The rapture has begun, with China in the lead (assume they’re Christians just for this analogy). The population of PRC rises towards heaven with their dowdy communist grey suits. They make a transit in the skies above Singapore. A shadow is cast upon the island as the entire drab mass blocks off all sunlight. No ray escapes the numbers. Suddenly the populace, in traditional Chinese idiosyncratic culture, rakes up their internal fluids in the unity of red brotherhood. With a final gruff effort, they expectorate. Gravity takes the spittle a long way though the stratosphere and matter-of-factly splats across the Lion City.
The above was inspired by a metaphor used by a student in my school and re-cited by a teacher during a post-mortem of one of the many periodic internal JC exams:
“Singapore is so small that if everyone in China was to spit on Singapore, our tiny island would be submerged!”
The sky is hurling buckets of water down Singapore (or at least all of Bedok and Tampines) while children of the wind play “Catch” and indiscriminately fling water-bombs in the playground of my home, a box neatly stacked on the sixth level of one of the many blocks in Aquarius By The Park (by the way, my room is by the longkang).
I squeal in utmost girliness at the storm washing the exterior walls of my flat, the pseudo-threatening thunder, the sudden plummet in the temperature, the sheer feeling of being protected and potentially-warm in this cosy (euphemistic for small) apartment, as well as with my open-arm welcome of any form of distraction from the study of Economics (Keynesian’s multiplier process).
I do my Ah-Soh scamper (in a pink housecoat with prints of cartoon children sewn upside down) though the house shutting windows, pulling in the clothes, sliding close the balcony door and wrestling with the backyard door (whose glass pane once shattered upon the impact of the door slamming shut – the product of the potent wrath of a previous storm).
As I do all these, I sing multiple obscenely atrocious cover versions of “What The World Needs Now (is love, sweet love)” near the top of my voice, ending each disfigured version and beginning another unrecognisable one upon hitting the part where my knowledge of the lyrics has never developed.
While my raucous insanity musters me and I (now) walk through the house calmer, room by room, to do my spot-check of the windows and planting my music in every corner, half my room is getting flooded. The parquet threatens to warp and rot as I let out a blonde’s shriek. I talk to myself, aloud, reprimanding and complaining. My monologue/dialogue sounds so convincing, I frighten myself.
Friday, October 31, 2003
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Dear God,
I feel like shit. I feel like dying – perhaps not forever – just a few days. But I have no time to die. The ‘A’ levels are in less than 3 weeks away. I’ve been waking up the last few mornings feeling tired, feeling unslept. I usually get my 7-8 hours, but I still feel like shit in the morning. My palpitations are killing me. They drain me of energy, from my mind to my fingers. I can’t concentrate; I have no energy, much less strength. I can’t even pray. My mind’s all over the place, or in nowhere; it’s racing through so many things, or nothing.
I feel like giving up. Just a little. I don’t even know what I want. I don’t want to give up, but I feel like doing so now. Not forever, just a while, maybe 3 days. But I can’t afford it. God, I feel like shit.
Last night, I had a bad bout of palpitations just doing my quiet time. My heart was beating fast, and later, after it slowed down, it was pounding hard against my chest. It’s just my heart, probably the size of my fist, barely 3% of my body mass, yet it controls my whole body. When Ly came last night, I told him I felt like dying, I really did. I felt as if my life was draining away with each heartbeat. It was like I was on my deathbed, dying gradually and quite TV-ish, not really suffering, just slowly giving up my life.
I’m not exhausted now. I think it’s lethargy. Lethargy and exhaustion still produce the same effect on me, more or less. Lethargy’s technically not so bad; perhaps I only need something, someone to jolt me out of lethargy. Exhaustion is terrible. I get weak all over, to the point of helplessness. A burglar can come in, and I can’t do anything, can’t even open my mouth to scream for help.
God, I feel like shit. I just want to cry now. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m behind my study schedule. I can’t stop and rest.
Well, God, at least I’ll thank you for tears now. I’m more in control of them then my mind or body. When I let them out, I feel better, even if it’s for a while. But couldn’t you have made them less itching? My eyes itch when I cry.
I just want to lie cradled in your arms now, away from everything, away from myself.
I feel like giving up. Just a little. I don’t even know what I want. I don’t want to give up, but I feel like doing so now. Not forever, just a while, maybe 3 days. But I can’t afford it. God, I feel like shit.
Last night, I had a bad bout of palpitations just doing my quiet time. My heart was beating fast, and later, after it slowed down, it was pounding hard against my chest. It’s just my heart, probably the size of my fist, barely 3% of my body mass, yet it controls my whole body. When Ly came last night, I told him I felt like dying, I really did. I felt as if my life was draining away with each heartbeat. It was like I was on my deathbed, dying gradually and quite TV-ish, not really suffering, just slowly giving up my life.
I’m not exhausted now. I think it’s lethargy. Lethargy and exhaustion still produce the same effect on me, more or less. Lethargy’s technically not so bad; perhaps I only need something, someone to jolt me out of lethargy. Exhaustion is terrible. I get weak all over, to the point of helplessness. A burglar can come in, and I can’t do anything, can’t even open my mouth to scream for help.
God, I feel like shit. I just want to cry now. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m behind my study schedule. I can’t stop and rest.
Well, God, at least I’ll thank you for tears now. I’m more in control of them then my mind or body. When I let them out, I feel better, even if it’s for a while. But couldn’t you have made them less itching? My eyes itch when I cry.
I just want to lie cradled in your arms now, away from everything, away from myself.
Monday, October 20, 2003
Boys Who Should Be Hung For The Cold-Blooded Murder Of The English Tongue
Blogstipation – I read that in The Straits Times Sunday Life. I suppose that’s what I have now. How exciting and public can my life get when I’m out of school? Technically and probably scientifically proven, being out of school should enhance any Singaporean’s life. However, it hasn’t quite done so in the ‘publicisable’ arena (i.e. mundane niceties) of mine.
The latest news that’s at the top of my head now is that my parents have just got me a $22 blender that can’t quite beat up watermelon pieces very well because of its poor design (where the blades don’t attack every possible corner of the ridiculously huge blending jug). Nevertheless, I’m still appreciative of this new toy. It makes staying at home versus going to Simei’s Burger King (and making friends with Jason, a TJC Primary-5-looking boy, the resident of the corner window seat at all times) possibly a more contentious issue. Speaking of Jason, I told him I was shocked he spoke English. He laughed at me, but I suppose he understood a little better why I was surprised when I explained my encounters with boys.
I was in a SAP primary school (Kong Hwa – one of the infamous 5 Hokkien Huay Kuan schools in the league of Tao Nan, that mothers desperately want their clueless 6-year-olds in), where practically all the little humans are cheenafied in dangerously high concentration levels. The only English that is spoken is a grotesque though natural fusion of Chinese, dialect and unintelligible grammar.
Before I felt that all Singaporean kids couldn’t speak English, I moved on to Tanjong Katong Girls’ – an all girls school with the majority of the population as terrified by all things Chinese as I was. The only encounter I had with boys during those 4 years was with those from Saint Patrick’s (generally above-average looking male adolescent specimens whose 'Pheromonic' scent overcomes the pleasant exterior, particularly on crowded afternoon Bus 10's). St. Pat’s boys speak 2 languages, English and Vulgaritese. Again, while English is vaguely spoken, it is heavily adulterated with elements from another language.
SAJC wasn’t very much better in proving my male peers to be capable of speaking decent English in her pure form (a combination of Kong Hwaians’ English and St. Pat’s English). Of course, there were the rare few – out of which half are metrosexuals.
Thus at the end of the day, it isn’t problematical understanding why I was stunned at Jason – a pure-English-speaking boy, who came from Anglican High (another cheenafied SAP school) and is currently in the infamous-for-cheenafication Temasek JC.
The latest news that’s at the top of my head now is that my parents have just got me a $22 blender that can’t quite beat up watermelon pieces very well because of its poor design (where the blades don’t attack every possible corner of the ridiculously huge blending jug). Nevertheless, I’m still appreciative of this new toy. It makes staying at home versus going to Simei’s Burger King (and making friends with Jason, a TJC Primary-5-looking boy, the resident of the corner window seat at all times) possibly a more contentious issue. Speaking of Jason, I told him I was shocked he spoke English. He laughed at me, but I suppose he understood a little better why I was surprised when I explained my encounters with boys.
I was in a SAP primary school (Kong Hwa – one of the infamous 5 Hokkien Huay Kuan schools in the league of Tao Nan, that mothers desperately want their clueless 6-year-olds in), where practically all the little humans are cheenafied in dangerously high concentration levels. The only English that is spoken is a grotesque though natural fusion of Chinese, dialect and unintelligible grammar.
Before I felt that all Singaporean kids couldn’t speak English, I moved on to Tanjong Katong Girls’ – an all girls school with the majority of the population as terrified by all things Chinese as I was. The only encounter I had with boys during those 4 years was with those from Saint Patrick’s (generally above-average looking male adolescent specimens whose 'Pheromonic' scent overcomes the pleasant exterior, particularly on crowded afternoon Bus 10's). St. Pat’s boys speak 2 languages, English and Vulgaritese. Again, while English is vaguely spoken, it is heavily adulterated with elements from another language.
SAJC wasn’t very much better in proving my male peers to be capable of speaking decent English in her pure form (a combination of Kong Hwaians’ English and St. Pat’s English). Of course, there were the rare few – out of which half are metrosexuals.
Thus at the end of the day, it isn’t problematical understanding why I was stunned at Jason – a pure-English-speaking boy, who came from Anglican High (another cheenafied SAP school) and is currently in the infamous-for-cheenafication Temasek JC.
Monday, October 13, 2003
Saying Goodbye
I’ve been reading farewell blogs – Joshua, Janelle and Georgina’s to be exact. The feeling of leaving and a certain have-to-move-on-and-leave-the-last-1.5-years-of-my-life-behind is plaguing me. It's been 3 days since the much-blogged about Farewell Assembly. Time always dilutes some emotions.
Janelle, you were wrong about no one crying during the farewell lecture and assembly.
Melancholy rules these days.
I've been stealing digital-cam photos off Gan's and Janelle's online photo galleries. I have saved a WinWord file titled "Farewell Blogs". Janelle's, Joshua's and Georgina's ones are the 3 entries in this file.
Thanks for picking up the memorable aspects of SAJC/02.A12/Divving...
My mind's not working. I'm weak, all over.
Anyway, here's the late MRT entry penned on 9 October, Thursday:
I am probably sentimental – perhaps in a practical and less obvious way, or perhaps the old man Mr Wee’s fondness of memories have rubbed onto me in the past week.
Leaving Tanjong Katong Girls’ wasn’t quite that big an emotional event compared to parting with college life. Today, I had my last lecture (Econs) and last tutorial (GP). I didn’t feel anything during those lessons that were relevant to the current reflective mood I’m in now. I’m on the train again.
(It appears that train journeys always see me consolidating the day’s events, thoughts and emotions, to add a more meaningful experience of the day to my life’s archives.)
Tomorrow’s the farewell assembly – my last official day as a student of Saint Andrew’s Junior College. From then on, the school no longer has any responsibility or even much control over me. The threat of detention due to misconduct no longer applies, the daily routine of waking up at 6 and trying to hit the assembly ground before K does is permanently broken.
While technically, I’ll still be in school for the A Levels in November, I still see the past few days as extra meaningful. Maybe this reminiscing mode is a less known component of my psyche – trying to seek significance and purpose in everything, including my past.
Janelle, you were wrong about no one crying during the farewell lecture and assembly.
Melancholy rules these days.
I've been stealing digital-cam photos off Gan's and Janelle's online photo galleries. I have saved a WinWord file titled "Farewell Blogs". Janelle's, Joshua's and Georgina's ones are the 3 entries in this file.
Thanks for picking up the memorable aspects of SAJC/02.A12/Divving...
My mind's not working. I'm weak, all over.
Anyway, here's the late MRT entry penned on 9 October, Thursday:
I am probably sentimental – perhaps in a practical and less obvious way, or perhaps the old man Mr Wee’s fondness of memories have rubbed onto me in the past week.
Leaving Tanjong Katong Girls’ wasn’t quite that big an emotional event compared to parting with college life. Today, I had my last lecture (Econs) and last tutorial (GP). I didn’t feel anything during those lessons that were relevant to the current reflective mood I’m in now. I’m on the train again.
(It appears that train journeys always see me consolidating the day’s events, thoughts and emotions, to add a more meaningful experience of the day to my life’s archives.)
Tomorrow’s the farewell assembly – my last official day as a student of Saint Andrew’s Junior College. From then on, the school no longer has any responsibility or even much control over me. The threat of detention due to misconduct no longer applies, the daily routine of waking up at 6 and trying to hit the assembly ground before K does is permanently broken.
While technically, I’ll still be in school for the A Levels in November, I still see the past few days as extra meaningful. Maybe this reminiscing mode is a less known component of my psyche – trying to seek significance and purpose in everything, including my past.
Sunday, October 05, 2003
The 126-Questions & 48-Questions Tests
Conscious self | Overall self |
 |  |
Not entirely accurate, but yes:
I'm extroverted, I enjoy the company of others. Relationships are important to me.
I'm more fearless than others, it is easy for me to trust people, I am physically affectionate, open-minded and I do generally like to listen as much as I like expressing myself.
No, :
I don't think I am the consummate loyal friend. I happen to think that I don't make a very good friend. I don't put in enough effort to maintain friendships that don't fall within the reach of convenience. That, I don't like about myself either.
I don't agree that I am not forthcoming about my inner struggles (besides those I am not consciously aware of) other than to Ly (whom I girlishly often expect to read the subtleties, much to his agony).
I hardly finish things that I start, or at least I don't end things as well as I start them. I'm more aware of pleasure than of pain? I never thought so, but I really am not sure about this one.
| ESFJ - "Seller". Most sociable of all types. Nurturer of harmony. Outstanding host or hostesses. 13% of the total population. |
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Another NEL Jouney - The Self-Portrayal Game
I’m on the NEL route home again (this is probably going to be the daily fare now that it has dawned upon me that this route cuts 15 minutes off my travel time).
I’m not staring at people today because I’m getting stared at myself. Some non-local-but-definitely-Asian guy was making sure I caught him looking at me for some reason ranging from male pervertness to perhaps the same sadistic satisfaction I attain by making my Autistic-Staring game victims uncomfortable. That guy left at City Hall – and I got a seat (the obvious implication of my being able to record this live).
Speaking of being stared at/observed/victimised, I have another game – the Self-Portrayal game. Often depending on my mood, dressing, time of day and location, I’ll adjust my poise and body language accordingly. I can portray the exteriors of the don’t-mess-with-me independent female, the shy conservative girl, the attitude-problem arty-farter, the deep-thinking intellectual or the bo-chap-per (apathetic ice queen). Of course I’ll only do this when only strangers, whom I don’t believe I shall ever see again, surround me. It gives me a trivial form of benign entertainment for my journeys, waiting time and other miscellaneous daily mundane routines.
I’m not staring at people today because I’m getting stared at myself. Some non-local-but-definitely-Asian guy was making sure I caught him looking at me for some reason ranging from male pervertness to perhaps the same sadistic satisfaction I attain by making my Autistic-Staring game victims uncomfortable. That guy left at City Hall – and I got a seat (the obvious implication of my being able to record this live).
Speaking of being stared at/observed/victimised, I have another game – the Self-Portrayal game. Often depending on my mood, dressing, time of day and location, I’ll adjust my poise and body language accordingly. I can portray the exteriors of the don’t-mess-with-me independent female, the shy conservative girl, the attitude-problem arty-farter, the deep-thinking intellectual or the bo-chap-per (apathetic ice queen). Of course I’ll only do this when only strangers, whom I don’t believe I shall ever see again, surround me. It gives me a trivial form of benign entertainment for my journeys, waiting time and other miscellaneous daily mundane routines.
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