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.

the Paved pathway Race

You'd think it would be more comfortable along the paved bike paths where there are no vehicles driving dangerously close that you need to look out for. 

You'd think that being on the smoothly paved pathway with the flowers and the trees and the birds and the joggers and the walkers and your fellow riders, you'd be able to take things lightly and easily.   

Because, hey, it is the PCN.

There are no cement mixers or trucks a la Jalan Buroh that drive so tightly on the lane that they're inches away from your face- and which blow up dust into your eyes as they zoom past by. There are no taxi drivers honking at you to get out of the way cos' you're taking up space even though you're already ON the double yellow line. Heck, you don't even have a concrete drain that you have to watch out for.

So it should be a relaxed, easy ride, no?

But maybe because it is because everything's so nicely laid on the paved bike paths that the difficulties stem not from the usual adversaries but your fellow riders themselves. I shan't go into detail; it's just one of those things that happen but it does get really annoying and I don't quite know who is right and who is wrong.
 

Maybe he was just that Someone who will get annoyed with you for all kinds of reasons. Maybe he was  the sort who would get pissed off with a bright front light- even though the other rider had already turned my bling all the way down. Whatever he was, he was that Someone who would get pissed off enough to bike dangerously close to me, goading me to a competition.  

I took it on.

And I didn't lose very far behind. :) One revolution, two revolutions, perhaps.

But seriously, WHY?! Why do we do this to each other when we don't know each other and I'm obviously not up for any competition of any sort, never mind whether it be a friendly one or not? Aren't we already competing for space on the roads with everyone else? Can't we have a nice, easy, relaxed, smell the roses kind of ride where we just wave at each other and not bother about whether their lights are 'too bright' or not or whatever (which, I insist, was NOT)? Can't we just encourage each other and lend a hand and reach out and be nice and say hi with each other? Or does that make us bike buddies because we tossed our handlebars together and competed against the headwind?

It's at times like these that I feel it is better to be at places previously unexplored. With just me, myself and my fellow rider who knows better than to goad me into a competition. He invites me to one, he does not challenge me. At these places, I don't care if I look like an anomaly. I don't care if I look weird- a female rider in these locations seems to attract a fair amount of attention- and neither do I care if it is too far or too ulu a place to be.

There's so much more to see out in the boondocks.

In the north I’ve seen farms and smelled goat manure, I’ve biked amongst trees and thick foliage, I’ve passed by many a gateway, I’ve gone up slopes and down slopes, I’ve seen towering structures which I don’t comprehend (all whilst trying to huff my way up a hill and keep my eyes peeled on the road).

I’ve been chased by dogs and been startled by dogs who stop and pose in the middle of the road, I’ve experienced many a curious eye, I’ve caught whiffs of delicious cocoa, I’ve gone by old railway tracks with funny towers that I don’t know what use they are, I’ve been amongst dirt tracks that open out suddenly to a park, I’ve seen a couple of wild babies- boars! I’ve passed by an abandoned town center, I’ve seen up close towers and funnels and circular structures and I've gone as close as possible to an industrial port… 

But as exploratory as these routes may be, I'd like the same exploration for the paved pathways too. 

So please, if you see a female rider with her strapped backpack and cruising along at reasonable speed, do just leave me a bit of space, pass me by and let me breathe with the sea breeze, count the ships as I bike past them and squeal at the ixora flowers and the leaves.

avoiding All the Rain

Maybe I’ll get to Sarimbun jetty another time.

This is one jetty that's on the northwest of- the northwest- of this island, and that's where I wanted to go last week. Frankly I've no idea why I want to get there, but sometimes you want to do things that you don't understand. Maybe because it's dark, it’s quiet and it's one of those jetties with some sort of story around it, or so they say. 

Last week we didn't make it there and a good thing too,  cos’ if we’d remained steadfast to our plan, we’d have been caught in a heavy thunderstorm, and parka or no parka, a thunderstorm isn't great one bit at all.
 

Okay, I admit, that wasn’t reeeaaallly why we decided against going to the Sarimbun jetty.

We were, simply put, tired.

Then there was the fact that my front light battery was running out, and for much of the whole ride I was basically going, "Don't die on me, don't die on me."

We'd started from Marine Parade, went up the long road that is Hougang Avenue 3 to do an errand somewhere there, and then from there to Ang Mo Kio where we paused to squabble for a bit because I am simply bad at my sense of balance (ha!) and the pedestrians stressed me out, or maybe we were just hungry, so we stopped again.

A real stop this time at a coffee shop for a proper dinner of really, really fishy fish maw soup and beef and rice and one more dish which I don't remember now.  

Dinner over, it was up Lentor Avenue, which was okay, since you go on this pedestrian path (but there's hardly anyone on it!) and then finally Mandai Road, which is a very long road of.. long, stretchy slopes. It's simply up and down and up and down and up and down but you don't feel it when you're on the road because you're just going on and on and on until you've no idea where it begins and where it ends.
 

It was at the end of this very long road that we contemplated our forward route- which, after tossing forth a couple of arguments that included my poor leg muscles and light battery and bla bla bla, was to go back.

So back we went, taking Woodlands Road this time, and boy, what a dusty road it was with all that gravel, all that turning and all that digging. Got to Dunearn Road, turned into Cluny Road, turned again into Nassim Road- where a couple of embassies are tucked up at- and then finally our shelter.
 

Just in time to be all snug and dry before the first flash of lightning streaked across the night sky.

it's a Boutique life

There are pictures that somehow, once they crop up, you can try and try, but they just won't go away. They're the sort that once you start thinking about them, they just stick there in your mind like glue, and no matter how hard you try to distract yourself from those images, they're pretty much like a Polaroid glaring at you up close.

I'm seeing a white table, you know, one of those work tables that you get from IKEA that was, and is, supposed to encourage lots of scribbling and writing and tossing of papers here and there. It's the sort of white table that technically facilitates mess cos' you'll never lose them being all under the piles.

And I'm seeing this white table shoved against the wall between a shelf on the right and a shelf on the left and whilst those shelves don't belong exclusively to you, you can use one part of the shelf for whatever you need, which you'll find- after a couple of hours- that you really need at least one shelf as there're no drawers, no slots on the desk whatsoever and you've got to get boxes to drop everything in. 

Where the table is, there is no privacy either. Even if you wanted some, there'd be none present, because what with the office space being this quirky, everyone ends up in the oddest of corners. (One colleague had his table parked two steps away from the office door. Another colleague had hers facing the door.) Mine was closest to the pantry. It was also closest to the in-house toilet/bathroom.

Yup, an agency life.

Specifically, the boutique sort, where you work with stringent manpower, where interns are an occasional presence, where everyone triples or quadruples their actual JD from time to time (everyone is an ad-hoc receptionist) and where the work culture encourages a camaraderie between co-workers like few other corporate agencies will have.  It's changed a little since then, I should say, but there are moments where you get reminded of the actual work itself, the process, the tasks required before you get to the final outcome.

Whether it be an interview or two within a day's work, whether it be packing samples into paper bags, whether it be attending rehearsals, or sending out media invites, or doing the media run, or banging out a one-page release; whether it be doing the media run again for the second time, or meeting a prospective client at their yet-to-be-opened store, whether it be sorting out the samples, or helping a colleague with the logistical stuff at launches, or being a wide-eyed noob at the celebrity-filled event that you're *present at* for the very first time, it isn't very much the actual product launch that you remember at the end.

It's the thrill of coverage that gets to you, and after all the multiple projects, even after you've moved on and up and away, it's still that thrill you seek, it's that thrill that you thrive deep into those nights for, and it's that thrill that drifts before your eyes- and sticks in your brain- when you take an afternoon stroll along the Singapore River.  



somewhere along this side

 

standing at The Window

This is an article to start the blog.

An introductory article, if I may say. to begin the entire existence of this blog. But before I start writing, let me get something out of the way and once I get it out of the way, I'm done with it.

This is not my first blog.

No way.

I've had a few since I started way back in 2006. MySpace was the very first platform that I started blogging. I probably got through two or three articles before I discovered Multiply. For a few years I was on that platform, taking care of it as well as I could, uploading pictures, writing, basically, the soul of blogging. At that time, Social Media hadn't gone as mobile as it is now, and Twitter hadn't quite exploded in popularity yet, so for long winded writers like me, that was a most apt platform to express myself.

Multiply has been off the grid now, as they say, and often I wonder what happened to all my painstakingly-uploaded pictures. I guess they're sitting in some data server somewhere. Maybe they're under the Arctic or Antarctic wilderness somewhere. Who knows? I moved on to Wordpress afterward, but I shifted to Blogspot not too long after.

I'll tell you why.

Because I'm no programmer, and if you want to do something as simple as change the background and theme in Wordpress, you HAVE to be a programmer. I mean, they give you all the programming language, which is as good as no language to me. I know of Java and C++. I don't read it and I don't understand it, not even CSS- which was what Wordpress gave to me when I wanted to change a theme.  

And so here I am now.

With this blog I'm likening it to the Experience of standing at a very clear glass window. It is akin to that of an Observer. We watch what is going on. We make our own interpretations of it. We decide what we want to see and we see what we want to see. It is all very subjective, since there's no direct communication and there's nothing that reaches to us from the other side of the glass.

Yet, it does not stop us from thinking. It does not stop us from interpreting what we see. Neither does it stop us from asking questions nor block us from yearning to discover how it is on the other side of the glass. 






cue yeungdeungpo the inspiration



Whatever it is that we interpret, whatever it is that we formulate, we just want to know if the world that we see is as it really is. Is it as free? Is it as silent? Is it as calm? Is it as energetic? Is it gentle? Is it firm? Is it violent? Is it thoughtful? The yearning doesn't stop simply because we're stuck behind the glass, making us feel as if we were really there and yet, we're not.

That's not all.

I'm also likening the Experience to be gazing upon the surface of the sea. If you've been to the seaside on a bright, hot day, you'll no doubt have seen the way the surface of the sea shimmers in the sunlight. It glitters; it literally glitters. But as beautiful as it is, what I'd really love to see is not what lies upon the surface, but the marine life that teems underneath it.

I'd love to see the creatures that swim through it. I'd love to see the corals. I'd love to see the aquatic plants. I'd love to see the seabed and its ridges. And I'd love to know if there really are mermaids.

Yet, without a separate means, from my position of land or boat that I am on, I can't penetrate the glittery surface the same way I can't reach out to the world beyond the window unless I break the glass.

But I don't intend to do either of that. I don't intend to break the glass. And I don't intend to break the surface and dive beneath it either.

What I intend to do is to write about it.

I will write about what I've seen and heard and experienced and I will write about how I feel towards it. Maybe it will make a difference, maybe it won't. I don't care. This is the world that I'm born into. This is the world that I'm living in. This is the world that surrounds me and influences me and this is the world that I breathe, eat, sleep, walk and run in. That's just how it is.

And this blog is about me writing about the life that I live.

As best as I can.

As clear as I can.