Word of the day: "adumbrate"

I've been back at work for merely three days, and already it feels like forever. A two day sabbatical is simply not enough, in all frankness, to strain away the sloth in my being - and the whole - emptiness of being back at work, slogging at productive labour, and the constant hum of certainty that this life of toil is more or less par for the course for the next 20 years or so feels like a life sentence. But upon some further self-interrogation, I come to realise that it's not so much the toil that irritates me; it's the prospect of mediocrity that so disheartens me. Working in a mediocre job; drawing mediocre pay, and the concomitant mediocre gratifications that just - elicits all this unceasing whining.

Now, I've ranted on this at length to a lot of my poor victims, and their responses are usually drawn from one of two broad categories. Either class of advice seems, to my mind, oddly sterile and pro forma; offering no new or radical solutions to the "malaise of the spirit" (how delightfully pretentious and Kafkaesque that phrase!) that afflicts. In any event, I shall dwell on them at some unholy length and my own personal internal rhetoric inveighing against either. If nothing else, it serves to organise my thoughts by verbalising them �n blog, to kill some time at work (ah, always that), and if anyone reading this entry feels the familiar rush of contempt at such gratuitous hang-wringing (as I would, were I to read it on someone else's time) my response is: "Fuck off.", "So what", and "This is my (corner of a communal) blog."

"Open your eyes. This is the life we chose; the life we lead. And there is only one guarantee - none of us will see Heaven."

The first class of advisory is the "At least you're not in Afghanistan/Somalia/Serbia/(insert suffering Third World ing�nue." Somehow, the travails and constant sense of angst that pervades me is supposed to be miraculously alleviated by the awareness that the vast majority of the world's population undergoes more suffering in physical and emotional terms than I do on a daily basis. My usual response to the above is usually, "At least they have access to firearms."

See, the problem I have with this kind of thinking is that it's, to me, morally irrelevant. Some people seem to feel that if we cannot find happiness on our own terms; we should at least define happiness in terms of our own personal distance from the suffering that the world, in aggregate, labours under. It reminds me of a phrase from some movie; "The key to running away from a junkyard dog is not to be the fastest runner, but to make sure that you're second-last." Or, as David Letterman put it - the dying words of the world's oldest man: "Tell the second oldest man that I'll see him in Hell." Am I supposed to feel better about my place in the world simply because I haven't been maimed by a landmine or have no decent access to potable water? If the latter is so, then at least I've finally got a leg-up over the Singaporean populace at last:) (another bad NEWater joke.). I'm not exactly the most empathic human being in the world, and it certainly doesn't take much to see that the world remains a Gehenna; a charnel house where a few wax fat over the corpses of billions' suffering. But what the hell does that have to do with *me*? I bitch not because the world is suffering, but because I'm on the *wrong* side of the suffering gap. Which brings me to my next point.

The second issue I have with the above is the "primacy of experience" argument. After all, I'm fundamentally selfish, ie. I have no issues with the suffering of others as long as my own nest-bed is sufficiently feathered - but this doesn't really help in terms of increasing the quality of my own *personal* existence. Different people have different benchmarks for what it takes to be happy. But it's *my* personal sense of suffering that matters; after all, perceptually speaking, it's the only real benchmark I have, empathy and objective statistics about infant mortality rate notwithstanding. I unashamedly proclaim that if I were, to wit, wealthier, happier, and had more leisure or distractions, the dying infants and the moral void that ultimately characterises human existence wouldn't be an issue to me. Suffering in this greater human context - raising children in a world with child soldiers, endemic idiocy, global warming, and WWF only affects me insofar as I am still a *part* of it, not removed from it. To say anything else would be rank hypocrisy.

(Intermission: plunging stock market, and more accounting fraud at one of our larger, nastier conglomerates. Whole office gabbing about it. Distracting - but no matter what some people say about the meanness of spirit that fixating on matters of finance engenders, I still find finance a deliciously interesting affair.)

The next type of argument is slightly more cogent; it usually is a variant of: "Stop whining and improve your life. Oh, and leave us alone in the process". This, I have to admit, makes far more rational sense. I learned yesterday of a classmate of mine in primary school now working in Credit Suisse in Hong Kong, earning about 250K SGD a year; how could a person who was my friend, equal, and peer a decade ago have outstripped me in so many ways? Granted, the 110-hours-a-week workload has something to do with that, not to mention the fact that he got his Masters from Cambridge, but - what the hell? So, fine, you've fallen, things are bad, boo-hoo, now find a solution, and stop languishing in the problem.

It's an inspiring rhetoric, but the practicalities are somewhat daunting. For one thing; what exactly *is* the problem? I redefine the issues in my life on a daily basis, as my bipolar mood disorder swings from extreme to extreme; so it's hard to find a solution that works. Most of the time, I blog, icq or email only in the trough periods, which lends my readers a rather jaundiced view of my perception of life. The peaks of contentment and balanced living usually manifest when I'm out with my friends, stoning on a weekend, playing a computer game - and during those periods I find it difficult to comprehend the side of me that draws forth in moments like this, when everything seems limned with a gray haze of misery and the feelings of eternity stretching me thin seems utterly alien. On top of that, by my own standards of success, I'm pretty damn well-off, even accounting for instinctive envy of all the people I personally know who are in better situations.

Another specific way to deal with this has been the growing clamour of advice from friends to seek psychiatric aid; that the condition is an irrational, probably medically-inspired feeling that mars my ability to cope with daily existence. Unfortunately, in Malaysia, that remains far from an option - psychiatric aid in our part of the world is seen akin to treating leprosy. Social inhibitions abound, whichever, however much I sneer at and flaunt in specific circumstances, I remain constrained by to some degree. In any event, I tried medical assistance before; and the .. emotional flattening it caused was even worse to me, ultimately, than the cheesy melodrama of my depression and constant personal bitching.

I think the problem lies in not so much wanting peace in and of itself, but being in love with a condition that laments for peace, and remaining content not to entertain any real hope for it. There is a certain smug self-satisfaction in brooding emotional martyrdom to a world that fears, hates and misunderstands you. It's darkly seductive; it's very irritating to outside observers - particularly when so many of those in my circle of acquaintances suffer from the same obsessive self-absorption to a greater or lesser degree).

Still - I suppose there are some practical steps I could take to deal with my issues. For one; spend less - that way I can build up some capital for the long haul and eventually be able to afford all those luxuries I crave now - like more books, more comics, more games, more computer parts. For another; get out more, smoke less, do more exercise. All nice and practical -apart from the get out more bit - because I really don't know how to deal with social interaction anymore, and I have absolutely no idea how to go out and (sic) make friends. But indolence and inertia is just so.. comfortable. Sitting on a bed of nails that you're used is often more idiotically preferable to undergoing the temporary discomfiture of getting up and walking to a nearby sofa. This is a condition a most people find themselves in, to some extent.

Have finally watched Road to Perdition; also managed to catch The Man Who Wasn't There when I was in Singapore. Both are surprisingly noirish in feel; although the latter definitely has more of the neo-expressionist lighting and, as odd as it sounds, emotional intensity through passivity. (Hey, I'm half-way towards my lifestyle goal of "pretentious art/film critic!":) But seriously, they were both good flicks, but not easy ones. Road to Perdition basically deals with paternity issues; paternal hopes, paternal frustrations, the tension between a father and his son, and the expections the former has of the latter; the inevitable disappointment and grief, but, touchingly enough, a final resolution where a father and a son part ways; neither getting entirely what they want, but both somehow resolving, in the final analysis, into a condition where both accept that things didn't turn out all that badly. Good acting by a sterling crew; fantastic production values in reproducing the Depression-era, a rather bizarre bit part for Jude Law as a photographer-hitman (for some reason I kept thinking of Se7en), and the oblique relationship to Lone Wolf and Cub (nothing to do with Joe Dever; rather, being a very good Japanese graphic novel series about a samurai assassin and his infant son. Road to Perdition is based on an American graphic novel which is in turn based on the above).

The Man Who Wasn't There is.. harder to pigeonhole. It's about a guy who makes one mistake, and is carried along by it, in an almost stoned, glazed manner, as circumstances spiral out of control, leading to the utter destruction of everything of value in his life. The loving sadism with which Billy Bob Thornton's character's life gets dismantled is shown with technical brilliance - stark cinematography in black and white, *very* good play of lighting and shadows to accentuate moods and emotions, and, again, brilliant acting by a cast that takes "restrained performance" to a new high. No one goes over the top here; on the contrary, everyone acts their roles in muted, subdued intensity. Nothing shows this more perfectly than Billy Bon Thornton's utterly glazed features - he doesn't smile *once* in the whole movie; he relates his narrative voice-overs as well as speaks in an utter, deadpan, almost Bogart-type monotone. Somehow, however, he remains at the center of narrative, a piece of impressive mahogany flotsam (the cragginess of his features, thrown into stark relief by the monochrome film stock, further lend credence to the "woodiness" metaphor) who gazes dispassionately at everything he does and touches turn into dust. The Coen brothers, who directed this, are unable to resist adding in their usual bizarre touches; the UFO in the prison and the whiteness of the execution chamber will be familiar territory to fans of Fargo. Tony Shalhoub's monologue on applying Heisenberg's uncertainty principle to daily existence is also telling, and relevant - "First he said that we must look not just at the facts, but the meaning of the facts. Then he said the facts have no meaning."

Both films share many characteristics; brilliant use of colour schemes, shadows and lighting to accentuate moods; both have very low-key acting by the principal characters which somehow allows them to convey intensity via external emotional stoned-ness. However, while one film has a message/meaning of sorts; the other is about the absence of ultimate meaning; simply an exercise in apathetic detachment from existence as it somehow simultaneously seems to flow arounds you and yet carry you to destruction at the same time.

Okay. End pompous artsy film critic mode - and I might add that while I once swore that I would never live by my writing under any circumstances (to top it off; my father keeps cajoling me to start work on his "memoirs" - God save me) ; I have to say that I wouldn't mind moonlighting as a movie critic:)

I arrrived in Singapore last Friday to blow off some steam. Took a cab to Gilbert's place at about 2am in the morning (was unable to catch an earlier bus), and Gilbert kindly dragged me along to his camp live run at Bishan Park the following morning. Thankfully, as a civilian, I was under no obligation to complete the entire 5.4km circuit; and I must say that Bishan Park and its environs have changed considerably since I was last there. Amidst the huffing and puffing, I wondered idly if Gabriel was present as Gilbert was also in SMM. However, it was mostly the admin and logistics wings, so too bad.

One thing that strikes me is the homogenity of appearance that NS-men have in the aggregate. It's to do with the uniformity of garb; but also partly to do with the way people act and interact in large, communal situations. Everyone's talking the same jargon; undergoing different components of a shared, multi-phasic experience; BMT, posting, eventual hope of ORD-ing, all the usual bitching at zao geng/chao keng or lobo peoples, the mixed envy and resentment of bai mas, praying to the Off God, etc etc. Gabriel has already painted a very vivid description of army life on the inside, so I shan't dwell on it too long here. But NS definitely does serve to engender a sense of comradeship amongst a wide band of Singaporean males in the late adolescent stage; they have this shared context to dwell on, bitch about while socialising, and suffer together. How long this lasts after ORD, and how much political ramification it has is beyond the scope of this blog entry, but it's an observable phenomenon that socialising between NS-men outside of NS is facilitated by the ice-breaking conversations that start along the lines of "what camp are you in?" or "where are you posted?".

As I was jogging (okay, more like plodding) along, I saw a group of Combat Engineers doing the classic "jog in singlet/sing in unison" training schtick. I believe they were lustily singing the "Why do we serve? Because we love our land yada yada", although it's kind of hard to tell, given that no one seemed to have choral training in the lot. It appeared to be the non vulgar version, which disappointed me. Nonetheless, I kept having flashbacks to Full Metal Jacket, and forcibly restrained myself from going, "This is my rifle/This is my gun (grab crotch) /This is for fighting/This is for fun (grab crotch)."

"The dead only know one thing; that it's better to be alive."

Afternoon passed at an idle pace; lunch and movie with Signifcant Other, walking around Orchard Road, noting that consumption levels from the perspective of the man-on-the-street don't seem to have diminished, not to mention idly checking out the babes. Once again, the "urban whore" motif seems to be the rage. (What's with these halter-wraparound-bareback-strap thingies???). Furthermore, it seems that they're starting at a younger and younger age. "Evil!"

Observational snapshots:

Taxi fares seem to have gone up.

The best way to circumvent the stupid ticket-scanner thing on buses is to have lots of spare change.

The television channels on buses tend to have flickers of static.

Everyone keeps making bad NEWater jokes.

Canned calpico prices have also gone up.

Grass never seems to grow very long in Singapore. A testament to the MOE's hordes of well-trained engineers and landscapers.

At night, I was shanghaied to Sentosa for a barbeque of Oxonians (Oxford students), or, as is more grammatically appropriate but less thematically pleasing, a barbeque (organised) *by* Oxonians. My presence was purely as an accessory; spent most of it skulking in the bushes by Pahlawan Beach, smoking "the most expensive cigarettes in the world"(18USD for a small pack, "finest Virginian tobacco hand-rolled to ensure your satisfaction" - a novelty gift from a friend). Alas, it was a wasted opportunity to network with some of the nation's future political and business leaders.

I did manage to gab a bit with Filbert; that guy on the vis-a-vis list, Gabriel. Quite a nice chap, if a bit on the low-key side, and oddly fawning over this rather good-looking chick there whom I heard later he reputedly has a thing for. *shrugs* Most of the women there were reportedly on the "looks wild/acts demure" school; cute, but intensely boring types. Some of the Oxonians who had done internships in Government departments told of NEWater bottles being passed around for demonstration. Much to my amusement, one of them actually professed a preference to the distilled urine, against current potable water.

"It tastes different.. sort of sweeter."

"Aren't you worried that the sweetness comes from leftover shit?"

"Doesn't matter, as long as it doesn't make me puke."

Sunday and Monday were spent holidaying on Bintan Island - not much to say there, as Bintan Island is the boringest place on earth, but some observational highlights included Japanese-speaking Indonesian staff, fire extinguishers wrapped in ethnically-styled cloth, beautiful architecture, pristine beach, and the sheer sybaritic value of soaking for 2 hours in a jacuzzi.

One night, I got to meet up with some of my old university posse; the misanthropes that were my friends. No one has changed much; although Eric now has muscles like corded steel and a marked tan from his OCS stint in Brunei. Chilling in Pubbies (opposite Chomp Chomp) was a fairly boisterous affair, but not an excessively drunken one, thank goodness. It was good to catch up with them all, most of whom I haven't seen since graduation or even before that, and everyone's thoughts these days seem to darken with contemplation of the wide, scary future of adulthood. Nonetheless, the mood remained upbeat, the reminisces of stupid behaviour in Melbourne were rich and poignant rather than embarrassing, and Eric and I enjoyed some conversation about matching his "OCS ethics" versus my "fighting spirit", or, as he put it: "ni yi pei wo yi pei."

Hm Shall conclude rant later.