Human Feelings

After reading JoL's blog entry about Unkster and all the shenanigans and emolutioning that gets displayed out here, I feel a sudden sense of loss and guilt for abandoning what was the repository of my feelings for a good 3 years.

But yet, I don't how to feel anymore when I read some of the posts.

To be happy or sad. To chuckle or chortle. To reminisce or regret.

In a morbid sort of way, I sometimes miss those feelings. And yet, I'd be damned to repeat some of the sillier things I have done with my life.

Perhaps that's what they call an early mid-life crisis. Which is what I think Unkster is about really.

Ha!

Inspiration

Sometimes, we yearn to be inspired.

When what we crawl back to at the end of the day is a sense of comfort and familiarity.

Just like a sudden stroke of genius that lifts you, inspiration often comes with its own dollop of the Unknown. And you ask yourself whether it can be sustained for the long-term. The source of inspiration that is.

To inspire and be inspired.

That perhaps is the secret to Relationship longevity.

MaMa Mia!

Today, I had reason to go MamaMia!, twice.

In quick succession.

Firstly, over dinner with my Mother at my Granny's where my Aunties whipped up a somewhat belated Birthday dinner for me, I found out that The Woman (not Amah or any of my Aged Aunts obviously) has been dating! Mummy didn't tell me herself though. It was only after she hurriedly excused herself from dessert and scooted off, uncharacteristically early, that my 'Spies' (Amah and my Aged Aunts obviously) informed me. I nearly choked on my Orr Nee.

And as I write this, on the bed of a sleeping friend with whom I am bunking in over for the night, the thought of Mummy having someone else Special in her life ironically scandalizes the flyingmuffyn out of me. I think I need the next week or so to gather my thoughts and let it all sink in. MamaMia!, it will be a cold day in Hell before I call someone else Dad!

On a another Motherly note, we went to catch MamaMia! The Movie after makan. And boy was it a welcomed distraction from the stunning revelation that was dinner. The show is a silver-screen adaption of the hit 2001 Broadway Musical of the same name that has a storyline wrapped around ABBA songs. And this time, Director Phyllida Lloyd has lined up a star-studded cast headed by veterans Meryl Streep, Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth and immensely watchable newbies Amanda Seyfried and Dominic Cooper.



I'll leave you guys to go google the plot (nothing high-brow and super sweet) but I must say that apart from the subtitled lyrics coming on whenever the songs started to be sung, like Karaoke, and having Mr Pierce 'Remington Steele' Brosnan croak like a toad going through tonsil therapy whilst singing in his real voice, MamaMia! turned on the Camp-factor so high it was so fun.

So I end this, a tale of 2 MamaMia's.

One of Swedish Nostalgia. The other of near Hysteria.

Putting The Happy In Birthday

Its hard to not want to remember that its your birthday when the Many Happy Returns on SMS start coming in at half past eleven.

Reminds me of Christmas Eve, when everyone wants to beat the midnight Network crush. Only this time, I don't know what the big deal is about. OK so I sound a little ungrateful. At least people remember right? So thanks guys. Yes I am 35. Not exactly jubilant about it but not about to sulk either.

Why should I?

I think on this day of my birth more than a third of a century ago, I have many things to be grateful for. And in the hurly burly of everyday living, its as good an opportunity as any other, to stop and smell the roses.

Today, I am loved. And although they say its better to have loved and lost than never to have loved before, I have had the good fortune of having loved and lost, and yet loved in return even more. For this I am grateful. To be the world's biggest bastard sometimes, and yet experience so much heartfelt sacrifice. Truly blessed. But for reasons I cannot fathom.

Career-wise, I have made the most of a second chance to redeem myself. And from the way things look on the work front, I think I have made significant progress. Its not been easy to brush away the stigma of what has happened almost 2 years ago. But from the increasing responsibilities being heaped upon me, I know the Powers-that-be want to believe that I am capable of so much more.

These days, I am also at peace doing the things I enjoy. Alone or with company, it doesn't matter. I treasure my Me-Time as much as the periods of togetherness I spend with the people I care about. Books, photography, travel, film and theatre. These are the things I retreat to at the end of the day. Providing the perfect counterbalance to a career fashioned out of Law Enforcement and Policy.

So Happy Birthday to Me. Even if it rains in 10 hours, I want to go out and live life.

I think I owe it to myself.

Words In A Bucket

I've finally watched the Bucket List.

On DVD. After talking about it since it first started its run in the cinemas some months ago. I normally don't care too much for shows about death. Its a little morbid ya. But the draw of Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman in the same movie was enough to make many cinema-goers, and delayed-response viewers on DVD like me, perhaps pay good money to watch two old farts conjure up a list of things to do before kicking the bucket. And executing it.

The theme is not new. Deep down inside, there are a couple (maybe more) of things that we want to do before we go see Big Daddy in the Sky. But somehow, we don't make a conscious effort to write the stuff down or even dwell on it at length. Why? Simply because we all want to believe that we've got some (lots of) time left before we go. And really, how many of us would want to ponder the possibility of dying? Its something distant, something faraway.

Watching Cole (Nicholson) and Carter (Freeman) Lear-jet themselves around the world doing stuff most of us mere mortals can only dream of makes me think about what I would like to have in my own Bucket List if I was told I had but 6 months to live. Would it be an Epicurean Adventure of sorts? Or would I be scared shitless, embroiled in a mad-dash to find my god?

You know, I wish it would be as easy as using my last days to say things to people I really care about. Things that would be liberated once the imminence of Death comes knocking.

But I also wonder why, without the fear of dying, we find it so hard to say things to the people we love sometimes.

Do we need death to close one door and yet open another?

Wham Bam Damn

Would you?

Tell someone when the loving has stopped. And you know the coordinates are set for an emotional collision in silent space.

Or let nature take its proverbial course?

The Gentle Manly thing to do.

The dawn is breaking
A light shining through
You're barely waking
And I'm tangled up in you
Yeah

But I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills my mind
I somehow find, you and I collide

I'm quiet, you know
You make a first impression
I've found I'm scared to know
I'm always on your mind

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the stars refuse to shine
Out of the back you fall in time
You somehow find, you and I collide

Don't stop here
I've lost my place
I'm close behind

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills your mind
You finally find, you and I collide

You finally find
You and I collide
You finally find
You and I collide

Angel Or Devil

If only life was that easy.

We could separate everything into discrete, manageable, little packets. Discard the greys and the off-whites. Partition our emotions into tidy, compartmentalised, sets to suit every need and occasion.

And explain why we always fall in love with the wrong people.

You see the Angel in the Devil the world makes him out to be. When only yesterday, the Devil in the Angel you once thought he was struck so painfully.

Angel or Devil?

It's not clear anymore, is it?

Long Time No See

I've got a thousand things to say. And yet I find it so hard to put thoughts and feelings into written words these days.

No, I am not being Emo. Maybe that's the problem. A little too ambivalent, I suppose, to be in the mood for my usual opinionated commentaries.

Its also like skipping gym for sometime. After awhile, you lose the momentum of exercise and quickly descent into the abyss of laziness.

Perhaps next week. I'll reclaim my blogging Mojo.

Quizas Quizas Quizas.

Karma Police

Karma.

Most of us have a hazy idea of what it is. And when pressed to provide an explanation for the concept, invariably talk of being reborn as a cockroach if you have been a bad person.

Well, I suppose Karma is a state of Being which is defined by our deeds and actions. Build up sufficiently good Karma and be released from the cycle of Re-birth (Samsara to the more religiously-inclined). Do evil and the bad Karma will see you entrenched in the pain of being born and eventually dying over and over again.

I suppose if the Karma Police ever existed, they would enforce the rules that would determine our next step based on our Karma quotient at the point of death. If you've been a Karma Chameleon ( ok a big dig at Boy George and Culture Club), switching in between deeds of good and evil depending on life's circumstances, has done you no favors. The Karma Police would have a say in whether you have sufficient Merit to be reborn as a someone and not a something.

In this sense, the Karma Police could also be the Bodhisattvas or Monks, sent to patrol our world. Nudging its denizens into a path of righteousness in thought, word and deed. In which case I think a Squad car needs to respond pronto to my cries for help.

Before I really become a Cockcroach.

I Dare Not Say

She was an old friend.

And after a good 11 years, it was heartwarming to be able to touch base again. To pick up where we left off. So naturally.

So we talked about just how crazy we got after exams. Our days working at the pub on Boat Quay during the Hols. How Daphne hilariously gave Derrick lovebites on his face in a drunken stupor on the dancefloor at Chaplin's. How Val got pregnant during our last year in the Hall (she was married!) and still came to class in a micro-mini. Talking through the night and continuing the discourse at lectures the next morning like we never stopped. Telling my mum, when she picked up the phone, that her name was Zoe because otherwise, the malay would scare the living daylights out of the pious Christian woman. How we cycled from Toa Payoh to Adam Road Hawker Centre in the middle of the night.

Ahh memories.

She's done alot for herself these past 11 years. And I feel a tinge of regret that my life was never so fulfilling. A Master's Degree in European Journalism completed in Cardiff, Oslo and Amsterdam. 3 years working in Berlin. Travelling all over India. A handsome pilot for a brother. And now she's married to a lovely Aussie bloke with a cool couple's pad down on the East Coast.

Carpe diem at its most tangible.

And what exciting account do I have to give of myself all this time we were not in touch?

Oh dear. I dare not say.

Without a source of inspiration, writers are just miserable typists

They say writers are only as good as the inspiration that drives them to write. I have been wondering if that is true. I have had countless false starts over the last few months trying to get back into a writing routine. My head, computer and notebook are peppered with various jottings and ideas about stories or issues or thoughts I want to write about, but I just can't sit down quietly for the required period of time to write something decent. I always manage to find something unimportant to distract myself with.

I think the main underlying issue is the loss (temporary, I hope) of a key source of inspiration. I realize now how much reliance I have had on that inspirational fountain, from which I have drawn my strength from for the last few years. I feel lost without that someone to turn to with my fears and ideas and thoughts and uncertainties. On paper, life is good right now. A new job, a new home. Change is always a good thing, they say. But one missing element can wipe out all the joy and happiness of all the other elements - what does that imply about my future?

She once told me that God, if he exists, gives each one of us different people for different things. She was my gift - her purpose was to inspire and motivate my soul.

Without her, I am miserable inside.

False Tooth

When Mum used to tell me to take care of my teeth, I would scoff and tell her not to treat me like one of her pupils in school at a Dental Hygiene lesson.

And so as I lay on my dentist's chair just 3 hours ago, with a severely fractured Molar requiring surgical extraction and immediate implant placement, I was thankful Mum wasn't here to see my petrified face.

It helped that it was an old classmate who was doing my teeth. So I could be totally candid with him. Like telling the good doctor that if he touched a raw nerve I would punch him! In jest of course. I have never had more needles poked into my gums, more evil looking blades, forceps and mean drills wandering the inner recesses of my mouth and more suction tubes trailing from under my tongue, in any trip to a Dentist ever. Not that I visit one very often. Which probably explains why I was in Dr Sng's office, scared shitless, in the first place.



Anyway the deed is done. Stage 1 actually. And I'm really happy to have survived the experience without so much as a yelp. Lets see what the internet can throw up with regards to Dental Implants, which cost an arm and a leg by the way.

Stage 1
A small portion of the gum around the area of operation is raised from the underlying bone. The implants are then screwed into the holes which are gradually enlarged by a series of drills. Once the implants are in place, the gums are stitched back over the implanted fixtures. With the implants safely buried under the gums, a temporary denture can be worn over the area.

Stage 2
About 3 months later, the titanium in the implants would have integrated with the surrounding bone, This is when the buried implant is exposed. The dentist does this by cutting into the gum and removing the portion covering the implant. Once the implant is exposed, the dentist can attach a healing cap to it. This will prevent the gums from growing back to cover up the implant.

Crowning
A few weeks later, when the gums surrounding the healing cap has healed, the dentist will take an impression of the area to be restored. A few more weeks later, the crowns will be ready. The dentist will first tighten an abutment into the screw well of the implant. The crown is then cemented over the abutment. The restoration is complete.



After today's episode, I feel I can take on Everest. Evil Chuckle. Who am I kidding? Its just one step closer to being an Unker with false teeth!

Thoughts On Vesak

After lunch today, we spent some time at the Sri Lankaramaya temple off St Michael's Road, the pride and joy of Theravada Buddhism on our little island.

Just soaking in the festivities and getting into the spirit of things. Boy, what a crowd!



And then when I finally got home just now and read today's papers, there was an article in it that described the increasing attraction of Buddhism to young, white-collared professionals. But I was not interested in the statistics or demographics. What struck me was a quote from a certain Mr Hsieh Foo Hua which I thought sort of represents the type of mental models we should inculcate in our young.

By making itself accessible and inclusive, the religion has reached out even to those of other religions. Singapore Exchange chief Hsieh Foo Hua, 57, for example, is a staunch Christian who attends Buddhist talks, especially those by high monks. He said: 'Buddhism is a very embracing and non- exclusive religion...I am fundamentally rooted as a Christian but I am impressed and influenced by Buddhist thinking, which has helped me in the uplifting of the mind and spirit.'

It is my hope, this Vesak Day, that we open our hearts and minds to more learning.

After Bali

You can't help but feel that you're surrounded by the Unseen in Bali.

To say that the Balinese are spiritual is an understatement. Because religion is so deeply entrenched in their psyche and way of life that it is almost a physical extension of the island itself. Gods reside in the mountains, demons in the sea. A curious Shiva-Buddha-Animist type Hinduism pervades every nook and cranny of Bali's fertile earth and continues towards the powdery sands of its surf-lashed beaches.

Womenfolk spend their waking hours weaving small leaf baskets on which colorful offerings of flowers are placed to appease both Good and Evil. Every village, with uncanny likeness, has 3 separate temples dedicated to Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver and Shiva the Destroyer. Big ceremonies held at the main coastal temples of Tanah Lot and Uluwatu typically attract the majority of the populace, serious devotees and camera-toting tourists alike.

Perhaps best of all, foreigners are not allowed access into the inner sanctum of these hallowed grounds. On one hand, we lose the experience of taking in the island's unique brand of Hinduism at its most intimate. But more importantly, the respect and privacy the Balinese accord to their gods adds to the almost romantic mysticism surrounding the religiosity of their lives. It is as if you are invited to partake of the meal, but Holy Communion is only reserved for the Believers.

After the Kuta and Jimbaran bombings of 2002 and 2005, its not hard to see that the Balinese are still fearfully tentative inside. The question of when the next explosion will occur is an unspoken yet very palpable, sinister proposition. The island now views transient local migrants from other parts of the archipelago as more of a security risk than the quintessential Aussie beachbum who's here to ride-out a couple of Rip Tides. Waging an inner war, as it were.

The Balinese are engaged in either of two broad professions, Tourism or Farming. And in both, the island is blessed with world-class surf beaches and fertile volcanic land. Cultural inheritance from the old Majapahit empire also adds to the allure, with the relatively recent emergence of an artistic Ubud-style capturing the imagination of arty-farty types the world over.

Golden sand, verdant rice terraces, cultural preservation and a unique Belief with colorful attendant ceremonies. Coupled with a People, who, behind a facade of genuine friendliness, are fiercely mindful of their identity.

Few other islands have got the mix right.

Island Immortal

To my surprise, a couple of friends told me yesterday that they have never set foot on Ubin.

A fact, I thought, supremely strange since this little island is a mere 10 minutes away by bumboat. And I always believed space and rural charm starved Singaporeans would jump at the opportunity to get away from the hustle and bustle of the urbanized labyrinths our Housing Estates have become.

Well I guess not.

But in a way, I am happy if Ubin remains yet undiscovered for a few. Because I live in constant fear (ok I exaggerate about the constant fear) that its unique unkempt roughness would be lost once the Powers-that-be decide to turn it into another Agro-tainment facility. For those in the know, many of our farms on the mainland need to go commercial in order to remain viable. And by this I mean opening swish bistros and even having mini live-in resorts on site.

So every time I set foot on Ubin, I say a little prayer in thanks that the old ramshackle jetty shops are still there, the Wayang stage is left standing, there are pebble-strewn roads bordered by overgrown lallang, the disused Prawn farms look like scenes right out from napalmed Apocalypse Now and Auntie still sells coconuts from under a coconut tree at Noordin Beach.

It doesn't matter that they now have an artificially raised Boardwalk at Chek Jawa. Its for the good of the lovely Jade-green Seagrass and other colorful denizens of this previously neglected Inter-tidal treasure trove.

Every month or so, I find that there is a need to re-connect with Ubin. It keeps me at peace for some reason. 3-4 hours just biking around and taking pictures is cathartic for a soul that, perhaps, spends too much time zipping around a landscape of concrete and conceit.

I hope Ubin always remains stuck this way in time.

An Island Immortal.

Angels Or Devils

As we sat there, listening to Dishwalla's angsty tune being sung in the bar.

I stole a glance at you. You didn't know.

The thoughts raced through my mind.

Fighting all the demons will take time. And I'm always gonna worry about the things that could make us cold.

Indeed.


This is the last time
That I'm ever gonna come here tonight
This is the last time I will fall
Into a place that fails us all inside

And I can see the pain in you
And I can see the love in you
But fighting all the demons will take time
It will take time

The angels they burn inside for us
Are we ever
Are we ever gonna learn to fly
The devils they burn inside of us
Are we ever gonna come back down
Come around
I'm always gonna worry about the things that could make us cold

This is the last time
That I'm ever gonna give in tonight
Are there angels or devils crawling here?
I just want to know what blurs and what is clear to see

Well I can see the pain in you
And I can see the love in you
And fighting all the demons will take time
It will take time

The angels they burn inside for us
And are we ever
Are we ever gonna learn to fly
The devils they burn inside of us
Are we ever gonna come back down
Come around
I'm always gonna worry about the things that could break us

If I was to give in, give it up
And then
Take a breath
Make it deep
Cause it might be the last one you get
Be the last one
That could make us cold
You know that they could make us cold
I'm always gonna worry about the things that could make us cold

Better Man

I am not worth it really.

Think about it. You can't trust me. Not now, not after what I've done. Not after what I've put you through.

I'm not sure myself. Really. If I can re-discover the old me. Or how long this 'changed man' will last. And I can never bring myself to hurt you this badly a second time.

If there is a Better Man out there. Which I am sure there is.

Take him.

Ommmmmm

Someone told me over lunch today that I seem to have become a little meek and subdued these days.

And I would have to agree that nowadays, unless its something supremely major, I hardly work up a sweat agitating over the unsolvable ugliness of everyday living. There seems to be an eerie calm about me. An acceptance, as it were, of taking each waking hour as it comes. Slowly.



It has nothing to do with the fact that my current fascination is with the The Middle Way. At least I think so.

I don't need The Lord Budhha to teach me that Change is inevitable, to never say Never again and that really, this world could do with alittle more Honesty.

Hope it lasts though. This good behaviour that is...

Do This, In Remembrance Of Me

I was brought up to believe in an All-Knowing God.

So if He knew what a shitty world this was going to be, why then did he create Adam & Eve, knowing that they would have partaken of the Forbidden Fruit, and then screw up everything else thereafter with Original Sin?

Plus His poor Son had to come down and get crucified and go through all that humiliating hullabaloo so that we can be saved. Something He must have foreseen.

Doesn't it bother you why?

Not even abit?

Sometimes?

I know Love is blind. And so is Faith I think. Such a fundamental question and somehow it eludes me.

Going to Hell for this I swear.

Moving Out

I have actually been mulling over this the past few weeks.

Whether I should be starting a Blog of my own.

But I am undecided.

On one hand, Unkster has become the repository of my hopes and dreams, trials and tribulations, happy and sad times, over the past 2.5 years. And I suppose, in my own little way, I've given an insight into the life of a sometimes screwed-up 30-something. Whether that insight translates into any useable information for the reader apart from being, what I call, nothing-else-better-to-do reading, remains to be seen. Call it stupid sentimentality if you like.

When we first started out in October 2005, I had not even kept a diary before. Unkster was supposed to provide a tongue-in-cheek glimpse into the lives of a trio (and later quartet) of thirty year olds. A place to chit-chat about growing up in an age where you're too old to be gushing about having a crush on a colleague, but too young to be discussing taking out your CPF savings.

Some call it the Quarter-Life Crisis. And its not unlike the Quarter-pounders they used to sell at Macdonalds. You're like a big burger, sandwiched in between the call for increasing responsibility and the allure of re-discovering your recently spent youth. You've reached a plateau of stability. And yet ironically, the road ahead still looks a little fuzzy. Maybe its just me.

On the other hand, I wish the rest would write a little more. Afterall, this is not MY Blog alone. Its name should really read Unksters and not Unkster. And perhaps therein lies the problem. Unkster has become my personal journal. And this has somehow taken away the raison d'etre for its existence. So maybe if I have to be the only one talking (on most occasions anyway), I might as well take my inane ramblings somewhere else. Alone.

A diary need not always be about self-discovery. Or contain melancholic entries about the pitfalls of living and loving in the 21st Century. It should be about anything you want to say or do. Most importantly, it should be true and reflect how you really feel. You owe that much to yourself. But the trouble with online diaries is that you then open up huge portions of your life to public scrutiny. This has the dual effect of making you feel liberated one moment, then exposed and vulnerable the next.

Maybe all this is a reflection of how I am getting more and more afraid of sharing my life with anyone else, whether in the real physical world or bunking-in together in Cyberspace.

I am getting abit solitary.

And that scares me.