Unlimited…

My recent need to get off my bum and return to shape led to the decision to finally cross the parking lot and into the small yoga studio behind Wells Fargo. The neon lights have been screaming for attention since I moved into my short term home while on rotation. After 3 weeks of eating, desserting, snacking and repeating it all over again, the body has put up a balloon of resistance sitting quite comfortably on my abdomen. Even the constant sunshine and fresh strawberries did nothing to elevate the sinking thickness I felt. The unhealthy eat-and-eat-more routine had to come to a halt.

So armed with nothing more than favourite black shorts and free t-shirt, I went to class a nervous wreck. What if my inability to flex and hold a posture takes me back to middle-school-awkward-kid-being-laughed-at days. But, as usual, it was all in my head. Class was much more light-hearted and less serious than that. Oh, don’t get me wrong, your muscles get stretched, elongated, pulled, tensed and relaxed in all sorts of postions. But I like that instead of a rather monotonous run on the elliptical or treadmill, there was life to this. The lesson had a “philosophical” stance (a little long to elaborate but take my word for it), you hear people breathing around you, you see people lose balance and try to get up again, you notice how everyone is so willing and ready to help you whenever possible.

It was this precise “lifeness” about Yoga that brought me back to class day after day.

It has only been a week and I am no yogic guru but I’m coming into understanding that this will take me a while to get the hang out. There is a chance I will never complete a handstand on my own; there is a chance I will never have my heels down in downward facing dog position; there is a chance, I will never do a chaturanga properly . But by the 6th lesson, none of that means a thing other than I cross the parking lot and show up each day believing that I will continue to go to class even when I return to Singapore.

I cannot blog a lesson a day while I go to Yoga but you can imagine I am truly enjoying the sensations I get throughout my body (including the aching lower leg muscle), something which I haven’t felt in a while. As cliche as it sounds, I am relaxed, less stressed and looking forward to each day because there is a bit more meaning than my job and the amazing company I work at.

I hope its not too late but I am ready to feel alive again.

Looking out

Lapses of happiness are countered by moments of sadness.

I am utterly useless in front of you.

When I have those bouts of happiness, I know I eventually lose it – because its not real and its not mine.

You.bring.tears.to.my.eyes.just.for.being.you….

Torment

Standing in the rain and watching it fall,

Its getting cold and my shoes are getting squishy,

When will you come and make it all go away?

Drying it off

I want to write to find solace and yet I find myself loss for words.

The silence is unnerving, the reluctance is fearful.

Who are you?

Shopping frenzy



In a rare spurt of unintended spontaneity, I proceeded with much caution to take in the sights which only window shopping can offer. Rather than stop to pick out the new shirt for tomorrow’s encounter, I have sunk to the depths of utter boredom and found only a tiny interest in some rings that cost 10 times too much its worth. Thus, needless to say, no monetary investment occurred, only a semi-starving woman, looking for an excuse to try out these fancy new age fastfood
that promises taste, deconstructed in its whiteness and somewhat pompous in its glare of post-modern construction.

The concept of openness, clean lines, unadulterated movement of noise, seem to congeal all in this space on this Monday evening. Ahh, the joy of people watching and its graciously arrogant manner of placing judgement on the unknowing. The stories of yesterdays come full circle as it becomes reiterated through mouths and takes a life of its own. I
sit, listen, chuckle and smirk, silently wondering if penning it down would all make some sort of feeble sense. But this noise, this mixture of pitches, sounds, words, language forcefully clashing… all creeping its way into legitimacy makes me wonder if I could indeed capture it all.

In my head, I see squiggly lines of pink, black and white, going round and round, finding solace in their complement to each other. Do you envision these things, then, in forms and shapes, aromas and stench, sweet and salty; does it all come into your imagination as wandering feats of emotional gestures. Or in my over-reactive manner, I am just caught up in trying to capture all these details that mean nothing to the next person.

Yes, this all started as a shopping trip, to bring in the purples and browns that fall so often comes in. But today, sound, man and space took over. Man so effortlessly melded into the space they have constructed themselves. Men so willingly given into the entity that has coached them to fall victim to all that glimmers in post-modern wonders. Men so unknowingly driven by cultures of make believe.

This doesn’t mean I’m beyond such materialism. On the contrary, being utterly conscious of it has drawn a heighten need to feel pulled in. The way to coolness is drawn in the spark of necessary change. Is it contrite? The question only sparks more oddities in my who-ness. I trust that in all, at the end of this lonesome Monday evening, you have found
this read more human uselessness than any other.

The joys of putting words into form and onto the world wide web.

Jetlagged and mildly delusional

It is funny how the way things turn out when you least expect it to. In a warped sense of spontaneous rationality, there is order in this mess.

So this one goes out to you.

There is a sense of comfort knowing things will get better. Not that it always needs to. But in finality, there will be always be some sort of closure expected. While I don’t need it yet, I know the time will come where I have to answer to the self and I know the self will also be the harshest critic. But in moving past all this, there is growth, a renewed sense of knowing and an ultimate appreciation of this thing called “life”.

In the time that has led up to now, I have found nothing but comfort, joy and occasional annoyance, all of which surprisingly delights me more than it should. Giving it up would be torturous and yet, hopefully, liberating. To hold on to something that is not yours often leads to disastrous outcomes. Most of the time, someone ends up being a jibbering wreck, a thought which prods at the pride and somewhat deeper, the heart.

Blame it on the lack of self propriety or the wretched need to feel comfort in knowing a place in someone else’s heart but as the story goes, it seemed almost waiting to happen. Consequently, I ask, is there someone, something, to hold accountable? Perhaps not. Only that we are humans and flawed in a way that forces us to reconcile with our fallibility. Or that time has played a simple joke. You would have had to fulfill all 3 categories to have passed. And while the revelation is recent, the moment of unwanted truth stared straight down in my face the moment you walked away when I needed you the most.

So as both the head and heart basks in the moment of flattery, there is a need to walk out of it. The realization is numbing to a point of sadness. Nonetheless, it must be done. It is not so much about being calm and knowing the right thing to do rather than a selfish impulse to grasp onto whatever’s left and hold onto that while still trying to right things. There is no perfection. I have to be satisfied with being where I am. While I am not sure that I have arrived at the stage (nor is this an attempt at mock bravery), I am almost eerily at peace. I will trudge along, just as I know that in this finality, you and I will find a truce.

I look forward then, to genuinely say “祝你永远幸福，快乐”.

On the 33rd Floor

This is much further from the ground than I thought. The view is mostly of the rooftops and squarish windows, the angularity only broken up by the winding roads caught between the buildings. I wonder if people feel trapped? The vast amounts of buildings hold some sort of lethargy, like its ageing population; silently living each day, caught between the past and the necessity of the future.

So to be judgmental, as a viewer, as someone trying to scrutinize what the story behind this city is, I find it a little intimidating and mostly disconcerting to know, we’ve all created an image of the Tokyo. The neon lights, deep dark open secret of the Yakuza, the highly technological giant….we create the narrative as if we know, as if I know, beyond these 33 stories and out of this building, lives the city that is the mystical Orient. I was talking to someone who reminded me that the epitome of human cultural arrogance rests in the deliberate construct of the Japanese culture – formal, distinct, structured and very inward looking.

There is some sort of postwar melancholy I think. Since no one talks about it, it seems like everything here has a secret but no one’s willing to speak or at least lift the curtains to take a peak. In the end, we are shrouded and blindfolded by precisely what we’ve read and seen.

The last 2 days were somewhat surreal but mostly unbelievable. I have yet to feel the conclusion of the Conference simply because I can’t quite accept that it even began. 2 week into my job, I am informed that I have the privilege of being part of it despite not doing much and just hanging out around my boss’s office.  So even before I realized it started, the Conference has ended.

What happened to all that time?

Growing up is in order I guess. They say I’m like a teenager. I don’t think I ever went through that phase so its nice to go back. Yet I’ve been feeling a little down, more down than usual. I’m no longer sure what I want to do, where I want to go or what exactly do I want. The sense of emptiness is greater than usual.

Is this what Inez calls a mid-quarter-century crisis? I hope not. Because I’m really not ready to deal with it.

An After Thought

I don’t visit the theatre as much as I should, especially to support local productions. Last Friday, I was adamant about watching the local adaptation of Rashomon at the Drama Centre. After all, the office was located about a 5 min walk away from it, I didn’t quite have an excuse to say ‘no’.

As I ponder about what to say about the play, I’m hesitant to conclude that Rashomon was amazing, give it a 10/10 and then call it an evening. In fact, I wonder where I stand with this interpretation by The Theatre Practice. The set was beautiful, just as the costumes were but there is something quite…disconnected. Perhaps it was meant to be that way or perhaps I just didn’t understand.

Rashomon was equally visual as it was emotional. Senses were meant to be piqued as sudden sounds, deliberate movements and awkward dialogue interacted and waited for the audience to respond. To put it without the fluff, Rashomon was meant to make you think. Even in its original short story form and Kurosawa’s movie, they were all meant to make you think. Suffice to say, I always thought it would be enough to classify that thinking process into one very philosophical (and unanswerable, in my opinion) questions “what is truth?”

A warrior, his wife and a robber. Each claiming the death of the warrior for the purpose of glorifying the self. Each demanding that the act of killing be recognized as heroic. Each postulating that the truth can only be found in the self.

The Medium, obsessed in his search for the knife (weapon of murder) becomes the negotiator between past, present and the audience. As time becomes fluid on the stage, it also comes to a standstill at the moment the Medium asks if the truth brings “enlightenment”.  The knife became that unfailing truth but also the necessary evil that conducted the violence in search for “enlightenment”. The crazy poor man wanting the spoils of the knife in order to feed his family also dies by the same knife.

It is simple to agree that perspectives becomes the truth as each to his own. Does that make it any less real or unworthy? I find the emotional connectivity with the play came at this moment where it questions our (the audience) perspective of who should be at blame. None I suppose since they have all seemed to have sacrifice their selves. Yet they were also slaves to themselves. If in our pursuit for the unending and unyielding truth, we trap ourselves in a cyclical chase of nothingness as we each grasp truth in unfathomable manners.

But let’s be real. Does the truth even really matter anymore?

Behold

from "qualityoflifecare.com"

I was somewhat inspired to write after watching a man trying to protect his woman by feeding himself to the wolves. Not exactly the most romantic way to die but the story that drew audiences to its climax comes from the unmistakable tension between one’s love and one’s passion.

The difference?

Love: its a form of sacrifice, a selfless act, an unwavering form of adoration of another simply because he/she is the person that stands right before you. Despite and inspite of their shortcomings, you cherish them all the same because to sacrifice is to accept imperfection and live with it.

Passion: its a form of desire, a selfish need to pursue wants, an uncompromising form of adoration for something simply because it stands in your path, waiting to be conquered. Despite and inspite of the problems they may bring, you desire them all the same because to be selfish is also human and to be human is only you.

In theory, its both dialectic and complementary.

In reality, its foolish and makes for good drama.

I don’t doubt that many would probably juggle the emotional roller coaster as a norm, a facet of life and pure excitement to the many many other mundane activities that consume us. What I have yet to understand is why and why only do we revel in the possibilities that such extremities might bring. Even if both are attempts at freedom, they  make us slaves to ourselves.

Is there resolution when both meet?

In sappy cheesy Korean dramas they do.

One night in Shanghai….

 

The ride from Pudong to the service apartment was long, silent and unnerving. It almost seemed like Shanghai’s existence can only begin beneath its bright lights and blaring horns. Away from the title of “Paris of the Orient”, Shanghai on this side of the river was just that much quieter at 12 in the morning. I quite like this other side of Shanghai yet i looked forward to the sun rising as the city begins to awake to the dust, noise and human tide. 

 

My sister had already informed me of the many plans she had decked out for the next two days. Along with my cousins, we were supposed to take Shanghai by storm, almost like one of those whirlwind 2 day city tours across town; that the lack of time was of the only essence in our days together. Perhaps it was so. But I would prefer to believe that my sister’s enthusiasm was due to her excitement about my arrival to “her” land. She now walks the “Shanghai” walk and talks the “Shanghai” talk, an impeccable mark of her assimilation (and yet not) into the foreign land she has temporarily called “home”. 

 

Shanghai, indeed, lives up to expectations as a city of change. The present has a way of reminding us that the past might not have been that long ago after all. Growth and development are themes not unfamiliar to the city and as the government paves its way for Expo 2010, all I’m reminded of is how rapidly things have changed and NOT changed in a city infamous for being at the forefront of “newness”. Being in China reminds me of why I studied what I studied in the first place. The people, the bustling city life, the expansion of China’s economy, the unmistakable Chinese slogans and most of all the beauty of the Bund (though now under reconstruction). These were the very things that made me fall in love with the stories that China had to share, as the communist-capitalist land, as the geographic boundary to one the largest community of people with 56 different ethnic groups, home to large disparities between rich and poor, country that went through the Cultural Revolution and is still in search of some sort of cultural identity. I guess I miss being in academia, not for the writing perhaps, but for the tons of useless information I read that might not even be related to life beyond academia.

 

I love travelling especially to people watch. I profess to be one of those people who sit around cafes trying to figure out if the person beside me has some story unbeknownst to the world and is just dying to share it for fear that over-containment might deprive the world of another source of gossip. Yet in all honesty, people watching occurs because stereotypes exist and that we place people within these definitions of who is in and who is not. In an attempt to factualize that these people do indeed exist in our world, we create their story, enhance their lives and hope that he/she fits into the mould we have assumed for them. It is somewhat exciting and definitely judgmental. On the other hand, isn’t it comforting to know that stereotypes still exist and most certainly function as highlights of our days in the midst of those who try to “undo” such labels into non-existence. 

 

Shanghai in 10 days was all about just being able to do nothing. My sister introduced me to a few fine young gentlemen. It was refreshing to meet these people who weren’t trying to re-write some convoluted social theory that related to a random sort of human behavior or kids who whined that I gave too much homework. It was genuinely a time to unwind and revisit the world as it is. That being said, I admit that being away from everything allowed me to re-evaluate my goals, passion and desires. Decisions aren’t always easy to make, especially when they are life changing. But I think the moment the plane landed in Pudong, the clockwork started unknowingly. That silent, long drive into the city was merely the part of the first glimpse at the end of a long long tunnel. Whatever happens, life will go on. As my sister said, “as much as they love me, I know they won’t miss me.” 

 

Yet I will sorely miss them.