there they Were there they Are now

Is it just me or do we not feel as much as we used to anymore?

Is it such that even when a tragedy unfolds close to us, we don't feel as much as we are meant to? Have we placed our hearts far from what we deem as humanity?

It's like we don't care. Maybe we feel that for whatever reason there is, we don't need to care. it's like we tell ourselves that 'they aren't the first and they won't be the last', so never mind. Maybe there's that inevitable feeling of guilt that we're trying to deny. 

Maybe we feel that we don't need to care- for there are tragedies of a more personal nature on a day by day basis and that they are more important than anything else in the world.

That's not exactly wrong a thought.

Yet, as much as we wish for empathy and understanding in some of our situations, as much as we could extend our own hands of empathy and understanding. Guilt or no guilt, it does not matter what we speak or do not speak. There are facts that do not change, and sweeping them beneath the cloak of rational factorship changes them not one bit at all.

For there they are, right here, right now, in our streets, in our malls, in our food courts, in our restaurants. There they are, trying on clothes, buying presents, spritzing on perfumes, rummaging through their purses and their wallets, eating the foods that gladden them the most.

There they are, in our various tourism spots, at the zoo, gazing at the tigers, the pandas, the giraffes. There they are, at Universal Studios Singapore, munching on popcorn, going the rides, snapping pictures with their cameras and taking selfies with their mobiles.
 

And not only there are they.

There they are, too, in our hospitals, in our clinics, seeing our doctors, our nurses, our clinical staff, our prescriptions, our expertise- for the medical hope they need for years of living and of life.

You know what, beyond the maybe, we really ought to feel- for we've seen them. Whether we welcome them or not, whether we wonder why they are here or not, the fact is that we've seen them, we've connected with them and for that instant, we've interacted with them.

 

And this is why we really ought to feel.

 

because it was a choice. 

it was a choice to come here. 

it was a choice to make this place for fun, for help, for hope, 

for shopping, for school, for work, for business, for a time...

and it was a choice 

to make this last day of the year here in this place. 

it was a choice 

to pass the last day of this year happily here 

with fireworks and song and champagne and party hats and fun.

 

They could have chosen anywhere else. They could have decided that they'd spend a quiet one at home with their loved ones. They could have chosen any other destination. They didn't have to choose here. They didn't need to. 

 

But they did, and because they did, something happened, and they are now no more. There will be goodbyes said. There will be farewells wept. But stop coming they will not, I sincerely hope. 

Because we are all earthlings, and we are all humanity. 

cranky cranky Coconut

i was getting worried that day. coz the crank's kind of gone cranky and I've had to take the easy-peasy rides for the moment.

Because it's not too safe for a bummy rider like me who can't make sharp U-turns, who can't turn circles without panicking too much and who can't control her balance if she goes uphill and the crank acts up on her.

Yes, the crank has been in a sort of mood, and since I've no wish to tumble down any steep slopes, we decided to go to the beach instead. East Coast Park, or any park, for that matter, are great places when you just want to get some exercise, breathe in the air, gaze upon your surroundings and space out all at the same time. And whenever we want to have a nice, easy, comfortable ride, often it is to the park by the beach we go.

Now, lest you think that something significant happened there- which could, I suppose- well, nothing did. 

Nothing but wind mussing about my hair, doggies out for afternoon walks, birds singing in the trees, joggers pumping their feet and ships dotting the curved horizon.

We went eastwards towards Changi Village but decided not to go that far. Instead we rode till the Food Center where we had a coconut each whilst watching a couple of girls try to figure out how to fit their plastic cup of blue-colored soft drink into the bottle holder of their rented bike. And after that we dodged groups of children who somehow decided to brake right there in the middle of the path and look around them, not caring that they blocked everyone else going to and fro. And there was one time where we also sidestepped biking couples who decided to be lovey-dovey on the bicycles and ride side by side in the middle of the lane. Lots of things can happen on the bike lanes at a Park as busy as this, I tell you.

Finally we stopped at Bedok Jetty and spent a pleasant, relaxing time basking in the sunshine, savoring the winds, watching the waves crash against the pillars as the tide came in, peering into the plastic bags and boxes of the anglers to admire their catch and sniffling in the fishy smells that a place like Bedok Jetty will have.  

satisfy the Fruity Hunger






dragonfruit & pineapple

I love fruits.

Like lots of people do.

Fruits give you the natural sugars. They've got natural colors. They make great snacks when you're restless. They make great meals when you're hungry and they make fantastic dining companions when you mix them to get the sweet and savory and juicy all together.

I love pineapples for the burst of tartness and I love grilled pineapples with meat.

I love bananas for the hungry moments and the ones that I eat with peanut butter and toast.
I love papayas for dessert at breakfast, lunch and dinner and they provide that rounded sweetness when you have them with scrambled eggs.
I love china pears that are huge and juicy and sweet and light on your tongue.
I love jackfruit for the distinctive taste that is at once slurpy, juicy, chewy and even nibbly.

There're apples for the crunch which we all want from time to time.
There're oranges and mandarin oranges for the citrus explosion and that spring of vitamin c in your mouth and which you can blend and have with milk or with yogurt.
There're lovely orange rock melons with their softness and lightness on the palate.
There're the families of berries that have strawberries. blueberries and raspberries that you drop into your oatmeal or cereal or granola and yogurt.

There're the water chestnuts that give you the crunch and make gorgeous, lovely, rich desserts when slow boiled but which you have to wash the dirt off first if you're buying from the market.
There're watermelons we all love for the refreshing, cooling juice. There're durians, which we love yet hate at the same time but there's no need to get into explanations about the king of fruits and/or the blue cheese of fruits.
There're the sidekick to the durians- the mangosteens- which go along well with the durians cos' they've got these cooling properties or something..
There're mangoes, fantastically sticky, sweet and tart anytime.
And there're grapes, seedless ones best, that can be eaten fresh off the shelf, eaten chilled, or frozen.

I don't have a particular favorite fruit, but there are fruits which hold special significance to me. There are fruits that wrap me up like a warm cuddly blankie on a cold, rainy day- and there are fruits that leave me happy thoughts of special occasions, familiar places and family moments.

I cannot gaze at a box of red cherries without thinking of the Christmas season, and of my Parent who loves them, and who continues to relate the story of eating an entire carton bought from Fremantle whilst holidaying in Perth.

I cannot look at a bunch of rambutans at the fruit stall without thinking of the rambutan tree that once stood in Grandfather's garden, the sight of the red, hairy fruits hanging from the branches and the excitement of seeing them in the colander.  

Soil-encrusted water chestnuts at the wet market make me think of the homemade eggy water chestnut hot dessert my Parent concocts in the slow cooker.

And a bag of crunchy Granny Smith apples bring me back to the driveway grounds of Pixar where on a chilly winter afternoon I sighted apples on apple trees for the very first time.
 

type type TYPE

I finally started.

Because I got tired of not getting into the flow.

Sometimes you just try and get your thoughts into some sort of organized flow, or at least try to begin with a single line, despite knowing how disjointed your thoughts are. It's a shot, anyway.

You could do paper scribblings or you could just work it directly into the computer. Technically, I love the good ol' habit of manuscript writing- yeah, I advocate pen and paper and notebooks of all kinds- but sad to say, my thoughts aren't flowing with ease on paper this time.

Is this how it is for authors and writers too? Do they get all their thoughts smoothly on paper? I'm talking authors like Agatha Christie and Judy Blume. I'm talking Somerset Maugham and Thomas Hardy. I'm talking Anton Chekhov and Clive Cussler and the Bronte sisters and the Austen sisters. Many of them apparently wrote during their travels, during train journeys and steamship journeys. Did they never want to crush their papers and throw them out the window into the sea? Did they never crush their scribbles and chuck them into the wastepaper basket? If they did, have any remnants never been found?

It is a curious thought.

How did they and how do they write so effortlessly, so efficiently, with their thoughts flowing so smoothly with ink and sheets? Did they not throw anything away? Did they not cancel their work? Did they not scribble out whole pages? Did they not get disgusted when everything felt so wrong with their story? Were there no tearing of papers?

 

Autobiographies tell you nothing of these. We get loose sheets of notepaper bound together into a journal. We get notebooks. We get snippets and scraps of handwriting. We get leather bound journals and papers scattered here and there. But no write-overs or scratched-out lines have I managed to see thus far... either they were remarkably confident with their thoughts, or that they considered carefully first before putting pen to paper (which is more likely the case, given that paper and ink was often a precious, sometimes expensive commodity).

I'm far off from their level of patience and depth of literary expression.

In my case, my shredder has been working overtime. .

I don't know how many copies I've thrown away. I don't know how many sheets I've crushed and dumped in bins. I don't know how I'm going to keep fluidity and tonality and plot outline going without a struggle.

What I do know is a combination of a chapter here, a chapter there, a person here, a person there. What I maybe know are the arrows shooting out from each face and where and how they exist and belong.

But... it's really just plot and character notes.

And I have a #%&@ deadline.

a no Pollen glasses ride

I'm always on the lookout for clear-lens glasses or spectacles or sunglasses.

Because there're the contact lenses I wear, and when you're biking, having a tiny speck of dust in the eye can mean more than a visit to the optometrist. It can mean life and death. How do you pay attention when one eye is tearing irritably and you've got to maintain your balance and keep to your line and watch out for traffic and watch out for potholes and keep your legs moving all at the same time? 

It's not like I've been cycling with my eyes exposed all this while. I've got a pair of sunglasses and I do have a pair of clear-lens glasses, but they're probably more for fashion and style than eye protection gear, so I'm always looking out for better- and more affordable- options.

This one time, I was in Daiso and as usual, wandering around, because that's what you do in Daiso, and then I found myself in the gardening section. It's a section that I don't usually go- I don't garden- so you can say it was more than a coincidence that I saw, hanging on a shelf, this pair of big pollen glasses. Neither can it be more than a coincidence that at once, I figured out that if they were compact enough to protect one from the tiniest pollen particles, they would be compact enough to protect one from the dust of the road.    

So I bought them.

I've tried them, and they work.

They work well when you're biking on the road with all the cars zooming past you, throwing all kinds of stuff into your face with their tailwinds. They work  well when you're perspiring with the exercise and your lashes end up trapping tiny, tiny, naked-to-the-visible eye particles of dirt.

They work well on a day like this when I've forgotten my eye drops because they're in my bike bag and my bike bag happens to be locked in a room and today I don't have the key. Because there's no use harping on what's there or not there. It's either you want to ride, or you don't. I do. So I get another messenger bag, throw the essentials inside, and off I go.

It was a good ride- despite the fact that it was a short one. We went towards the barrage, came out onto the Shoppes and turned into Raffles City. Storm clouds were hovering in the skies, but since the rains hadn't come down yet, we chose to push on.

And of course, by the time we reached SMU, a mere 2 minutes away on bike, the rains came, and which we had to wait out, together with two visitors from Korea who were touring Downtown by rented bamboo bicycles and were also, like us, patiently waiting out the rain.

soaky Boots

It can be quite fun when you DO think about it long after it's over.

You don't think about it when you're in it though. You just get through it. And it's only at the end, when your clothes are soaked right through, when you're taking squishy steps in every move you make, when your hair's wet, your bike's wet and your bike trousers are weighing you down... that you look back at what just happened and you realize that, oh yeah, that WAS fun.

We'd had a foreboding of sorts whilst going along East Coast Park where the breezy winds and smoky smells of barbecued meat wafted through the air. You could see that the skies weren't sunny and bright... but it was in the horizon, and anyway, if we were to look at the darkening skies and decide that we'd forgo the ride for 20 minutes of rain, then it would be no use at all, and after all, since we could help it, well, why think about stopping? 
 

So we continued, and of course, the skies grew darker as we went along.

At the furthermost end of East Coast Park on this bridge near the chalets, and here I had to stop because of this police car which had, for whatever reason, parked itself right outside a gate, squeezing itself into the narrow space and leaving no biker any room to maneuver whatsoever.

At the area after the bridge where there was this lovey-dovey young couple who were on separate bikes but riding so romantically slow next to each other that I  had to slow down and dodge them because there was just enough room for two bikes and their giggles and smiles hogged up all the space.

That foreboding turned a little more serious along that road with all the trucks trundling past to build the new airports, a little more still as we went past the Tanah Merah Canal (for lack of better name!) and a little, little more still on the Changi Coastal Road.

It turned serious enough for us to come to a decision midway through dinner. There was going to a prolonged thunderstorm at our final destination- the weatherman had forecasted- and if we were going to go there, we would absolutely land ourselves in the heart of it, so recklessness aside, let's turn back, we said, but let's take another route. Who knows, we agreed, we might just be able to avoid the lightning and thunder and rain.  

But as all things go, you can strategize all you want, you can measure all the probabilities, you can calculate and calibrate as carefully as you can so as to avoid as many sticky situations possible but somehow, SOMEHOW you'll find yourself in the thick of it anyway.

With nowhere else to hide but to go straight through the sludge.  
 

Okay, there was no mud for me, but heck, there was a lot of rain. Plenty of it, I'm telling you, and it alllll came down whilst I was braked at this large traffic intersection with three fields on either side of me somewhere in the neighborhood of Tampines.

 

What I'm saying is that I was in the middle of NOWHERE, with no immediate shelter in my line of sight, when three little unassuming drops of rain turned into a massive downpour.

But it's no use yelling at the skies, so I zipped across the road when the lights turned green, tried edging into the nearest bus stop, but said bus stop was just as full with everyone in there dodging the downpour, and so I couldn't get in, and with the next nearest shelter another stretch away, I did the next best thing.

Braked, blocked the wind so that the bike wouldn't fall, opened the bag, pulled out the parka case, shook out the parka, unzipped it, tossed it on, zipped it up, threw phone and earphones and sweets and music player and tissue paper into the bag sitting inside the bag, shot the hood up, got back onto the bike and onwards to the second intersection where I was supposed to find the next shelter.

Which I would have fount faster had I not gotten lost (things happen!) but hey, I found it anyway. :)

Another bus stop, a very empty one this time, so happily I hopped in, shook out as much water as possible from the bag- forget about the boots- and sat there catching my breath, waiting for the rain to pass, together with a very adorable white cat who, unlike the rain-sloshed human beside her, was comfortably tucked up, all snug, warm, and dry.

of Scribbles and Crumbles

i need a word.

Any word.

I just need a word that I can set it down on a piece of paper and tell myself that at least, to the very least, that I've got something.

Sadly, i don't. 

I look through every single piece of paper that i have and i think, and think, and think, but nothing's coming out of my poor muddled brain. What makes it worse is that I know it is impossible. There has to be a story somewhere (even if i don't really know where). it can't be that there's absolutely no where to begin with, not when there's so much worth saying (even if i don't know how to start saying it).

The dilemma I'm facing in the brain is nothing short of something that goes like this:
 

do you start this way? 

do you start that way? 

do you go subliminal? 

do you go raw? 

do you work backwards? 

do you work forwards? 

do you work real time? 

who speaks? 

There's no answer as yet. But hey, I can't give up, can I, and so I just do the brainstorming s*** and let the random stuff collapse onto my pen and let them leave a trail of scribbles and crumbles and I know I'll think about them afterward but meanwhile I'm just letting the thoughts fly in multiple directions and when I relook, reconsider and reload afterward, hopefully there'll something more definite this time.

I live by Hope. 

workhorse Bikes

 We'd finished the circuit in a typical dilly-dallying style of biking- don't rush, don't speed, don't be bothered about pace. We settled our direction- west, it was going to be- and headed out.

 

To the end of the park and onto a road, past the Jln Batu housing estate we went and then along the big river that eventually winds into the Marina Bay and then we passed by a large garden and then the area around the newly renovated and rejuvenated National Stadium and finally, the Marina Barrage, which to me, always looks like to be a gigantic river with bougainvillea on either side.

 

We made an OJ stop, and then dinner.. which, by the way, was a mere couple of hours after a fulfilling lunch of ayam goreng with rosy pink bandung, cheese fries, skin and all.

 

It was enroute back that I came up behind him, this cyclist from China. He was pedaling steadily; no braking, no sudden stops, just chugging along smoothly towards his destination. I wondered if i should overtake, and then I decided not to.

(Not then anyway.)

After all, there's this thing about workhorse bikes. 

They might be creaking and rusty. They might look dusty with some of their gears off perhaps, but boy, do they keep a good steady pace. The riders themselves might wear no aerodynamic gear that sticks to you like a second skin, but regular clothes like jeans, cargo pants, work boots and anything else, but they break no sweat pedaling at all.

The riders look like they'd lose to you, gear and all, in a biking competition. They look like they'll be slower than you because of all the plastic bags of groceries dangling from the handlebars and the sack of rice bound to the rack behind their seat.

But don't bother overtaking them.

Especially if there're traffic lights ahead of you.

You'll end up looking kind of silly, having sprinted ahead, thinking that you'll be in the lead, only to find yourself stuck at the traffic light and them turning up nice and steady beside you, even successfully overtaking you.

You'll end up doing weird shoutouts like "从你背后跟着你比较安全啦!" which make you cringe in complete embarrassment afterward and you'll be so glad that you're never seeing that person ever again. 

 

 

 

 

hotdesking for a Day

There was a trend awhile back, and for once, it has nothing to do with consumables or beliefs. It's a trend that shakes up the very foundation of how we conduct our business, how we perceive business, and how we perceive ourselves in this entire economy of human resources.

It's a little banal, frankly, and it can seem rather immaterial when we're talking serious s***, but when you sit and think about it, it can be more than simply a difference of desk, or place.

I like the concept of hotdesking. It gives a sense of being everywhere and anywhere and getting inspired by your surroundings, and since I'm familiar with workstations, such a desk is pretty cool to try. 

Which I am, for the day. 

I'm on the 19th floor of Hotel Jen Orchard Gateway, perched on a stool at the bar counter (with power sockets underneath!) looking out over one of the most unrivalled views along the Orchard belt. It's a panoramic view- two sides all around. From here I see Marina Bay Sands, her deck jutting out from the triple towers beneath, like Noah's Ark atop Mt. Ararat. From there I see Bideford Road  and the road next to Paragon that leads to the entrance of the CTE Tunnel, and right next to the entrance, separated by a narrow strip of landscaped greenery is the exit of the same Tunnel, and which both kind of look pretty gaping even from here.

I look down. The cars are really tiny from all the way up here, like little toys. I can't see the pedestrians. They're so little, like.. ants.

I look back up. In the near distance I see Mandarin Orchard with its distinctive roof and the pagoda-shaped Marriott Singapore further back. There's the blue glassed building of Wisma, and the twin towers of Ngee Ann City. Out far towards the horizon there stand more tall buildings, condominiums, offices, skyscrapers, housing board flats and there's some sort of construction going on the north side.

So I'm sitting here, drinking in all this, and I realize that perspectives really do change when the element of space and surroundings is adjusted. Knowing that the world has suddenly expanded, that it has suddenly, in the span of a couple of minutes, expanded from an enclosed 360 degree space to all this, it changes you. It's as if the world on the ground and the world up here don't exist within the same stratosphere. It's as if the world, as i see it, has suddenly developed layers- one layer on the ground, one layer up here.

Yet, do my views change? How am I inspired gazing at all this as I type? Do I alter my perspectives, my vision, my influence on what I do simply because I'm not seated at a desk with a telephone in front of me and a bulletin board surrounded by drawers and cabinets for all the paperwork? What is it in it for me, I wonder? Will I make decisions that are more macro rather than myopic now that I'm high up here?

And here's another thought, albeit a funny odd one. You know how workstations define our work personalities? So, now that we're roaming everywhere, and we're expected to maintain consistency everywhere, do we lose our individual work personalities that we've crafted over the years, since technically hotdesking gives us influences and inspirations from so many different facets of life? And, does that mean that the DESK itself no longer represents the element of hierarchy? Does it mean that rosewood desks and walnut desks and typical office furniture are a thing of the past and hold no more representation?

One more thing: Who gets saddled with the paperwork then?

It's more of an open-ended question with an open-ended answer, I suppose,,, given the fact that we all need paperwork of some sort...

But for now, it's more of the culture.
The culture that defines you who are professionally (at least)
The culture that makes you wanna join the rest of the gang...
Even if it be for a short, short while. :)

 

 

the wheel Has No air

We thought we would do a short one today. So we said so.

And off down the lane we went, cutting across the main road real quick and onto Joo Chiat Road, which is well known for its beef pho and real good Vietnamese coffee (and its accompanying neon lights) and where on one end there's chicken rice whilst on the other, there's nice chocolate ice cream and vintage style cafes and old-school pau bakeries and a host of newish bakeries offering cupcakes and muffins and eggless cakes.

This is one road where cars try hard to be patient with cyclists, and where cyclists learn to maneuver cars in the most careful way.

We turned left, and down the road we went. East Coast Road is an interesting one, traffic lights aplenty, buses aplenty, there're schools on either side, some old, some newly built. There're plenty of terraced houses and bungalows, there're shops. A bicycle shop, a provision shop, a Turkish restaurant, amidst others that offer all kinds of food from steak to pizza to Indian.

Bedok South Road is another left, and this one's got factories on one side and housing blocks on the other. Here, his tail light went poof, which the co-rider (me) could see from a distance and therefore said co-rider (me) had to pile on the adrenaline and race just to catch up with him, whilst countering it with deep breathing to calm the self and watch the road. 

I caught up with him, of course, and by then we were up along the gentle curve of a road round the side of Bedok Reservoir, which is really a quarry and then was met with road works- on a weekend night- and then a steep hill down before heading back to the starting ppint along Eunos and Still, which, thankfully, were uneventful save for a bit of prayer and a bit of bouncy, boingy moments.
 

Because I started knowing that the tire would soon be running out of air and I ended the ride knowing that the tire would now sooner be running out of air.

i love Chocolate, but What Else

I'm at Gloria Jean's at Plaza Singapura one day and I overhear a conversation between a group of people. Two are mutual acquaintances and the third, an entrepreneurial consultant. One, a young lady, was looking to start her own business of selling chocolate, and so after all the small talk and the introductions and the sharing of what you do and what I do, came this question from the entrepreneurial consultant: "Why do you want to do this?"

Her answer was one that I've heard many a time before: "Because I love chocolate." His response is also one that I've heard equally as many times before: "That's a good reason."

Okay, let's get this straight.

I don't have an issue when someone says they love something and they love it enough to want to run a business out of it.

That's how products are born. Where there's no such thing existing, make one. That's also how businesses are born. Where there's a product but there's no localized distribution and thereby no marketing and thereby no awareness, bring the d*** product in and market it and sell it and get it out to the consumers.

I don't have an issue when someone says that they faced this need and therefore they did their research and either created a product, or sought out a manufacturer and distributed it.

That's the economy of business, and it forms the bedrock of my living needs.

But flags do raise in my head when I hear of people saying that they're doing a business because they 'love' the product- and then they stop there. Maybe an appropriate follow-up question is: How much of this product do you love?

I'm going to be candid here.

Whilst lots of successful business people tell us that passion is what drives them to do what they do- and they have solid backing to prove just how passionate they are- this reason is not going to be good enough for everyone. You can't simply go around plonking this word at meetings as if it is good enough a reason to start your business, especially when you've not even experienced your first business challenge yet. At this phase, those listening to you will probably whip out the measuring gauge and measure (or define) how much passion there is in their definition of 'passion'.

What I'm saying is that passion alone is not the crux of success. It drives you to carry on, but that's not the only component that determines whether you're gonna make it or not. Even if you do have a niche, hey, you're not going to be only person in the whole wide world who likes this thing, isn't it, and since there's bound to be someone else, it means that there's bound to be a business opportunity for them too. Frankly, there would be more success stories out there if every successful business was operated based on passion alone.

We can have all the drive and the love and the yearning to get it out there, but there comes a point in the whole business cycle that we ask this one question of ourselves: "what the s*** am I doing this for anyway?!?!?!"

chocolates!

That's the time where you got to give yourself an answer because no way can you shirk from the question. Even if you tried, circumstances won't let you.

You could have had a great love for it and you could have got a niche market for it- or at least you KNOW you've got a niche market for it. You could have gone around telling everyone you meet that you've started this and when asked why, given an answer that goes round the thread of: i love it. and since i love it, i want to share it.

When asked if it's a lot of work, you agree, and you add on to it saying that it's totally fun, it's totally exciting and that keeps you going. I don't doubt that- the functions of business are a fairly thrilling one. There're just so many things to look at. There's retail, there's distribution, there's marketing, there's sales. There's a lot of talking about it, there's a lot of writing about it, there's a lot of telling everyone about it. For a while it seems great, cos' it seems like everyone loves it. It seems like everyone's writing about it and everyone is telling everyone about it.

But... what happens when they change their minds? What happens when channel partners and vendors and etc. change their minds? What happens when Everyone changes their minds? And what happens when in the quiet of the day's close you sit at your work desk and you stare hard at your day gone by and you realise that your song, your story, your article, your picture was really nothing more than:- managing, directing, supervising, expanding, costs, the calculator, the spreadsheets, marketing, hiring, firing, legal, nonlegal and every nitty gritty task that business commitment calls forth. 

And (let's call this horrific thought a bucket of ice cold water, shall we..) what happens when the cartons and boxes of stuff that you so love- it can be organic shampoo or rice chips or chocolate or safflower oil or slippers or electronic gadgets or popping candy etc. etc. are packed to the brim in the warehouse cos' no one wants them and you're going to be with inventory costs and depreciation costs if you don't get them out of the d*** warehouse soon?

And what happens when your numbers sing no longer look so friendly and welcoming and exciting to you, because it does happen and it can happen?

Will your passion still be there?

I hope it still will.

Because no one else owes you a passion. No one owes you loyalty. Even if there's a shared love, even if there's a shared need, there are always competitors. There are always better products out there. There are always varieties. And your customers have every right to jump ship. They don't owe s*** to you.  

That's the time where you'd better believe in yourself, and you'd better believe in what you do. Because no one should and no one will. Yeah, it's a d*** lonely journey, it's a journey that you'll spend your time hoping beyond hope that others will share the love with you, but hey, that's love. That's real love.

 

studio M

If there's one thing that defines what this studio is like, it's the very, very, very bright atmospheric space that greets you the moment you open the thick, heavy room door. It's the floor-to-ceiling windows that illuminate your world, all at once, never mind the fact that right on the other side of the door is a corridor, that on casual observation, resembles the corridor of a block of one-room flats, but narrower still. *It's so narrow that the housekeeping cart can barely fit at the sides* 

There's a desk right in front. That piece of furniture must probably be the centerpiece of the whole room. It's a desk that doubles up as an open shelf and a window seat and a dining table AND a step that leads you to the little staircase on the side, and which leads up to the mezzanine where your bed and a wall-mounted TV is. It's a cute, narrow, little staircase, that's what it is, and beneath it is a space where you'll find your coffee cups and hot water kettle and fridge and counter.

The bathroom and water closet are adorably small, so small that you could feel either cocooned or claustrophobic. There's no sink in the either- the sink's in the room itself, meaning you're brushing your teeth in the room. There's a small sofa that doubles up as a sofa bed. There're a couple of hangers on a rack above where your shirts and dresses are in full view of everyone who comes visit you. Upstairs, there're little white shelves behind your headboard for all your little belongings.

There aren't that many hotels with a duplex concept, not at this time at least, For me, and perhaps many locals, who spend much of our time in homes without floor-to-ceiling windows, who live in single story apartments neatly laid out along a corridor, to have a mezzanine floor, an upstairs-downstairs, even for a day or two, means that you're having a vacation. It means you've changed your living style for a day, and that you're loving it, you're giving yourself a chance, you're going about life- and living- differently.
 

light o'er the wall

 

Yes, it is a simple staircase. It is simply a loft concept. It is simply a bed elevated above the ground.

But I like it.

I like the fact that there's a division. I like the fact that the space is divided between ultra-personal and semi-personal. I like the fact that the division creates an element of organization that you can utilize however you want. Whether you wish to work upstairs on your bed, whether you wish to work on the sofa, or spread out your papers on the multi-purpose desk, it's feasible. Whether you want to put it all away and sit and let your mind wander as you stare out the windows, it's doable. Whether you wish to scribble on papers and place them everywhere, you can.

I like the fact that you can be very organized in it, or you can decorate it as you want to. You can put things in places if you wish to. A book here, a newspaper there. You can lay out all the necessary electronic gear and it still wouldn't look messy. If you're having a little party for four, there's the sofa for beer and snacks or wine and cheese. If you're having a dinner for two, you can do it up with candles and flowers and bring in dinner plates and dinner sets, or you can go casual with pizza, cake and soft drinks. You can decorate the space with balloons and streamers and the like for a birthday party.

 

That's the beauty of this room, however bright it may seem at the beginning. The balanced amalgamation of work and play. The space that permits you to be what and how you want at your decided time.

It's as beautiful in the late evening too, where the light of the day has slipped into the vastness of night and where the windows and walls become a shelter, a comfort, a cocoon that usher you easily from the tasks of the day into the quietness of the night.

we are and we are Not Children

The other day i went to a neighborhood- and in this neighborhood of housing block flats there once stood a school building right in the center of it. By the time I was there, it was no longer a spanking new one, and neither was it one of those popular schools in the regular sense of the word.

Still, a school building IS a school building, and a building as such can be a real school for those that learn within it, learn about it, and learn from it.

It was a real school. Every weekday at a certain hour the students turned up at the main entrance, ferried by parents or fetched by school buses. There were regular school hours, there were regular lessons and classes with teachers. There were lunch hour and time allocated for physical activities and there were administrative staff and school authorities in the compound.

This was a place that instituted learning through books and learning aids. This was a place where students were taught the joy of interaction and were encouraged to interact. This was a place where they got music. and they got movement. This was a place that belonged entirely to them, a place that was their world Mondays to Fridays from this hour to that hour. 

And there were also the occasional outsider(s) in the school. 
 

In this school there was a girl who liked books and with every outsider that came to interact with her, she would lead them to the class library and flip through the picture books- at super speed. If you wanted to know whether she knew what she was reading, you'd have to throw away the grammatical exactions- basically, the ands and the fors- and arrow straight for the keywords. And she'd tell you the story- in the way she saw it... in the way she understood it. 

In this school too there was a girl who had the firmest of grips on your offered forearm when you walked alongside her and who brushed her strong white teeth with gusty delight.

This was a school with boys and girls and tweens who screamed with delight at nearly everything and whom you were supposed to listen carefully to distinguish what it were they were saying.

This was a school with those who, when music came on, sat swaying to the rhythm whilst their classmates sprang up from their seats and did a little happy jiggle.

 And then one day they were told they had to move. 

And then it would not turn out to be the only time.







fruits of the earth

The years of special needs education have passed by, and today, far from silent are they, for they have appeared in the limelight a few times. Once, proudly marching in a contingent on national TV, once, proudly performing at a fund-raising event in a downtown park, and yet... yet... this limelight, was it what they asked to be thrust into?

There have been many an opinion. Opinions abound when things like that happen, and certainly, to and fro it has gone, from people directly involved, from people indirectly involved, from people who were there, from people who were not there; all of them, giving their two cents' worth, some saying that this was done right, others disagreeing with them, saying that they're wrong, and so on and so forth.

But no one actually asked them what they thought of it.

I'm referring to the stars of the performance themselves. What of them? Let's take this as it happened: A well-rehearsed performance- one that with all their hearts and soul they performed (for that is the only way they exist). Now, take their performance, interrupt it with an agenda from someone else's, whoever it might be, and there, let's leave the agenda of the performers in complete ruins, whom have now been called by organisers as a 'group of teenagers and young adults with Down's Syndrome and other intellectual challenges..."

Now that's ironic.

If they were teenagers and young adults, then they'd be able to have a voice. They'd be able to express their disappointment and their disheartenment at their rudely-interrupted performance which they trained so d*** hard for. 

But their Voices I have not heard.

And if they were children in terms of intellect to which they cannot speak for themselves but need our voices to speak on their behalf, then should we not accept them as such, respect their efforts and provide them the protection and restitution all children so need?

In that case, then, why the interruption, when agenda or no agenda, we should all have been celebrating the moment together with them?

UNICEF does state that children with disabilities should be allowed to speak for themselves and express their thoughts and feelings. but today we hear their silence still. All we know is that they were obviously afraid but what they were truly afraid of we can merely venture a guess. What they actually felt when their performance was disrupted we can only speculate, which then begets the question...

We the society, how do we perceive thee, the special needs person?
We the society, how do we perceive thee, the person with disabilities in the mental and physical facets?
And do we protect you even whilst we try to protect ourselves?

I was one of the many occasional visitor(s) that passed through the gates of COH all those years ago. At fourteen, I entered their gates as a volunteer. At fifteen, I moved on. At eighteen, I went back, for a very short while. I wished I'd stayed a bit longer. Maybe then I might have still gotten to see her, and ask about her.

The school building is no more now. In its place there stands a grassy hill, but I remember the two girls, the teachers, and some of the students. And as not knowing where they are now, there's just this I can say:

*how have you, my dear? how have you grown? 
thirteen when i knew you.
eighteen when i knew you. 
late i am, i know, but still i would love to know. 
to see the world from your eyes.
to hear the world from your ears.
to feel the world from your hearts.
and if i may so be, 
to be a guest into the inner world that you so enthusiastically try to share.
for champions you are.
warriors too you are. 
in a world where confusion exists abound, more resilient you are (what do i know?) i should think. 
and please, I would love to hear
not your silence. but your art.*

an Omega-3 Lunch

s.a.l.m.o.n.s.a.s.h.i.m.i

This was lunch one time when we were at the Central Business District area, or to put it more specifically, that area where all the gleaming glass buildings stand and their addresses all begin with ONE. ONE xxx, ONE xxx, ONE xxx. Apparently, nobody can be number two here.

Initially I planned on having soup but then I figured that wouldn't be filling. then I thought of having noodles but decided I'd save that for another day and then I saw there were snacks which were like, absolutely appealing, but half hour in I'd be hungry already...

So whilst flip-flopping around, we chanced upon this lunch express outlet which looked pretty empty but on the takeaway shelf there was this one single bowl. Five slices of chilled thinly-cut fresh salmon sashimi and sweet tamago and Japanese cucumber over a bed of rice.

It was the Last Bowl. And it Looked Just Right.

We bought it.

For someone who needed the lipid-lowering properties of salmon, and the Omega-3 that we desired.

pumping up the AIR

Having nearly-flat tires on a Sunday afternoon is, to put it simply, disappointing..

Especially when I'd been waiting so long to get on the bike, and more so when what I thought was a simple solution because, remember, we've done this before, the nearest gas station has the nozzle.. but it turned out that said same gas station switched their nozzle and so after that I didn't know where to go anymore.
 

It was one of those times when you just got to do what you do. Push the bike round the neighborhood from one gas station to another, from one (closed) bike shop to another (closed) bike shop, plodding, pushing, smiling, and hoping. dodging pedestrians on narrow, stepped pavements and trying not to feel silly even though you're pretty sure you're looking it.

For over an hour half that's how we were- until we finally decided to make a last, final round, putting ourselves at another gas station which coincidentally was a mere fifteen minutes away from our original starting point and which we would have reached had we not turned the other direction. *facepalm*

But  I got my Sunday late afternoon ride after all. :)

Not too long, not too overly thrilling, just a round that took us from East Coast Road (after a triple-variety roasted meat dinner with bowls of rice), down one short stretch of Joo Chiat Road where now a spanking new shopping mall stands, all the way to East Coast Park where we passed by a soon-to-be-closed cove of eateries and shops- goodbye, old Marine Cove that I used to know- past seemingly empty holiday beach chalets. past the Food Centre that is the other side of the lagoon. and at last, Bedok Jetty where tonight the tide was high and the sea came closer and the shimmering reflection of jetty lights turned our late, late evening into a most magical night.

chased by a Bow Woww

I'm telling you. It's NOT FUNNY. It's NOT FUNNY ONE BIT AT ALL.

There I was, pedaling happily away in the dim street lights, looking about me curiously- first time there and all- and then, from I-don't-know-where burst out this dog barking like mad, chasing my wheels and scaring the s*** out of me- all at the same time.

Okay, I get it that this has happened before, and that it has happened to many a cyclist so it isn't so big a deal. I also get it that this is no more different than what used to happen decades ago during the kampong days where anyone and everyone who wasn’t familiar to the dog meant he or she was a Stranger and he or she Stranger would be obligated to self-subject themselves to the possibility of ferocious, threatening barks from the village dogs cos' yunno, these fellas WERE the guardians of the village. 

But hey, this wasn't a village anymore. Maybe it once used to be, and maybe these dogs are the descendants of those who guarded the village entrances at one time and no doubt, I was a Stranger in these parts, but still...

You know what the funniest thing is?

The funniest thing is that this part was the last leg of the ride, and normally at the last leg, you don't really expect anything to happen anymore. The whole ride thus far had gone on relatively routine, easy, comfortable even, and i thought it would stay that way.

Why, nothing had happened all the way through the entire stretch of East Coast Park, nothing had happened whilst we were eating chye tow kuay and char kuay teow at the Food Center. Nothing had happened along that stretch of Changi Coastal Road, nothing had happened at Changi Village where we stopped for coconut and sugarcane, nothing had happened on the road passing by the highway entrances and exits and nothing had happened on the road bypassing Paya Lebar Air Base.
 

So why should I have expected anything different on this one single road?

Of course, as all things go, *something* did happen- and I got my lesson. Like... never, ever, ever, will I slow down when I'm biking inside an industrial zone. Don't think that just because it looks quiet with all the equipment asleep and the factories silent and dark, there won't be this growling bowwwww wowwww...
 

Because they're there.

And they're watching you.