Kejam

"You don't seem to put any heart into it."

I've been told this again and again, the first being my drama teacher back in secondary school. And recently I just heard it again. You don't seem to put your heart into it.

I don't understand it myself; this feeling of distant aloofness to situations. This apathy. I am there and yet I am not. It feels like I am cocooned in a mass of jell-o. Have you ever tried to listen to conversations underwater? That is how it feels like when people are talking to me. Because what is there for me to listen? Or for people to listen to me even? I am just a tape recorder. Play. Fast forward. Pause. Play. Fast forward. No stops. No time to reflect. An accelerated life experience; an impatient listener furiously tapping on the fast forward forward button just to hear the coda.

My mouth filled with concrete; it does not hold water. That perpetually filled chasm struggled to communicate, and only a minute fraction of it comes out as seismic psychoquakes of magnitude 0.1. Everything is hard. Making calls. Writing the first "hi" on Tinder. All of this masked by a wall of words and reblogged tumblr posts, witty repartees on Facebook and 140 ways of how to attract people to my tweets under 140 words.

My eyes are the dissipater of creatives. It does not matter if your mind is filled with brilliant megalomaniacal innovations that seek to bring an utopian shift from a world of zealots of our current era. It does not matter if your mind contain a fragment of eden itself, complete with a grandiose marbled statues spouting moscato sparkling like rose quartz under the warm embrace of god. It does not matter for the green fields or the mosaic tessellations on skyscrapers and HDBs that dotted the cityscapes. But my eyes suck out the soul of every thought. The eyes that icily judge others and sneer at conformity yet it prevents an outpouring of any original concept lest it melts. And so I settled for endless random pokemon battle loops.

So just sigh and let the void embrace with its tendrils of primal chill that numbs till I become comatose. Even as the light from the hole above glistens with hope, in the comfort of nyx, I do not want to try anything anymore.

Transience

Transience

Time constantly flows, melding with space to form a mesh of dimension upon dimension that coalesce to form a continuum. Memories are formed by this continuum because of the interactions of oneself when one comes into being and others when they come into being. Damages to any neuroanatomy of memory will result in certain incapability of one's memory.

The Time-Keeper ran. After reaching a certain spatial distance in a certain temporal dimension, he placed down a crude mechanism with a two-pronged base and a circular head with a prismatic shard embedded in the centre. 

A glowing cyan thread spreads to the previous mechanism - for this story's sake lets call it a marker, since that is its purpose anyway - only to disappear again, lost in the sea of omni-withoutaname. It is not even the void but the void before void. Giving it a name grants it existence when it is in fact, the absence of existence and nothingness. For saying that its the absence of one means to acknowledge the other, so this void before the void is without a name and is the neither of both.

Each marker has a mathematical algorithm dictates by the time-keeper. The marker here is not merely points in space consisting of l x b  x h but l x b x h x t. It is not merely keyframes after keyframes in an .swf file. It is frames within a keyframe with complex sets of animation all compressed into a point of singularity yet somehow, dimensions exist. 

It encompasses events. Events with such explicit details. My sister's wedding under BLK 682, Jalan Anak Kambing, Postal code 369682. Gold satin covered the eight pillars adorned by faux bouquets of ylang ylang. The bridal dais -  a plush, gilded divan with two golden vases filled with more ylang ylang - oversee the guests in their baju kurung finest. 

Cik Sareka in her tight fitting, almost transparent kebaya and pin up scented jasmine on her head, much to the dismay of other makciks in their more conservative garb. Sassy cousin Salimat and his progressive take on Malay couture; a jacquard brocade mandarin-collar vest over a baju kurung, gilded sarong, and a pair of sandals.

I heard the many gossips under the table; the tale of my cousin's pregnancy out of wedlock. An aunt expressing her frustration regarding monetary issues with an older uncle. Rumours about Cik Sareka and the two susoks in her cheeks.

The underpaid DJ half-heartedly requesting people to come on stage. A greying middle-aged man comes up to much applause. Those very hands cupped their ears when he started to warble. Two gatecrashers helping themselves to the food, oblivious to the glares from my family members. Grandma Nadiah could not take it any longer and shooed them away with her batik shawl with dramatic arm movements that made her look like a giant, shrivelled moth.

This is only one marker of the many markers. And each markers have sub-markers to demarcate sub-events tied to each episodes.

The earliest markers bear severe wear and tear; a testament to erosion due to the continuity of time. Its shards nothing more than mere blimps in the sea of omni-withoutaname. Though some older markers bear brighter glows in multitude of colours, indicating strong emotional stimuli.

One relatively two light years away from the current marker shines pale blue, a disappointment at the age of 7 on 4th January 1999, 1000 hrs, when not being able to score full marks for my first spelling test much to the chagrin of my parents. This results in me being grounded for the whole week.

The bright red one slightly closer around the length of a milky way away from the current marker (the current marker now is a few markers away from the former current marker because as we speak, the ever-diligent Time-Keeper has already placed more markers because events are taking place as we speak) burning brighter that Betelgeuse holds the event when I chipped my teeth from a tussle with a secondary school mate as he deliberately slapped my bottle from the table down to the ground. 

My bottle, being of cheap, low-grade plastic, was dented. Being more afraid of my mother's wrath if she saw the dented bottle than a trip to the principal's office, I punched his nose. This lead to another marker throbbing in purple - public caning.

It will take a while for the markers to take its root, a gruelling encoding process consolidating data that can take years. Some markers are identical; the closer these markers are to each other, the faster the encoding.

Usually the markers are very much alive, due to constant exercising of the mind to recall events and semantics. But mine have come down to a standstill like the surface of the moon. Without an atmosphere, forever eroding. It frustrate me so much as to how my markers can't seem to activate recall. And the incessant humming in my vain attempts at recalling usually result in frustration and shortness of breath. The occasional dizziness. The prismatic shards still shine. My markers have atrophied; long gone are their glory days of recall at 13ms.

Another dimension appeared. A toxic manifestation of sorrow and troubled waters. Resulting in a gravitational tension that makes the markers off-balance. The threads linking the markers are pulled. Like an iron ball in the middle of a trampoline. The markers are at the edge, and whatever memories stored inside flowed to the middle in a clockwise spiral. Down to the sea of omni-withoutaname. 

Woe to the Time-Keeper who experience such peril. For one slip, just one wrong footing, is enough for him to tumble down the rabbit hole. 

Drained. Oblivion. Blanks.

Indignant

Glazed glaucoma eyes

Scares, scars.

A scam, A sham.

The cherubs pranced around Aphrodite

In bacchanal fervour

Vying for attention.

Spitting arrows from their sugar-coated tongue

Not even hitting-

Bull's eye!

Hit the G-spot!

Aphrodite quivers, 

entertaining the frolicking abominations

Maternal instincts overrule her warning system

Deceitful webs spun saccharinely; full of praises

Sing hymns in her honour, harken her glorious youthful days

But little do those little cherubs know that it takes two hands to clap.

Those imps in cherub's masks 

are not the only one with porcelain faces.

Its Block Leave, Gorblok

Its almost the end of the year and this block leave has indeed give me the time to unwind. No worries about troublesome recruits or annoying superiors forever like vultures in a pecking order. Some "me" time at the library, going to museums, and "enriching" myself with DIY stuff. Also, gotta work on my portfolio.

-------

In two week's time, my recruits will POP. It seems like only yesterday where I welcomed them with open arms. A mismatch cadre indeed, from the sensitive, scrawny new age guys who spent their eyes glued to the computer screen to the gangsters and their almost always unfortunately ugly tattoos. They might not be the best of men, but I can say I'm rather proud of my section (best section for October whuddup~) and the only way I can show my gratitude is to deliver them as best as I could possibly give.

Halilintar

The storm has been brewing every night for this whole week. But yet, I could not sleep. I don't know why, but perhaps it's been a habit to waste Hypnos's gift for technological seductions. Could this be a portal to a new beginning? Is this, 2Q13? Perhaps I've been reading too much Murakami.

But for every tale spun, there must have been threads of facts plucked by the authors. Reasons behind inspirations; drawn from epiphanies and eurekaic moments. How original is original? Isn't it now just a rash dash to see who arrives first at the patent office? We've seen Graham vs Grey, Tesla vs Franklin, and many others but yet, as the old adage goes, history is written by the winners. So must be ruthless in our pursuit for recognition? Or is it sheer luck and windows of opportunities?

My shin's getting worse. I don't know why but ever since I've got confirmation that indeed there's something gravely wrong with it that shin, the pain stars to show and gets worse. Perhaps its a psychological thing, a dash of self-fulfilled prophecy in a way. I've been having shin splint ever since BMT but it got better around pro term and I thought its gonna end at that. I guess... just wished it was really a dragon egg.

Fýrgebræc

-the crackling sound made by a fire

Scorching cold embers flickered dimly in the undergrowth. Abode under the canopy. And when the sky groans in agony. Perhaps poisoned from exotic rare aviaries. As we lay cowering. Twin red orbs staring from the abandoned well. Are we fighting for a cause that will never. Happen?

trying something new omg I'm so uninspired.

Woke up with a splitting headache and missing out on AHM, went to my family doctor for medication and got new specs from TonyHardy, a local eyewear brand.

And now that I've bought this pair of pretty ombre saucony runners (for the much anticipated marathon that never was), guess now I've no excuse to work out then. Damn. And who knew you can make friends by just asking for a light? Her name is Susan. And she's amazing.

Aromatheraphy

Hari Raya has always been a kecoh affair, and this year's no different at Iffah's #thingamagig open house. Think cute handwritten notes on jars (so you know what you're eating. Spoil market, really), roti tirai with amazing chicken curry, and of course, amazing ambience that's set back by the stuffy Singapore climate. But that's all cool when you have a diplomat's son serenading us with his acoustics and crooners while sitting down on lush carpets kampong style.

Then Joseph and I went down to Vault (amazing place for drinks, really) for Exposed by Obscured - an event curating aspiring artists and I'm proud to say that my friend Kamal has an exhibition there featuring his amazing photographic skills (they can be bought in a handy booklet or as individual prints!). Kamal also has an online store here.

Went for some fiery popiahs and end the day with amazing white peony tea from Tea Chapter. Before we began drinking, the host will prepare a tea ceremony teaching us how to properly brew tea and serving it; appreciate the sheer euphoria of the tea's aroma as it delicately wafts and teases your olfactory. Paired with matcha and rose-coconut rice balls with a sesame centre, it was truly an epiphanic experience that is truly god-given for an amazing time for conversations with friends while time-dew slowly drips. I mean, its better than getting wasted in sleazy ratchet gay bars around the compound compounded by suffocatingly pretentious lau hong people.

Not all toxic people are cruel and uncaring. Some of them love us dearly. Many of them have good intentions. Most are toxic to our being simply because their needs and way of existing in the world force us to compromise ourselves and our happiness. They aren’t inherently bad people, but they aren’t the right people for us. And as hard as it is, we have to let them go. Life is hard enough without being around people who bring you down, and as much as you care, you can’t destroy yourself for the sake of someone else. You have to make your wellbeing a priority. Whether that means breaking up with someone you care about, loving a family member from a distance, letting go of a friend, or removing yourself from a situation that feels painful — you have every right to leave and create a safer space for yourself. - Daniell Koepke

Well, I guess this is about right. A little self-indulgent into thinking that your perspective is right and these "toxic" people got it all wrong, but I guess this is the state of affair now, eh?

Soul-spotting

9 SIR has been an amazing unit (so far), what with me only emceeing for parades hence I can forego standing under the scorching sun for hours marching in and out following commands while I lepak under the tent, speaking only when need to. The stay out course has been welcoming, allowing me to reunite with my friends from 1 SIR (its something like those North and South Korean reunion stories).

-

Did rock-climbing today with my army mates and I realised how lau hong I've been for gymnastics and roc climbing. My limbs have truly atrophied to nothing more than mere stumps and climbing has never been so tiring. Which makes me wonder, how was I so fit in my pre-teen days and how did I de-generate to this useless piece of blob I am now?

Answer: Most likely during my MCM years. Who exercise?

-

I've sunk so deep into ennui
I forgot who I really am
My anguished husk
Torments in troubled Tethys

I lay dormant deep in abyss
Emotions clamped.

I tried skimming the surface
Soul-spotting
And every time I tried to dive
The ocean spit me back out

Its buoyancy like the Dead Sea
Sinners' salt secretion saturate.

So what if, 
I jumped off a tall cliff
Hoping the velocity will be
Enough to pummel through

Enough to salvage myself and 
Reset.

I don't care if it takes me years 
To resurrect like the desert rose
Seeds containing millions of choices
Waiting for that opportune storm

But - like the desert rose - I
Will always remain in the desert

So I will reset, resurrect, reset resurrect
Until I latch on to a wayfarer
To a place where I do not have
To fear of sinking

Two Moons Up

Little Things

It was a sweltering hot afternoon, and the missions were just as relentless. I can see fatigue laying claim to my section mates, smothering them in suppressive void. Spindly fingers clinging onto pallid hands, masters are now at the mercy of shadow puppets.

I can sense my puppet beginning to control me, slowly like a constrictor in its elegant curls around a hibernating bear. But like the constrictor and the bear, whom has never met each other in their lives, so is the connection between me and the puppet. I felt it, yet I can't. Its this numbness or emotional retardation that somehow connects yet severs this puppet and master relationship between me and fatigue.

All these changed when the pitter-patter of angel's sweat danced across the land, droplets carried in gentle zephyr. The puppet melts, and perhaps, after a very long time, I am finally able to recall how happiness feels like. The exalting jubilation of sheer sprays on simmering skin was a definite welcome.

Sobremesa

Think BBQ skewers and Mean Girls quotes, of apple shots and tranny servers.
Cliques both old and new; no matter how many times you try to dice water, it'll never break.
Are we gonna be mere recollections of each other's youths? Or are we gonna continue the thread we forged out of initial glances and small awkward conversations that blossomed into secret codes and sitcom quotes?
Mouthful sentences usually doesn't merit reading, but its an honest verbal diarrhoea with nary a thought about sentence structures and grammar (or just a convenient excuse for the lack thereof).
This is a blog, not a novel.

Vorfreude

(n.) joyful, intense anticipation that comes from imagining future plans.

Six months have passed; comrades come and go. With stolen time we make do with what we have, be it revelling down the waterhole or forging tighter bonds with the family. In this six months I've anticipated many things: when will the target go up, when is the next night's out, who are the (un)lucky ones going pro-term infantry, when will a pontianak appear on top of my locker, etc. Most have been a disappointment; dull ache only soothed by distilled spirits. So I can't wait to get out of here, and map out the path to my future. That is, the most intense anticipation.

아쉬움

aswium (n.) the mingled feeling of disappointment, frustration, and regret that results from an unsatisfactory situation

We all have our moments of anguish; despair. Be it unrequited love or shards from poisoned flames. And in these desperate times we are actually able to see the kind of person that we are, though we are blinded by it like a glamour in disguise yet others can see or not see this deception.

Field camp never fails to show the ugly in all of us.

Erlebnisse

(n.) the experiences, positive or negative, that we feel most deeply, and through which we truly live, not mere experiences, but Experiences.

I guess this word truly defines my BMT experience. It had been an exciting odyssey, and it would have been a harrowing one if not for the really great companion of my company mates. The journey was certain not a roller-coaster, but it definitely wasn't an impossible one to traverse.

Slapstick jokes and fostering camaraderie had been vital tools in ensuring my survival here, and my company mates are pretty much proficient in this department. Be it trying to pursue gold (LOL) for IPPT together or cheering each other when one seems daunted by the activity at hand, you can be sure that the fighting spirit in every Mohawk warrior shall never waver and instead, our cries of encouragement to each other shall only temper us to advance even more in the face of adversity.

The many events and activities such as Field Camp and Hand Grenade have certainly been eye-openers, but the defining BMT experience that makes us who we are are the friendships forged during the course of the four months here in Tekong "chalet".  It is these ties that make the journey a more bearable one. It is these ties that test our bonds during the demanding trials and tribulations of events and activities. It is these ties that will certainly hold invaluable memories that we will definitely grow fond of in years to come. This is, the BMT experience.

Of Rantipoles and Quaintrelles

I've always tell myself that I'm too old for all these debauching and revelling in parties getting wasted all day. Instead, treating myself to wholesome brunches and meet ups with friends whom I had yet to meet in a while due to Tekong but here I am, doing exactly the same thing I did a few years back.

Koyaaniskotsi

Of wasted youths in sonic scapes
Who are we to appreciate
Distil the essence and fractionate
Can you smell that teen spirit?

In the effervescence
Exalted tendrils snaked
In a smooth ascent almost avarice
Until you reach apotheosis

It spills down your gut
And fill those empty chambers and atrias
In mystic swirls of chaos-order continuum
Pray that it won't clog space-time.