong air conditioning,well stacked. Too bad the view to the other one is blocked;the nearer one well stacked. Not too bad then.
Then they get off.
Aw shucks.
But the kid's also gone.
Peace and quiet at last,in the gripping hand.
Not too bad then.
Chitter,chatter, about some flim flam or the other.
The kid some rows behind still emanating glassy crashes and now this pair.
Steals a sideways glance.
Spaghetti top,blue straps,low slung,chilly in strong air conditioning,well stacked. Too bad the view to the other one is blocked;the nearer one well stacked. Not too bad then.
Then they get off.
Aw shucks.
But the kid's also gone.
Peace and quiet at last,in the gripping hand.
Not too bad then.
bus 51
A bill board that said "help save the fridge".
A constant stream of breaking glass sounds. Probably a kid playing angry birds or..dare i imagine? an adult playing tetris on his phone or tablet(phablet?) without the benefit of earphones. The idea that others may not find his game as entertaining as he(especially when not the player,not even observing the game being played) not even occurring. Likely a kid then. Adulthood. It supposedly manifests somewhen between the early twenties and late thirties. And then you get all concerned about other people.
Ah. That took us quite a ways down along the path. From city hall to zion road. Past a temple and some urns along the road.
Never ceases to amuse me. The Chinese ghost month. Or festival as some put it.
Yes it is festive. Maybe even more so than the new year. We're a ghost fearing people. Gods,we ask them to protect us from ghosts. Ghosts,we hold banquets in their honour. Getai to entertain them. Traditional Chinese theatre may yet become a lost art,but not while we still fear our ancestors.
But back to amusing. Nowadays they provide urns,pots or whatever they're called in public spaces to facilitate burning joss. It(along with the getais) probably irked the other races,this yearly joss burning festival;its like the Indonesian haze but made by your neighbour and perhaps smellier. It probably motivated more than a few policy scholars to write policy proposals to fine it. It may have even been passed into law or regulation at some point. But you can change laws and even governments; not ancestors, certainly not their cultural and dietary habits. And so mohamed went to the mountain and tried to encourage his people to burn joss in an adult manner.
Why don't whatever parent that belongs to that kid buy it a pair of earphones?
A constant stream of breaking glass sounds. Probably a kid playing angry birds or..dare i imagine? an adult playing tetris on his phone or tablet(phablet?) without the benefit of earphones. The idea that others may not find his game as entertaining as he(especially when not the player,not even observing the game being played) not even occurring. Likely a kid then. Adulthood. It supposedly manifests somewhen between the early twenties and late thirties. And then you get all concerned about other people.
Ah. That took us quite a ways down along the path. From city hall to zion road. Past a temple and some urns along the road.
Never ceases to amuse me. The Chinese ghost month. Or festival as some put it.
Yes it is festive. Maybe even more so than the new year. We're a ghost fearing people. Gods,we ask them to protect us from ghosts. Ghosts,we hold banquets in their honour. Getai to entertain them. Traditional Chinese theatre may yet become a lost art,but not while we still fear our ancestors.
But back to amusing. Nowadays they provide urns,pots or whatever they're called in public spaces to facilitate burning joss. It(along with the getais) probably irked the other races,this yearly joss burning festival;its like the Indonesian haze but made by your neighbour and perhaps smellier. It probably motivated more than a few policy scholars to write policy proposals to fine it. It may have even been passed into law or regulation at some point. But you can change laws and even governments; not ancestors, certainly not their cultural and dietary habits. And so mohamed went to the mountain and tried to encourage his people to burn joss in an adult manner.
Why don't whatever parent that belongs to that kid buy it a pair of earphones?
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