Doulos Was In Town

It's been such a long time since I last kept track of such missionary-related events in town that, had it not been for a friend who posted about it on FB, I wouldn't even have known that Doulos the Floating Bookshop ship had berthed in town. 

I come from a background that's been (somewhat) familiar with Logos, Doulos, missionary work and the like, so the presence of this ship, the organization to whom she belongs, and the work she does, is not new to me. 

But the years pass, and I cannot now remember when it was that I last went on board this ship. 

It might have been decades ago.

It might have been less than that. 

There was a piece of news once about Doulos (was it Doulos I or Doulos II)  that the vessel would be decommissioned, and sent to the scrapyard. After that there was another piece of news that the vessel would be towed (or sailed) to a neighboring island in Indonesia to be retrofitted, something like that. 

I don't know if this is the same retrofitted ship or if it is another one christened with the same name. 

There was no time this evening for me to look. 

I was busy gazing down at the visitors queuing to go up the gangway to  board the ship, visit her bookshop, and maybe take a tour.

I was busy gazing at the lifeboats and the ship's personnel who looked over the railing to the people on shore.

And my mind was occupied- recollecting one of my all-time favorite books about missionary work, the mission of the "Floating Bookshop" combined with real-life nautical anecdotes. 

Perhaps the charm of "Worse Things Happen At Sea" isn't just the description of events alone but also the humorous, yet realistic narrative of its author Clive Langmead who served as an Officer on the Bridge. 

Had it not been for this book, I wouldn't know the ports to where the "Floating Bookshop" had sailed. I wouldn't have read about Nassau or Dover or Rio De Janeiro either, not to mention knowing what a sextant, or what a davit was. 

There's very little talk about the visitors who come on board (except that they're usually very patient whilst being very excited, or schoolchildren who were ferried to the ship in boats) or even who the dignitaries are. 

But there's a lot of mention about the cabins (they got a porthole), the food (too much rhubarb, sometimes), the navigation, the administration, and the confusion that erupts when different nationalities, linguistic abilities and personalities are thrown together onboard a ship for a singular faith-driven mission.

There're anecdotes that I've not forgotten- like that of the ship having to vacate its berth because a cruise liner had come earlier and a resourceful staff member (left behind) on land communicated via morse code to the author, like that of how the wife of a crew member had gone into premature labor and the Bridge had to be assembled to get to the nearest port for her to go to a hospital, and like that of how their suitcases in storage were ruined because one of their engine rooms got flooded and had to be shut down whilst their engineers pumped the water out. 

Whether or not these anecdotes do happen upon this ship, I don't know, but she looked so peaceful, and serene in the dusky twilight that I felt she probably might have. 

Maybe one day someone will write a book about these anecdotes again.

And maybe one day I'll get to read them.

It is as HE determines, yes?

Libraries (Where I Kill Time)

So it might seem a little peculiar, but one of the very first things I did when I decided it high time to do something for myself was to go (back) to the library and start browsing for new books to read, and to borrow again.

I used to go to libraries a lot. 

In one season of my life, nearly every day.

Libraries were (and still are) one of the few places where you can wander in (quietly), settle down on a seat and just do your own thing. You don't necessarily have to get a book to have a seat- but it's best you do- because even if your brain isn't in reading mode, a hardcover or a paperback is sometimes a very calming thing to have.

I dont' know how many times I've written notes or letters or journals whilst sitting in the library. 

I also don't know how many times I've just sat there and stoned. 

The library is a wonderful place to be when you're in this sort of mood. 

No one disturbs you, no one bothers you and no one cares what you do just so long as you keep to yourself and not bother others too. 

I head to the library whenever I have something to write, but because I also like to read, so I often find myself browsing the shelves for a book (or two) before settling down on a seat that I like. 

Corner single seats suit me best. 

Because I'm an introvert- with a love for her own space which she doesn't necessarily want to (always) share.

My journey with libraries go back a long way. 

Whether it be the old National Library, the school library, the Library @ Orchard's Ngee Ann City, the new National Library or the Library @ Orchard's Somerset, I've been there. 

Doesn't mean that I don't go to the regional libraries.

I do. 

The libraries of Toa Payoh and Queenstown are like a time capsule that fascinate me, and the libraries in NEX, Hougang Mall, Chinatown Point, White Sands and Harborfront are excellent places to rest the feet when you're tired from window shopping but don't want to spend money on a coffee. 

Of course it isn't just the heritage ones or the mall ones that interest me. 

I like the libraries of Ang Mo Kio, Geylang East, Esplanade, and Jurong East too. 

In fact I just went to the Esplanade one not too long ago. 

And I borrowed The Great Gatsby and Girl With A Pearl Earring paperbacks whilst I was there. 

It was nice to step back into the world of bookshelves and books all over again. 

There was a time in my life whenI could afford to rad voraciously. 

I  miss those days. 

There isn't that much of a time now. 

Maybe my reading habits have changed. 

Or maybe I haven't gotten back into the space of quiet reading just yet. 

I'd like to get back to my host of local short stories with the works of Catherine Lim, Dave Chua and Philip Jeyaratnam. 

I'd like to get back to reading the stories of Agatha Christie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Anton Chekhov. 

And I'd like to get back to my readings from Clive Cussler, Sylvia Plath, Charlotte Bronte, my go-to Irish author Maeve Binchy, and the very good but sometimes very difficult to understand action-thriller writer Frederick Forsyth. 

It's been too long a time. 

So, I hope, soon. 

The Newspaper Table

Placing gigantic emojis on the faces of photographed persons in a picture is not something I like to do. 

Actually, it's something I have never done. 

But... I don't have a choice. 

Not with this picture. 

Because it isn't mine. 

I got this picture from Miss Brown's personal collection. 

Someone- perhaps her husband, or her son- had taken the picture for her. 

We don't know where this place is. 

And, truth be told, even if we were to ask, no one knows. 

It's been one too many years. 

What's we can be sure of, however, is that this was one of the locations where Miss Brown used to distribute the newspapers to, and the lady sitting opposite her one of the many vendors. 

The lady doesn't look like a customer. 

At least I don't think there're that many customers sitting with the vendors as comfortably as this lady has done. 

There is a lot to be seen in this picture. 

The first thing that catches my eye is the table. 

It's amazing how some things don't change.

Newspaper vendors today still set up their stalls in the very same way. 

The way they place their tables, chairs, and newspapers are the same. 

The way they cover up the papers with tarp (in case it rains) is the same. 

As do the way they hold down the newspapers with random paperweights of some sort so that customers won't get rumpled first pages.

Another thing that struck me about this picture was the stack of newspapers on the floor. 

They're still stacked the same way, tied the same way, even placed the same way.

Very little about the newspaper vendor and her stall has changed. 

But the surroundings... that's certainly changed

If it were Miss Brown and the lady opposite her that first caught my attention, it were the environment they sat in that made me look one more time.

The environment- the void deck of a public housing HDB block- is why they've got emojis plastered on their faces. 

Because, seated as they were, they were centerfold in a space that- had they been edited off- would have been meaningless otherwise. 

I know.

I tried.

It isn't merely the presence of them both that makes this picture charming, but the fact that they sit in an environment that we nowadays hardly get to appreciate anymore.

This is how (I think) our 'hoods looked like back in the 80s. 

They're more spruced up these days. 

Not that every estate is new and spanking, but to the very least I don't think we'll find splotches of paint (or is it cement) on the walls of the void deck anymore.

We probably won't see benches as plain as these along the walls anymore either. 

Everything's become more comfortable, even prettier.

In many estates- even the mature ones- the cement floors aren't this black anymore, and parked bicycles will be more aesthetically placed. 

Everything about this picture reminds one of the 80s and the 90s. 

Maybe some of our housing estates still look the same. 

But maybe many of them have become brighter. 

The beautiful thing about newspapers, and newspaper vendors. is that they're a consistent part of our society. 

They're like a staple that you know are there just so long as there is a newspaper to be had. 

Doesn't matter if they're near the bus interchanges, the MRT stations, the hawker centers, or just about anywhere that has good footfall. 

Doesn't matter also if they be the kind set up at the side of the road where drivers make a very quick stop for the evening paper, and where money changes over swift hands. 

The Teenage Textbook The Teenage Workbook

 

Such a delight it was to see both books sitting side by side on the shelf of the Singapore Collections in a regional library that I had to (sadly) put back two books from the shortlisted pile in favor of them two.

Because whilst it can be possible to see either book on the shelf at any one point in time, much harder is it to see both books together on the shelf at the same time.

And whilst you can (technically) read either the Textbook or the Workbook on its own, this is one series that I've found best to be read together.

I like to think that it was written to be that way.

See, I've read The Textbook on its own. I've also read The Workbook on its own. But none of those times have left an impression on me as deep as this time when I read The Textbook first, then followed up by the Workbook immediately after.

For the first time in a long while I remember the names of the characters, I remember the name of the junior college, and I remember the name of the principal and the notable teachers.

There was the average-everything dude named Chung Kai, the studious one with the files and notes named Mui Ee (whom had a crush on the playboy Eurasian in the same school), the voluptuous sexy one named Sissy Song (whom everyone thought was a flirt and easy to conquer but who turned out otherwise), the dandy rich one named Loo Kok Sean (who lisped and whom everyone called Sean) and finally the good looking, clean-cut, desirable one named Daniel (something) who turned out to be the younger brother of a teacher in Paya Lebar Junior College named Miss Boon, and who in turn was dating an expatriate fellow teacher named Mir. Mills. Not forgetting, of course, the very strict Principal named E. (something) (something) Subramaniam and whom, in the course of reading the Workbook, would discover a little more about his wife, his family life, and his first name.

There's a lot about Mui Ee, her mother, her aunt, her flat, her neighborhood, and her room. There's also a lot about her mother being traditional and racially biased when it comes to her daughter's boyfriend, and being even more traditional when it comes to her daughter not having a boyfriend whilst she's still in school.

There's also quite a bit about Chung Kai and his father and his family, as much as there is about Daniel, his lovely home, his mother, her friends, and his kitchen which he cooks in. Then there's Sean and the fast car he drives and the parties he goes to, and finally there's Sissy and a tiny little bit about her room, and the magazines in her room.

Altogether the series is a heartwarming, simple, almost-autobiographical one, and for someone who had a year of college during the very time frame that this story is set within- we're talking the 90's- very touching, and very nostalgic even it is to be able to read it once again, in 2020.

At least, through the pages of this story, the teenagers of yesteryear won't forget what Far East Plaza at Scotts Road used to be.

Libraries- a Place, a World

Ask anyone who knows me long enough what one of my favorite activities are and they will tell you that I'm a book reader. Loved ones also will gladly tell you that I'll always arm myself with some sort of reading material during familial visits on festive occasions.
 Come to think of it,  reading truly is a habit of mine. 

During Christmas lunch at an uncle's place near the old Railway Station, I sat at a corner near the window and flipped through copies of Reader's Digest that he had subscribed to. At an aunt's home in Australia, I discovered a copy of Jung Chang's Wild Swans on the shelf and sped through the thick book in two days, staying up till 2am so as to finish it before I left. And at my grandparents' I read and re-read a Literature book titled Lady Precious Stream that used to belong to one of my aunts- that day so happened to be Chinese New Year.

It ran in the family. I had relatives who were schoolteachers. My parents encouraged me. Even in curriculum, reading was encouraged- we had designated reading periods of half an hour on some days after morning assembly during primary, and my free periods during secondary were spent in the school library. The place was airconditioned- better than the canteen- and anyway there was no where else I could go to. 

It comes as no surprise then that I've frequented many a library in Singapore.

From the old Stamford Library to the ones in the 'hood, from Central Library and Esplanade Library to the new ones at the malls of Harbourfront and Orchard, I've been to them all. I don't know if there is a library that I've not been to. Maybe Sengkang... Every library has its charm, and some will tell you that they prefer one over the other.

For me, I don't have a preference- I like any location that has got adequate seating and maybe a good armchair (I like them compared to benches cos being the introvert that I am, I can curl up with my bag and my hoodie and keep my head down)

Libraries are reckoned to be places of quiet and places of friendly refuge for me. They are not just places for me to sit and read, they are places where I feel time drifts away whilst I'm being transported elsewhere. Where there's a library, I don't have to tire myself out walking around the shops, and I don't have to spend money (unless I want to) at coffee houses.

It has been a Thing of mine to do, and I've got seasons of variety.

At one time I read the Baby Blue comics a lot. After that came the book versions of popular movies- which I particularly relished as it made me feel like I were going into depth of the movie- and it didn't make a difference whether I watched the movie or not. Later I progressed to short stories and local fiction which I would borrow five at a time then read them over lunch. Then later still I fell in love with the writings of a crime writer from LA, a science fiction writer most famously known for his book on dinosaurs and an adventure writer who wrote lots and lots about maritime technology, espionage,  political intrigue, the mountains, treasures and the sea.

The library remains one of my most loved places, and loved ones know just where to find me when I'm killing time. It doesn't matter where I am- or even if I'm borrowing anything- chances are I'll just be hanging out there.  

Either sitting on a chair, or taking a wander amongst the Young People Fiction and the Children section where who knows, I just might take down whichever book that catches my eye.  

Heartland Reads

 

I've read a good number of local fiction- Catherine Lim, Dave Chua, Philip Jeyaratnam- and hardly has it been that I've wanted to thump the head of their characters.

 

I wanted to thump the head of Wing- the hero of Heartland- this time.

 

He was remarkably tiresome.

 

He was so tiresome, so draggy, so self-deprecating and so annoying that had he been a real person I'd have given him a good shake by the shoulders, and yelled at him to wake the bloody fool up. 

 

So what if you were a student at Raffles JC and stayed at the housing estate just a short walk away from school? So what if you never really knew your father and were raised single-handedly by your mother? And so what if you were on a different financial par with Chloe the pretty girl whom you had a crush on in school?

 

Was it a sin if you didn't drive a car to come pick Chloe up? Was it a sin if you couldn't afford expensive dates, or that she dressed up for dates whilst you did not? Was it a sin if you just were on a different calibre with others?

 

Why then, did you not know what you wanted to do? Why, then, was it that you didn't care where you were going, had no idea what direction you could take, didn't pursue anything, and simply took the languid, slack route through school and life? If, even your friends Audrey and the other guy, knew what they wanted, and pursued it for themselves, why did you not know what was it you desired?

 

You, with the General Paper lectures, and notes from Economics tutorials, was it so d*** hard to figure out what to do with your life? You had the education, you had the opportunities, you had the exposure. Why was it then that you had no ambition or no purpose other than to finish school, go to army and then see how afterward?

 

Was it because your girlfriend didn't know how to talk to your mum? Was it because she didn't speak Mandarin very well? Was it because you felt you lacked the opportunities that your other friends had? Or was it simply because you felt you were a loser amongst the elite of the school and thereby would not amount to anything no matter how hard you tried?

 

What a waste of a space in Raffles JC, I say!

 

To be honest, the author never mentioned the name of the JC. Neither did he mention the name of the housing estate. But how many top three JCs are there in Singapore which are located within a private residential estate and have a housing board estate within walking distance from it?

 

I'm not sure about the other junior colleges, but from the description of the estate, the proximity to Holland Village, the Buona Vista MRT and the mention of the hawker center, I can only think of one- Raffles JC, which at one time used to be somewhere around the Mt. Sinai residential estate yet was within walking distance to the Ghim Moh housing estate.

 

It helps, of course, that I used to work at a place near Ghim Moh.

 

Otherwise I might not have known.

 

Still, readers of my age would find Heartland a nostalgic read. Heartland- for even if the author hadn't mentioned Far East Plaza or some other place familiar to us 80s kids, there were enough descriptive clues in the book to pinpoint the place anyway.

 

I guess that's what literature is all about.

 

It isn't only about the characters or the story arc.

 

It is also about the setting, the society, the heritage, the life, the living, and everything that is present at that moment in time.

 

We don't usually realize it then, and we may not even realize it immediately after, but if you are reading Heartland today, and can remember a time when there was no ION but a park behind the Orchard MRT Station where the Filipino domestic workers used to hang out on Sundays, yes, I am sure you will feel it too.

short Stories and Mysteries

This is a late post.

 

This is a post that is so very late that I, for the life of me, cannot remember when exactly it was that I borrowed these books from the library, I cannot remember from which library they were borrowed from, and, I cannot remember what the plot of Agatha Christie's book was as well.

 

 

It is not a good thing when a reader cannot recall what the plot of the book is, or was. This is a case whereby I know the title- "The Clocks", but the characters, the setting, and even the plot, they have all unfortunately slipped from memory.

 

So it is thereby fortunate thing that there usually are just three groups of detective characters in Agatha Christie's works, and in this book, it would have to be either one of the three.

 

It would not be Miss Marple- I adore her as a detective too much to forget her small town sleuthing style. Neither would it be the cute couple Tommy and Tuppence- they have so much pleasant banter in their sleuthing investigations for me to forget their interactions. And so, by process of elimination, that would leave only the French detective Hercule Poirot.

I confess I haven't read many stories where Poirot solves crimes and mysteries. Most of Agatha Christie's books I've read lean towards Miss Marple. She, I remember pretty well. Often situations happen when she is visiting someone, and through a wee bit of investigation and penetrative questioning, she solves the mystery. Sometimes she gets to act her age, and in her act of dropping of stuff or finding herself lost, she gathers clues. Maybe that is what appeals to me.

Perhaps I haven't read enough of Poirot yet.

 

And then here's another funny thing. 

 

If I read enough of Poirot as the lead detective, would the plot then stay in my mind? I'm not sure. In the few stories I've read, Poirot seems to be an armchair detective- albeit a very good one- the mark of his abilities- but could it be that it is precisely because of such, that I seem to forget what it is that takes place in the story? And could it be that I keep comparing him to another detective, also male, from the British side, and whose stories leave an impression on me much deeper? 

 

It sounds incredibly rude to say this, but even though I have read Agatha Christie's works a couple of times, and I have read and re-read some of her stories several times, I've never been able to recollect the titles of the books I've read, much less the plots and characters.... and I honestly do not know why.

It is like I recollect the quirks and investigative abilities of Miss Marple, but I forget the case that she is investigating, and the people involved. And it is like I enjoy the banter between Tommy and Tuppence, but I've no idea what case it is that they are checking upon.

Maybe the complexity of the plot is what makes the reader read, re-read, and re-re-read, again and again.

That's what I've been doing.
 

There's always a wide collection available at the library. Her works make light, casual reading that guide me through a scenario without any preamble, and they are perfect for the times when I feel like having a good, well-timed mystery read.

 

Having light, casual reading material is also perhaps the reason why short stories and flash fiction have always been a favorite choice of mine. Not just now, in the digital age where our attention span has been supposedly conditioned to be super short, but a long time ago.

There was a time in my life when I would borrow five collections of short stories, finish them in one afternoon over a long, leisurely fast-food lunch, then return all five books afterward.

Those times, I'm afraid, are no more.

These days a singular book can span a week or two, never mind the length, but whether they be from local authors like Catherine Lim or Philip Jeyeratnam, short story collections from Singapore and Malaysia, or short story collections by American, British or Irish authors, their "lengthy anecdotes" and "glimpse of characters" are a great fit for a restless, quirky spirit like mine.

 

And few are the short stories that I will not read. :)

 

Sarong Secrets was a new book to me.

And I liked it.

 

Because whilst many a local book there is about the Peranakans and their culture, reading Sarong Secrets made me feel like I were right there sitting with a group of lovely ladies clad in sarongs and kebayas, listening to them share their stories of past and present, in between lovely bites of colourful nyonya kueh and sips of Earl Grey Tea.



Cussler, Frank, and a Japanese Guy

You know something?

 

From now on I'm going to take pictures of all the books I borrow from the library, just so that I can have a reminder of what I've read, and what I haven't.

 

And then, I'm going to take it a step further by writing about what I've read, just so it will double up as a record of what the book was about and more importantly, when it was that I read it.

 

It's an important step. Otherwise, I'll find myself in the same situation as I am now- not realizing (until I checked this blog) that I'd actually loaned and read the very same book barely six months ago- with no other borrowed book in between. ^_^ 

 

That being said, the book in question is The Diary of Anne Frank, and that is one which I can read again, again, and again. :)

 

 

Loved ones tell me that I'm a little obsessed about Anne Frank and her Diary, and I wouldn't deny it, oh no, but the odd thing is that if you were to ask me what it is that fascinates me so much, frankly, I can't pinpoint it either!

 

I just know that it is very difficult for me to not take her Diary whenever I see it on the library shelf. It doesn't matter that I'm already holding three other books in my hand, or that I think I might not have time to finish reading it. I don't care. Borrow first, later then say. :D

 

This time, I read A Quiet Place first.

 

It intrigued me partially because it was a Japanese detective story- which style I'd never read before- and because it's so hard to find translated works of Japanese authors in our libraries. One must know where to find.  I was curious to know how Japanese detective fiction was like.

 

Let's just say that, unlike the speed of the Americans or the British, A Quiet Place was a slow, steady narrative that looked at things through the eyes of the first-person- the widower- and which tailed closely behind him thereafter. It was a story that delved deep into character and made me feel the loneliness, shock and confusion of the widower.

 

You know, it's funny, but whilst trying to figure out the secret escapades of a supposedly docile, haiku-loving, sexually disinterested wife, I also picked up information about prefectures, manufacturing processes of canned meats during late 70s Japan, and the presence of business entertainment.

 

I read Clive Cussler next.

 

Which, embarrassingly, I don't remember the title of the book (horrors!), but I think it starts with Kurt Austin (or is it Dirk?) impersonating a hardcore prisoner to sneak his way into some gulag to get out a former Russian military general who got into the bad books of the present-day defence minister, and then after that there's something about Tesla, and an secret experiment about disappearing ships from America reappearing right smack in the middle of the Aral Sea.

 

And finally, The Diary.

 

Starting from the last entry of August 1944 and working my way backwards through time. Except that I only got to make it as far back as late 1943 before my six weeks was up and the book had to go back to the borrowing bin. -_-