Interviews...

I am in the midst of preparing for a medical school interview. God knows, I almost never thought I’d actually be here. I’m actually almost at a lost for words and that is an almost impossible feat. I’m anxious and nervous and worried that I won’t find the right words, or worst, the right examples to substantiate the qualities in the stories I’m supposed to recant for the interview panel. At this point, I’m wondering what was scarier, my DEP audition or this interview? Will I sound convincing enough? Enthusiastic enough? Confident enough? Calm enough? Intelligent enough? Will I go into game face and become emotionless and keep too detached a tone? Will I over do it?

I guess in doing everything for the first time, there is that element of fear of the unknown, of failing, that grips you. Practice always helps, but practice is always in a controlled environment, and when you’re in the field, anything and everything can go wrong. That’s Murphy’s Law. Once you clear that initial attempt, everything becomes easier. That fear of failing diminishes significantly. It will never completely disappear, but then it becomes minimal and recedes to the back of the mind.

I think the biggest question that grips me is not so much illustrating what a qualities a good doctor must possess or whether I can demonstrate a distinct sense of moral clarity. I think my biggest question is the perennial one: Why do you want to be a doctor?

There is certainly no end to the variations of answers that could be given for this question. There are a myriad of patterns that can be observed from the various reasons I’ve heard over the years, yet each one is individual and personal and never simple. One doesn’t simply sign up to spend the next decade in extensive and tedious training without first knowing what one is getting into.

On my part, it is essentially a combination of three factors: growing up in a family of doctors, my great love of science and interest in medical science and my equally great desire to help people.

I am from a family that has produced three generations of doctors. My parents are both doctors, as were my grandparents and my great grandfather as well (his wife was a nurse). Being from a family of doctors, I have, from day one, been submerged into the world of medicine. From being taken along to clinics or to the hospital while my parents tended to patients or went on rounds to watching my grandfather leave the house at all hours to deliver babies to enjoying the privilege of having very patient relatives would are willing to explain all my curious questions about medicine, biology, disease and drugs. As a result, I am fully aware of the both the positive and negatives sides of the career. I truly believe that despite the difficult life of being on call or the long long years of study and necessity of being the perpetual student, the chance to help a sick person get better and to make a difference in their lives is fully rewarding and that the ability to do this with science makes it even more so.

I also have a great love of science, particularly medical science. Being a naturally curious boy, I was always interested in learning how things worked and looking for explanations for naturally occurring phenomena. I loved learning science in primary school and when I had the opportunity in secondary school I jumped at the opportunity to obtain higher level material. I was reading and understanding O level sciences at the age of fourteen. Biology was of particular interest to me and I loved finding out how living things worked. Living things were always a mystery compared to machines, with all their parts that were specifically put there by the genius engineers, which is still fascinating, however, living things have that random factor. Machines can’t suddenly grow cancer or react to different environments, they work the way they are supposed to, unlike living things.

The more I learned about biology, the more I devoured it, and as I started to learn about the human body I was ensorcelled and entranced. The way everything worked is amazing. For example, I amazed at how in pregnancy, from the point of conception whereby a single cell is formed from the fusion of the gametes divides and grows in a sack within the uterus of a mother over a period of nine months to produce a full baby. At every step, the development is just precious and mindboggling. How the mother’s immune system doesn’t destroy what is now a foreign cell and how every system gets affected. Or the various stages of skin repair, the inflammatory to the proliferative to the epitheliation to maturation. I’m just fascinated. I love to learn and be challenged in new ways.

With regards to helping people, I was brought up from young to always help those who are in need and as I grew up, I realize that it is something I honestly enjoy doing. Medicine is the only field that I can think of that will allow me to help people on a daily basis and have the opportunity to see the effects of my work. My grandmother always used to quote the anonymous physician who said that doctors should ‘cure sometimes, relief often and comfort always.’ And that is sometime I have seen on every attachment that I have been on, the majority of patients leave the doctor’s room with a look of relief and comfort on their faces. And this, to me, is very rewarding.

Hence, the opportunity to daily combine these two great interests of mine as a career is most appealing and I am enthusiastically hoping to explore this. Furthermore, the long training and intellectual rigour of medicine provide an ideal platform to challenge and push myself further. It’s a like a large and very long puzzle and I enjoy putting the pieces together.

Lost At Sea

I thought I caught a glimpse of you today,
locked away in the corner of my eye,
that pretty face that used to haunt the bay,
and watch the sunset from her window.

I can't remember when, or where or why.
distracted by the clouds, sand and seabeds.
I thought I heard you heave a sigh or cry,
to ponder at my sudden coming by.

Was it at the park that I saw such weary eyes?
They gleamed despite their tired shine.
Or maybe the back of a room, on a bench
in the park, in the corridor, hospital or church,

I can't decide. Oh Doctor! Doctor!
would you please, if you please,
could you, maybe, cauterise my heart?
Then, I wouldn't think of you so much.

Valentine's Day

I hate this day. Whatever I do, it always reminds me of how old I am, how alone I am, and how alone I will be. Solus sum, semper solus.

This year, I did something that I hopefully won't regret. I got you something. I was looking for catharsis from what happened last year. A small tinge of hope for a change of heart perhaps. All ideas that from practical viewpoint, from a strategical viewpoint are completely ridiculous ideas. Alas, if the heart was only logical.

I hope you enjoy the gift. I hope you like it. It's something fun to do, when you're with someone, just to pass the time and enjoy life. I hope you use it and don't throw it away immediately. I hope you read the letter, after all, that was the whole point of this charade. I hope you don't repel in digust, I hope you don't overreact, I hope you don't avoid me forever. I just wanted you to know perhaps. So I hope you write back, then I can have a peaceful mind and a calm heart.

Perhaps, perhaps, I can move on.

Today, I decided to lie in bed as long as possible. The day wasn't worth my attending. What ever needed to be done could wait until tomorrow. I didn't achieve that though. Some friends banged on my door at a quarter to four. Nice friends.

I shall mope around for a bit. It's difficult to let go, at least for me, I'm so stubborn, I can never let go of anything. I hoard things, that's why my room is cluttered. I have my entire life in boxes in cupboards and on my shelves. A little bit here and a little bit there. I don't need a diary, these things remind me of everything.

Maybe tomorrow I shall go write some poems. :/

I hate this day.

Chingay

I spent the start of my weekend doing something fun. I took part in my first and probably last Chingay Parade. The street parade is an annual affair that celebrates the Chinese new year and involves many floats and performers. If you are a dancer from a fairly decent school, you'd probably have participated in it at least once. I unfortunately, still have two left feet, so I took part in another way, which of course is with my buddies from the 501st Legion of Storm Troopers. The 501st also known as Vader's Fist, is a fan initiated non-profit organisation that does charity work such as visiting children with the Make-A-Wish foundation or helping out with the SPCA's donation drives and the such.

I am Darth Vader for the Singapore Garrison. It is always a thrilling experience to don the armour and put on the helmet of the greatest Sith Lord. Being Vader is probably the only acting that I've got a chance to do since leaving drama in 06 (I am dying to get involved in a production somewhere). I think I make a pretty decent Vader even if I don't get to do the voice. The fans don't notice, they're happy with just getting a quick photo in. heh.

There is something magical about donning the helmet and slipping into the character. I connect so much with Vader's troubled, twisted and dark past. The regal stance and purpose with which he walks. This grasp of anger and power in his trademark gesticulations. The mask adds another level. Walking around as Vader brings about mixed feelings in people, especially the children. Some are completely terrified, some are excited, almost all are mystified.

Being Vader isn't as fun as being the other characters, like the storm troopers. The troopers can be as goofy as they like because that's what they are in the movies. They have no characterisation. Me, on the hand, I have feel the need to remain true to character. There is this respect for him and for the fans that requires me to keep that magic there. I don't get to wave at people or generally be friendly, which is a bit sad, but I do get a deep thrill at evoking people's childhood memories. It makes their day, I bet, in some surrealistic manner.

The parade itself was cool. I generally hate being in parades. Too long and too much logistics. I remember the few parades that I took part in the army. I hated practicing for them, but there was always this sense of pride when they were actually happening. This smartness of the march and of the uniform. The whole looking sharp. I don't know. Chingay was certainly more slack than a military parade, though I wish we had done a bit more fun things, alas. Haha it was still awesome.

This post is probably going around in circles, alas, that is the curse of the ADHD mind. Also it was more of a short reflection and rant anyway. Being Vader is always awesome. Always.

I wrote the poem below for someone special. I hope she happens to cross this space today and reads it.

moon.

The sweet crescent moon

reminds me of your eyes,

upon whose lunar beds

they both lie.

Those clear dark gems so

sharp, they pierce the sky.

Beautiful and round,

deep portals of your soul,

against their pale and flawless

canvas do they glow.

Ever so radiant,

so gentle and so kind,

Eyes belonging to one

who will ne'er be mine.

Nostalgia.

I just cleaned up my room. I haven't cleaned it properly since 2006 I think. (save for intermittent attempts to clear my desk for new things to place on it. This is what it looked like before I started to clear things at about 9pm last night.



Just so we're clear. This is not completely a mess. This is what is known as an organized mess. Read: ORGANIZED. I know exactly where everything is, unless someone rearranged it for me. Don't you just hate when people mess with your mess? Below is a picture of things nearing the halfway point.

It amuses me, that as you clean and rearrange things, everything becomes exceedingly messier. There was a point where I had to make great big lunges to cross from one end of the room to the other. Everything on my table was left there since A levels. That wasn't so hard to store and arrange. It was everything on another shelf and everything under my desk that made keeping and tossing things so difficult. I uncovered things that dated all the way back to 2002 when I first moved into this little apartment, when we moved into the house. And as I was packing my collection of shoeboxes, I found things all the way back to primary school.

It is really difficult to go back a decade and dig through one's life. For me at least. I don't keep a diary, I keep things. I did try once, but it didn't really work out. I'm not one to mark done daily events, I write reflections and if I can drag my lazy arse to do it. Hence, you can see, I have already failed to put in a daily entry into this thing, and when I did, they were mostly one liners. Twitter is more effective for one-liners, and it's transient.

I found all sorts of really weird things as I was sorting things. A collection of chinese essays by ACJC students. I figure most of the contributors are the girls. I found my first O level cert, and my entry proof for the second time that I did Os. Looking back at my, I am quite the academy failure. I don't particularly enjoy that period of time. Mountains to perpetually climb and hurdle to constantly overcome. I'm still out there in blistering winter attempting to scale this peak and I wonder if I'll ever get there. Cold and numb.

The hardest part about cleaning my room is finding all my correspondence across the years. I keep all the letters I've ever received in a shoebox. I also keep all the invitations to weddings, wedding programmes and all the shows I've ever watched, but the letters are by far, the most important to me. Most of them are from the many camps I've facilitated across the years. Some of them from the camps that I attended. All of them are encouraging affirmations or thank you letters. And then I find a few of the real letters I've received and I see the people I drifted away from and I wonder what happened.

Letter writing is a gem, a beautiful art that is dying. I intend to keep writing letters and in flowery language the way they should be written. It's a pity that people only write letters nowadays as formal correspondence or requests, and it's amazing if they actually write. The advent of e-mail and computers and destroyed the art of penmanship and of letter writing. An e-mail can never have the same personal touch that a handwritten letter has. There is a part of the writer's soul in each and every stroke. From the scrawl of a doctor, to the careful neat font of a girl's, it's there. The text you read before you, however, is hard and cold.

I also found all the birthday cards my paternal grandparents have given me across the years. Without fail, I have one every year and I kept as many of them as I could. It was difficult looking at them and seeing the signature 'Love, Yeh Yeh and Mah Mah' become 'Love, Mah Mah'. I felt a deep knot in my throat as I thumbed through them. I really do miss my yeh yeh, and I pray that the lord has mercy on his soul. On a lighter note, I have most of the cards my parents gave me across the years too. It's amusing how they sign off, 'Love, mum and dad' in the most legible print possible, but whatever other writing they have is completely illegible. Sigh...doctors.

Looking back on all this, I've seen the way God has certainly given me many many chances and actually guided me to this point so far. If I didn't re-do Os, I'd have never gotten a science course of my choice in poly, and if I hadn't retained, I'd have never qualified for Medicine anyway...not that I do now. Having the opportunity, or rather being forced to take a more scenic route has allowed me to build up an excellent support system of friends and family and allowed me to deepen my faith and my knowledge of it. I'm still sore that I can't graduate along side my peers or that I'm pretty sure I'll always feel inferior for taking so long, but I don't regret taking this path. I just hope and pray that it really is in his plan for me to do medicine. It is a dream that has been dreamt for more than a decade.

At least, my life is slightly more organized now. See (10 hours later):

PS: that's my collection of textbooks and literature(worthwhile literature. all other rubbish is on another shelf) My biology textbooks are missing though. One is with a friend, and the other one on genetics I seem to have misplaced with someone ):

Yes, that's a VIAGRA pillow under my desk.

Down Down Down
Mumm-Ra

When you won’t dance
our young hearts grieve
A strange light you cast
so come dance with me

If all I have
in ten years from now
are wasted memories
then I won’t be ashamed of what the
Hell were you thinking
standing so tall
I’m not conceding the rise and fall

In every room
I still look for you
I need more time
before I let go
is that such a crime?

I’ll just make sure I look so dead in your eyes
Don’t talk of stars in the sky
Just look down down down
Cos it’s always been this way
Yeah it’s always been this way
Yeah it’s always been this way
Yeah it’s always been this way

Quick rant.

I'm very amused to see the Church featured in the local Sunday Tabloids today, for enforcing dress codes. The cynical bastard in me wishes to loquaciously lament on the fallen times of today, however such is a consequence of embracing the multifaceted ever-changing venomous hydra of modern liberalism. To reach a point whereby the local news scene actually took notice and published an article is a clear sign of the degradation of certain social values and concepts in society today. That and there is nothing newsworthy to report; after all Egypt is having a wonderful era of peace.

I think the biggest concept that the Singaporean Church has lost is the Sense of Sacred. If you are drawing a blank on the term, you are not alone. The idea of Sacredness has been lost in most churches for a very long time, so not many practicing Catholics actually have an idea of what it feels like to step into somewhere sacred. They cannot be blamed of course, who can fault these poor ignorant souls when churches no longer vaguely resemble churches save for the cross on the roof and the crucifix inside? Most churches nowadays look like multipurpose halls or the inside of aircraft hangars. Or when the music inside church seems so similar to the Laneway concert? Or attempts to be and ultimately fails. Let's face it, these musicians are rather talented and professional and they aren't trying to play religious music.

So when you think about it, it isn't really difficult to mentally come to conclusion that, 'Hey! i'm going to an aircraft hangar to listen to some guys who can't play as well as laneway! ALRIGHT! Let's dress appropriately!' Naturally, you are going to get people dressed like they're going to their friend's place for a beer. Yet, as we all know, these same young people...usually young people (most old people have a certain sense of class) will be dressed in suits and dresses for a wedding dinner or dress clothes to go for family dinners at restaurants. Of course, a wedding dinner is at a hotel and dinner in a restaurant call for class. There is an unspoken dress code and a way to carry oneself in these places. So why can't churches expect similar behaviour from people?

After all, more than just appeasing the older relatives and matriarchs and patriarchs of the family clan, and giving face the wedding couple and their family, when you go to Church, you are standing before God himself, and he is there in the eucharist (for noncatholics and those who've forgotten, YES, LITERALLY THERE. LITERALLY.) Most of you wonder dream of visiting the Queen in nothing less then your best clothes possible, so how can you go before the creator of the universe, your creator, dresses so flippantly as though he's just your next door neighbour?

I hope you see my point now. If I had my way, I would bring back 'Sunday's Best' for church. After all, when you love and respect someone, you want to look good when you see them. What more respect can you give your very creator? In fact, dressing well and modestly helps your fellows parishioners to concentrate and prayer better too, rather than be distracted. We're all human after all. In fact, in most examins of conscience, you will find under the 6th commandment, this typical question, 'Have I dressed immodestly? Been the occasion of sin for another?' See you're helping God by dressing well!

I'm very glad that they denied Ms Audrey Seow from receiving communion. Her comments regarding the matter that, 'We are taught that God loves us no matter what we are, so why should the church discriminate against our attire?' suggest that Ms Seow has also forgotten the criteria for communing, that she has to love God too. And to love God means to follow his rules and his will and not our's. Had she been attending a church that looked like a church, I'm certain that she'd have dressed appropriately.

Dress codes are far from the largest issue. If priests just made their churches look like churches again and if they brought back the beauty and elegance of the music and the architecture, they will see a change in dress. After all why should we aim so low? The point of going to church is to strive to new heights and become better people because we love God.

For further reading, I do direct you to an old piece by Msgr Charles Pope on modesty being reverence for the mystery http://blog.adw.org/2010/02/modesty-is-reverence-for-mystery/
and to Fr Longenecker's older entry on what churches should look like
http://gkupsidedown.blogspot.com/2010/01/chust-for-nice.html

Sacraments.

I'm so lucky to have confession!

Trials

There are many trials that besiege my life. I pray that God grant me patience to deal with them slowly and carefully.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;

- Alexander Pope

i wonder what is it that draws specific chemical pathways to fire those particular neurons within my sordid brain. a constant reminder, a picture, a picture, your visage forever in my head. task insurmountable, unattainable, unachievable. I miss you a lot, but i don't think you'd ever appreciate that.

Prayers please!

I got rejected by one more university from the UK today. Three down, one to go. My fingers are tightly crossed. I'm getting rather desperate at this point.

Slow night.

It is a very slow night for me. Barely half past twelve and I am already drifting off to sleep. The essay on selfish mothers is half done and will probably need editing, but I promise you will read it by the end of the week. I am still musing about this evening's conversations with Morgan and Till and I cannot wait to go to medical school.

Misanthropic much?

Names are not imporant, only that the creature is an organic life-form capable of the highest order of neurological function. Creature comprises mostly of protein structures called 'meat', and also exhibits respiratory, cardiovascular and other functions, and as well as contains approximately 206 bones and is prone to constant mechanical failure. Creature also possesses emotional capabilities and which is theorized as the fault for constant neurological dysfunction and psychiatrical failure. Such symptoms, humourously, are misattributed by the creature to stem from their fluid pump located in the cavity of their upper thorax between their weak ballast tanks.

Creature is weak and pathetic, and extremely prone to impulsive and rash behaviour that results in mass extermination of their own kind, often by their own doing. In comparison to neighbouring fauna, creature is significantly physically weaker and slower and far less adept at camouflaging into their environment. However, it must be noted that creature possesses far greater intellectual prowess as compared to neighbouring fauna. Results, however, are skewed by creatures inhabiting a sub-continent flanked by the locally named Alantic and Pacific Oceans. Results were also skewed by other creatures in other habitats, though a far less significant amount.

Conclusion. It is with great amazement that the creature has managed to thrive and produce viable offspring until this point. However, the creature does not demonstrate capabilities of prolonging this struggle further. Recommendation: Artificially accelerated extinction.

--End Transmission--

Equally important a realisation is not to blog when you're three quarters asleep. I edited the previous post at least three times to correct horrid phrasing and bad grammar.

Irony

My life is fraught with irony. I have come to realize that despite my loyalty and love for ACS, the majority of the girls I've ever considered seriously going out with were from Raffles. That's 3 out 4.

Late Night ramblings

Last night, in a successful procrastination bid on my work, the little insurgent devils of distraction made me watch two movies, The NeverEnding Story and Stardust. Both are movies of fantasy, where the protagonist finds himself reluctantly dragged into other worlds, and as with all tales of fiction, working against the odds to save the day.

The NeverEnding Story is a movie that all must watch. A little boy finds himself the possession of a magic book wherein his unknowing imagination controls the plot. The main theme of the loss of imagination is one shared with Toy Story 3, and evokes a strange fear of growing up. However, my ideas on dreams, imagination and true play shall be saved for another day. Those who have heard my theory know it is a rather lengthy one to explain. Today, I have other things to talk about.

Stardust is another movie that is worth watching. An adaption of Neil Gaiman’s novel of the same name, it explores the magic of love, particularly the magic that one comes across seeking it. Yet, what interests me is not so much the main theme, or even the main character, however but one of the secondary ones, Captain Shakespeare.

The beloved Captain carries with him a fearsome reputation, one built up over the years. Known to his men as a bloodthirsty, cruel and heroic leader, he is truly soft at heart and a gentleman. It is with this that I feel truly shows his fearsome heroism. He fakes the captured Tristan’s death to save his life and takes Yvaine to his chambers to keep her away from the crew. In doing so, he then reveals that he gained his reputation without ever ‘spilling a drop of blood’, a feat far more difficult to achieve. His reputation is one borne clearly of love and not a lust for power.

It is this same love that makes him a great hero in the movie. Love draws people to each other, binds one squarely on the world. It is far more powerful than greed, lust, power, or fear that one can come up with. It is far harder to lead with love than it is to govern with the might of fear. The Captain’s leadership is clearly juxtaposed to that of the Princes, particularly Septimus, who faces off with the Captain in one scene. Septimus lusts for power, and in doing so, as the movie ends, he loses everything, including his life. Locked in a sordid tradition of having to slay his brothers for the throne, as the movie proceeds he is slowly stripped of everything and everyone around him. First his last few remaining blood relatives are murdered, then his men, and finally he is killed by, drowned by the Witches. His lust for power consumes him.

In contrast, the Captain’s sole desire is to give as much as he can. A closet homosexual and cross-dresser, he is reputation is superficial. With love, he teaches Tristan to be a gentleman and protects Yvaine’s identity, keeping her safe from her seekers. His love for them translates into bravery, when even at the loss of his reputation and faced with Septimus’ sword, he keeps strongly to his silence, gaining them much time and distance. His actions reward him grandly. Despite being caught and hung out to try as a poofter, in the death of his reputation, he gains a new one, an even bigger greater one, for there is no mutiny from his crew, instead a far greater respect is forged between them and him and they promised to continue sailing under his command.

Captain Shakespeare is a true hero in the film and a clear reminder that the virtue of heroism is borne of love. One cannot commit acts of brave heroism without the foundation of love to fall back upon and to push one into the fire. It is what makes little people into great heroes.

A Promise

I have been far too lax in the upkeep of this weblog, so I shall endeavour to update it daily this year. They may not be full length posts, as is my usual longwindedness, however, may range from fleeting sentences to a paragraph to an essay. Twitter has become my temporal transient diary, so hopefully I shall not be posting too many transient musings here. You can follow my twitter at www.twitter.com/discthrower

Because you are alway on my mind.

Miles Away
Carol Ann Duffy

I want you and you are not here. I pause
in this garden, breathing the colour thought is
before language into still air. Even your name
is a pale ghost and, though I exhale it again
and again, it will not stay with me. Tonight
I make you up, imagine you, your movement clearer
than the words I have to you say you said before.

Wherever you are now, inside my head you fix me
with a look, standing here whilst cool late light
dissolves into the earth. I have got your mouth wrong,
but still it smiles. I hold you closer, miles away,
inventing love, until the calls of nightjars
interrupt and then what was to come, was certain,
into memory. The stars are filming us for no one.

Humility

There is a very strange thing about national slavery. It is inevitable that you will come across Sergeant Majors, and you will meet many and will probably work with at least one of them. There are all sorts of Sergeant Majors, but they can more or less be squeezed, even despite the massive thoracic bulge some of them work hard to maintain, into two categories. On one hand, you have the really lazy ones who barely capable of an ounce of leadership, are lazy and are as inflexible as the points of view of a fossilised fundamentalist on the possibility of the Big Band Theory. On the other hand you have the fatherly types, patient yet stern, they understand what you’re going through and are more than willing to pull their weight when necessary. The following story involves a Brigade Sergeant Major and he falls in the latter category.

It was my last field exercise, and it had already been quite an experience, especially for an office boy logistician. For one, it was my first time experiencing rain during a field exercise, first time freeing a pangolin that had become entangled in a camouflage net, first time camouflaging, rather redundantly, a rather large command post and meeting a one-star in person and the first time I collided with a dump-truck and lost. Well I met a few that day and even more higher-ups, but it’s irrelevant. The most striking event was sweating side by side the Sergeant Major as we tore down camp on the last night of the exercise.

We had returned to base camp earlier than the rest of the group who were still packing up at another area. ‘We’ being the Brigade Sergeant Major, the Regimental Quartermaster, the Logistics Warrant Officer, myself and a two of my men. We sat down for a few cups of stale coffee, and relax after completing most of the exercise, and after a while it was somehow silently decided that camp would be torn down. The next time I knew, I was standing next to Sergeant Major dismantling tents and keeping the folding benches and tables. We joined him wordlessly, without command or invitation.

It was the kind of situation where for some odd reason, you wanted to help out voluntarily, and if you knew the many terms of endearment we have for conscription, to help out voluntarily is rather alien. Of course there was the incentive of returning to camp earlier than planned, enjoying a nice shower and being clean for the first time in 3 days. There was no bossing around or ordering, just three warrant officers and three bottom feeders tearing down the camp for the simple reason of giving the returning storemen a break.

You see, the Sergeant Major is a former special forces operator, a trained Navy Seal, complete with a master level in all the airbourne badges and probably many other skills as well, just that his uniform didn’t have space to put all of them. Furthermore, he was the second highest ranking soldier in the entire brigade, as there wasn’t a 2IC to the brigade Commanding Officer. So you can imagine, he was no small fish and he certainly didn’t have to do a grunt’s work.

I know this doesn’t sound very spectacular or out of this world, or contain any form of heroics at all (all soldiering stories should contain a part where someone dies, just for the effect), except when I rescued the poor pangolin from almost certain death, but I was very impressed. That was a show of true leadership.

Being a leader is not about simply standing around telling people to do things while watching them perform your orders, it is about inspiring others to get in and do the same work with you. To do the former is to rule with fear, and more oft than not, you will end up losing your humanity. It gets the work done, but in the process, you lose more than you will ever gain. Instead, should you approach your duty with a little humility, you will go a long way. Certainly, you will need to maintain some distance between you and your inferiors, and many other things, and with most things, a fine balance must be struck. However, you can always have humility.

Humility is what reminds you who is really working for whom. As the superior, it is easy to be awash with power, having so many souls under your command, at your mercy. Yet, this could not be so far from the truth-- which is that leaders don’t just have inferiors under them, but they are actually working for their inferiors. There is that responsibility and obligation to provide proper direction and guidance to the inferiors in any aspect of work, as well as to continually shovel coal into their engine to keep their fires burning. It is paramount to remember that while leaders are very important to any project, group or assembly of people, their importance is solely dependent on there being a project, group or assembly of people. Leaders serve their people.

Furthermore, it would be somewhat coincidental to note that earlier aforementioned category of Sergeant Majors, the ones who are lazy and inflexible are usually the ones trapped in a rank, slowly mining their way to the top, whereas the latter are the ones who usually soar. To throw out a mere theory, it may simply be in their humility. With humility, there is recognition of that one is no as large as their egos present themselves, and also the recognition that one does not know everything. It is with this knowledge that allows one to learn, and to learn is a most important skill. No one can have full knowledge of everything, even the most experienced Sergeant Major cannot possible possess all prerequisite information to run a camp ideally. It is, and this is somewhat more prevalent in the service, often a case of trial and error. With humility you can learn from error, and you are willing to take feedback and steps to improve, and improve you will.

This is what I saw in Sergeant Major as he untied canvas from superstructure, and it is a clear reminder of the scope of the role that I play in life. Leadership is more than just a position or a title, but a very large responsibility and a call to serve. Sooner or later, everyone is called to be a leader, whether in an official manner or just as the head of the household, what are you doing to be a good leader?

The Black Widower

Eight legged freak, bottom dwelling creepy crawlie,
along the forest floor it goes, casting nets,
invisible threads, twines of silky deceitful webs,
between branches. Hovers at the middle,
appears deceitfully suspended in mid-air.

The cunning creature moves in heartless rapture
to the fly upon its wiley string, slowly, slowly,
twisting the miscreant to its every whim, closer, closer
great fangs of venom rear, dripping, dripping,
not to kill but paralyse and petrify with fear.

Tangled fly, food for another day.

All around its nest the beetle bugs go play,
in its home of decomposing dreams,
eight dead eyes peer up at the faraway sky
watching majestic eagles soar
and hardworking honey bees fly to new heights.

Down here, amongst the muck, mud and grime,
it crawls on its belly, each twisted mangled leg paws
through the garbage. It will look
for a new home, a new hole, dark and dire,
for new prey to drink precious life's fire.

Unsatisfied,
the black widower, crawls back into the black abyss.

Constant.

Today, I spent most of the afternoon calling admissions officers in the various UK universities. A chore that I was supposed to do on Monday, unfortunately it was put off due to unforeseen circumstances involving daylight savings and a dictator’s abdication. The entire experience as B, who helped call one university, put it, is entirely intimidating. There is a certain fear that grips the heart, knowing with every ring the knowledge that a sliver of hope is all you may receive and rejection is ultimately the default option.

For the uninformed, I am chasing my dream of becoming a doctor. It is a dream that I’ve had since I was a kid. Unfortunately, I was never offered the straight and narrow path was cast far off the beaten track to navigate through thorny thicket deep. At every junction, I watch the rest fly fast overhead on speeding clouds, while I wade through marsh and scale mountain. Essentially retained twice, I floundered at the ‘A’ Levels too, where I should have scored straight As, I clinched a mere ABCAA. For those who know me, I am far more capable.

I can’t think of any other reason except suffering from Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Mine isn’t the run of the mill barely clinical ADHD, it is full blown, severe; I would climb a tree if given the chance. And I’ve never hated myself for having it so much in my entire life.

To think that just for a few base pairs on a chromosome somewhere in my DNA, I might have avoided this entire debacle. I cannot rationalize it any other way. It is solely the fault of ADHD that I am stuck in my predicament.

The education system of Singapore, for all its failures is fair enough upon those who work hard. In fact, which system of education, in any country in the world, makes considerations for the minority of the population? None, however, what is constant is that if you work hard and you have an ounce of intelligence, you will do well.

Was it the environment? My peers? Teachers? No, certainly not. I had good teachers for the most part. My peers were never study buddies. And my environment was of my choosing. It seems that I worked so hard only to have run into a ditch.

Quæritur: What do you do when your genes screw you over? It is essentially getting shot in the foot before the race of life begins.

Life is never constant with ADHD. There is a need to discover, to seek adventure, to feel the adrenaline pumping through the veins, to be challenged. Certainly, life, to the outsider is never boring. However, to us, life is a dangerous journey through the most murky mist amidst the smoke and mirrors. If there is to be anything that can be said to be constant, it is that I never know where I’m headed.

A Drink.

Cynical yearnings, a near ill-gotten dream enervates
strongly with almonds in my goblet.
oh what sweet slumber shall soon come.

In each small sip I take, bitting back bitterness,
of temporal gestures and uneventful memories,
to have grown so old and yet fraught with

naught but regrets, the least of which lessens
with every small sip. My eyelids become burdens.
just maybe, maybe...

A bullet and a method of delivery,
is a simple efficacious manner,
devoid of grace and benefits, so I sip, I sip.

To hope to sleep, and in that sleep, of the dreams to come.

One day I'll sing this to you, because I really mean it.

My funny Valentine
Sweet comic Valentine
You make me smile with my heart

Your looks are laughable
Unphotographable
Yet you're my fav'rite work of art

Is your figure less than Greek
Is your mouth a little weak
When you open it to speak
Are you smart?

Don't change a hair for me
Not if you care for me
Stay little Valentine
Stay!
Each day is valentine's day

Is your figure less than Greek
Is your mouth a little weak
When you open it to speak
Are you smart?

Don't change a hair for me
Not if you care for me
Stay little Valentine
Stay, oh stay!
Each day is valentine's day

Beauty

Love Undefiled has a very nice video link today. The video, titled ‘Killing Us Softly 3’, a talk by Jean Kilbourne on the presentation of women in the media and advertisements. While albeit a bit long at 35 minutes, she does provides very poignant and witty insights into the dehumanization and objectification of women in various media. Do give it a watch here.

Ms Kilbourne puts into words something which I have realized for a long time. As a photographer of many years, particularly one specializing in portraits, I have, over the years, more than noticed the trend that she points out. It is particularly more difficult to get my female friends to partake in a picture than the guys who would be racing to be the first to jump in front of the lens. It would appear that the professionalism associated with the big, black and bulky SLR that I used seemed to deter them greatly. They didn’t feel that they looked good enough to be in a professional photo. Pity, they looked good enough to me.

To me, and I daresay that I do not hold the same views as the majority of my sex, the most beautiful portraits I’ve ever seen were never the ones used for advertising, or the ones shot in a studio. No, I’ve actually always hated those photos. They’ve always appeared artificial, overly sexualized, immature and completely lacking in any meaning or intelligence. They’re lifeless. To be completely honest, and at the risk of my manhood (shhhhh!), I don’t particularly find the models extremely attractive or beautiful at all. If anything, they look fake. I’ve never bothered with Victoria’s secret catalogues or whatever it is my friends or bunkmates were into, and I’ve only ever bought one copy of fhm, to support a friend who modeled for a minor article, and save for that article (poorly written too, I might add), remains unread at the bottom of a box in a cupboard somewhere. I’m just strange that way.

The most beautiful portraits that I have ever seen feature everyday people of any age going about their lives, in everyday settings. They capture the true character of a person, who they are really are in that split second that the shutter opens. They are usually sans make-up or purposely posed in any manner. They celebrate life for everything it is. In every happy or sad moment, in times of anger, or calm, in reflection or grief, that is where life is captured. While this is possible in a studio, the best I’ve seen are always captured outside of the artificially created scene, in natural light, with the living world as a backdrop. Truly, they are a celebration of life.

I’ve always felt that it is possible to take a beautiful picture of anyone; no matter how they look or what age they are or even if they have a huge mole on their nose. Naturally, I also prefer that they are without make up. I guess you could say I like to capture people as God desired me to see them, which requires looking a bit deeper than the epidermis. It requires you to see the child of God. After all, we know that God is love, and love is beautiful. Since God creates with love, what he creates can only be beautiful.

Beauty, my dear friends, is out there in the world, it’s in the faces of everyone, beyond their skin. It’s their identity, their personality, who they are that makes them beautiful. And, it’s up to you to stop and have a look around you. The ageing lady, pushing her ancient wheelchair bound husband around the playground, the young children laughing and creating their own new worlds in the park, the family going out for dinner or the young couple enjoying a quiet walk along the pier. The beauty is all there, if you want to see it or not. And, when you see that beauty, you’ll get a glimpse of God.

So remember kids, especially the girls, you are beautiful!

'Since love grows within you, so beauty grows. For love is the beauty of the soul.' St Augustine

Dreams.

Today I had the privilege to have a look inside the mind of a dear friend. It was, admittedly, an ill begotten privilege to venture so deep inside his mind. I feel horrible that I partook in it. The venture itself was unexpected, but I saw his deepest dream.

The contents of the dream are neither relevant to this short essay, nor do I have the right or desire to share it. Safe to say, the ambition, whilst possible and plausible in the current situation, was far from ideal. To have attained it in this manner would have been a mockery of his ideal in the first place. Safe to say, he has never ventured into it.

To summarize, it is possible to attain his ideal, but he will sacrifice may other important things along the way to achieve, so many that, in his fervently practical nature, it is unrealistic.

I feel deeply sad for him that he cannot pursue this dream. It is a very noble career. It made realize that in pursuit of my own dream, that of practicing medicine, that I am blessed to continue to have the opportunity to realize it, even if the sacrifices are difficult. I guess the choice I shall have to make is the one he faced, to be content here for he is very blessed, or to risk all for that one dream. In mine too, I shall face the same dilemma.

For me, to carry on this road shall mean great sacrifices. I shall go have to go away, leaving my family behind. That pains me greatly. I may not be the perfect son, far from it, but my parents have always been as perfect as they could to raise a child that does not conform to anything in any textbook anywhere except clinical ones. I may just as well put aside my dream of one day having a family. I am getting old, and I know that I will get sucked in completely to that world of medical academia.

However, I cannot and will not begin to compare the risks of our dreams. For him much more is at stake, for him, much more could have been lost. He is a very valiant man. In comparison, my task amounts to nothing. I admire him for his courage, not just in his dream, but in his ability to turn away from it, even though deep down it hurts so much, even if he would never mention it. It is a hurt that will be always there.

The matriarch of the Kennedy Family, Rose Kennedy once said, 'It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.'

This will be in his dreams forever. He is obsessed.

So am I. Time and time again, my path to medical school has been strewn with insurmountable obstacles and more often than not, the path is shrouded in much smoke and mirrors. One of the most important things to have in applying for medical school are grades, I had the worst luck of having the combination of being both severely ADHD and to be stuck in the utilitarian competitive machine of the Singaporean Educational system. It is honestly by the grace of God that I have managed to venture so far inside the system and still come away with curiosity and the deep desire to learn. I still am, however, uncertain of the future. It is unnerving.

I cannot give this up though. It may not seem like the wisest decision, far better careers, far more financially stable, for better job security (all with better working hours). I won't be able to live with myself for not seeing this through until the very end. I do honestly wonder if it is he who has made the right choice.

At the very least, should I be forced off the path permanently, and stuffed into a cubical someone doing a menial job I don't care very much about(I cannot even fathom what that will be!), I shall have benefited greatly from the process. I have to admit that my journey thus far, in all it's curves and bends, has taught me far more than I would have learned had I been allowed to take the more linear path. I would have probably been miserable. The most important thing that I have learnt is to trust God more.

It is the most unnerving thing of all. Especially for a schemer like me. I need to know, if this what I'm doing, I need to be thinking three, four, five steps ahead. Yet, often, especially in this journey, I cannot see beyond my nose. God is clearly in the driver's seat. I just hope as I sit down next to him, I shall have the courage to open my eyes and be ready to alight where he so desires.

This is often an issue that ends up being discussed in our 'sharing' sessions during RCIY. Where is God leading me? Is this really what he wants me to do? To be honest, the truth is I do not know, and I am sure that no one knows. It is easy to apply human rationalization to every point in my journey to say that God is truly pushing me in this direction. He's given me the necessary skill sets, he's changed me in ways I'd never imagine. However, there are just too many variables to be sure. I cannot find comfort in that.

I guess that I am just stubborn. Then again I don't know.

I also realize that this post has digressed pretty far from the faint idea of where I originally intended. Like this post, I don't know exactly where I'm going now. I can only pray that it is the right way. That's all anyone can pretty much do. Pray. I shall chase this dream until otherwise.

I wish I could tell you. I know I shouldn't. I guess I won't. One day maybe.

What if I told you I'd never give up? That I'd never back down? That, no matter how many times you push me down, no matter how many times I fall, no matter many times I get floored, I will never drop my sword, I will never let go of my shield?

I will get up and go at you again and again and again. I won't be bothered by the pain and the torture of every breath. I will get up. I will push on. I will fight on.

I can't stop. Not now, not after so long. No, I can't. I know I'm stubborn. That's the nature of the Taurus. This is the dragon burning within me. I just can't settle for anything less than this. I don't care how many times you push me off the mountain, and how my hands are bleeding and my knees are scraped and how my muscles burn with ever step I take, and how much soot has covered my face, I will get up and I will charge again. And again. And again. AND AGAIN, UNTIL I REACH YOUR SUMMIT, UNTIL I STAND ABOVE YOUR PEAK, UNTIL I HOLD YOU IN ALL YOUR VIGOUROUS TENACITY.

I AM A FIGHTER. I AM A SOLDIER. AND I CANNOT STOP. THAT IS WHO I AM. I DO NOT KNOW DEFEAT.

And, I'm coming for you.

My thoughts...

The Little Things Give You Away
Linkin Park

Water grey
Through the windows, up the stairs

Chilling rain
Like an ocean everywhere

[Chorus]
Don't want to reach for me do you
I mean nothing to you
The little things give you away

And now there will be no mistaking
The levees are breaking

All you've ever wanted
Was someone to truly look up to you

And six feet under water
I
Do
[End Chorus]

Hope decays
Generations disappear

Washed away
As a nation simply stares

[Chorus]
Don't want to reach for me do you
I mean nothing to you
The little things give you away

But there will be no mistaking
The levees are breaking

All you've ever wanted
Was someone to truly look up to you

And six feet under water
I
Do

All you've ever wanted
Was someone to truly look up to you

And six feet under ground now
I
Now I do
[End Chorus]

[Brad's Guitar Solo]

Little things give you away
Little things give you away
Little things give you away
Little things give you away
Little things give you away

(Little things give you away)

All you've ever wanted
Was someone to truly look up to you

(Little things give you away)

All you've ever wanted
Was someone to truly look up to you

(Little things give you away)

All you've ever wanted
Was someone to truly look up to you

(Little things give you away)

All you've ever wanted
Was someone to truly look up to you

(Little things give you away)

All you've ever wanted
Was someone to truly look up to you

(Little things give you away)

All you've ever wanted
Was someone to truly look up to you

(Little things give you away)

Wish you would stop treating me like the bloody plague. It's expected I suppose, but completely unnecessary. I hate you.

Medicine is indeed a bed of roses, I expect to lie down in her, tantalized by her soft lush petals, seduced by her sweet luxurious smells, perforated, pieced and ensnared by her sharp, sharp thorns.

Balloons

Balloons

We're all balloons, filled full with helium, tied tight with string.
Floating up high with the clouds in the sky,
flying freely with the cumulonimbus and avoiding
the pointy tips of skyscrapers.
Companions of the stars and the moon,
gossipers with the Sun.
                                         We think we know it all.
At least we probably do.
Age cannot catch us, she is too slow,
and invincible we float on,
so full of hot air,
                            and dreams.

And then one by one, my friends start falling
one by one, falling out of heaven,
their strings entangled in tiny knots, weighing
them down. They spin and dance and stall,
then plummet.
                          First Juliet, then George, then Wilson and Greg,
Peter fell, Scott fell, then Annie and Ted.

One by one, until you and I were all that were left,
but there many a cloud between us
and you drifted down south,
the wind blew you away,
tied to a string of books, scales and a stethoscope.

Then one by one, 'til I'm the only one alone up there,
but I didn't care.
                             I'm still free
though now old with less air,
to roam about the Earth, being blown, being blown
so aimlessly. Spectator to the passings and joinings,
to the mortarboards and gowns and the exchange of rings.
But, I don't care,
I'm not tied down. I am free.
The world is my cage,
                                      and I shall float around
her aimlessly.

Aftermath

Aftermath

It's been a while since that wistful day,
when the planes flew high overhead
And dropped off that message on fifty-five A.
The playground still stands shellshocked and quite dead.

For two days all stood still, all calm and neat,
the virus slept well in Spring's warm blanket,
incubating, spawnin a great toxic treat,
and in Summer's heat, she did spring quite free,

a startling neurological agent,
invading, invading heart, soul and brain.
Work distracted from the pain. The surgeon
could not operate. Metastasising,

spreading, attacking poor amygdala.
Someday, I'll recover from this trauma...

Stuck

Stuck

It would appear that I'm stuck in quagmire deep,
I've run this marathon before, thrice actually,
they all began so differently, at
different places, with different
routes and at different paces.
Yet, across the same marsh they passed. I thought
it quite shallow.
                           Not so I fear,
and now I'm stuck in the muck right here.

And I wonder what I was chasing? To run
so quick and blind, landing in such thicket deep,
or was I running away from something
like the sun? Rays of thought invading ev'ry
nook and cranny. It seemed so weird when
the sun lit up the world and darkened
my thoughts.
                       Lot was wise to run away,
should I flee this destruction or stay?

Standing there in mire slowly cooking,
I guess I'll turn around and face whatever's coming,
And maybe that will drown out the swarm's buzzing.

Connexions

A week ago, I attended the first Rite of Christian Initation for Youth (RCIY) camp for the year. It is a first camp that the enquirers, the ones enquiring about the Catholic faith attend, and it is a fun camp with light talks and many games to play, a sort of welcome and bonding session. As per usual, with every camp, everyone has to put up an ‘affirmation envelope’ wherein you write little things to other campers to affirm them and encourage them along. One of the befrienders sent me this:

Dear David,
Thank you for taking the time to come down for all the RCIY meetings and camps, you really have a way of relating to [enquirers/new people] that no one else does, and I could definitely learn some of that.
[…]
God Bless,
B

As a read the note after camp, I was stunned by the words ‘have a way of relating to them that no one else does.’ I guess I was caught a bit by surprise. I surely do not deserve this praise. Of all the things David is, I don’t think connecting with people even rhymes with any of the attributes. If it were, the previous entry wouldn’t have been composed. I just saw a need during the camp and fulfilled it just as I had been trained in many previous camps.

During a camp, there will always be people who are caught on the fringe, hanging by themselves, mostly in groups of two or three. During my time in confirmation camps, the cause was usually not being from the same school as the dominant group, ie SJI, CHIJ, or SJII. During RCIY camp, it’s usually the enquirers because they are new and don’t quite know anyone there, even after the few first sessions, they still don’t know anyone. The befrienders (RCIY graduates and confirmed Catholics) and other facilitators have already been there a year and are pretty much a close group, so usually the quieter enquirers still feel a bit awkward joining in their conversations and antics.

So, here are people who’d like to be part of a group, all it simply takes is providing the group and making a connexion. It isn’t really anything special really. All it takes is the right questions, and a charitable ear and keeping fingers crossed that you can make a connexion. All you need is to treat people with basic human dignity, then, the first step is always to start the talk. Anyone can do that!

Furthermore, if they’d only known what had transpired in the past few weeks, I highly doubt they would agree about this relating to people business. I made a promise to treat everyone I meet with that basic human dignity but I think I have constantly failed at doing it.

A few weeks ago, I was sentence…given a week long duty. This is the sort of duty where you essentially stay in your bunk all day doing nothing and waiting for an activation that will never come by enemies that don’t exist. As you can imagine ADHD-addled me was as bored as bats in a tree awaiting for nightfall to party. Not to mention being thrown to such a duty. (For those of you playing the home game, ADHD and boredom don’t mix AT ALL. Think napalm and water.) So there I was, being depressed and antisocial and completely not intending to make any new friends at all. I just wanted to stay low and go home. Pancake breakfast and the Tridentine at the end of the week were the only things getting me through.

Unfortunately, God didn’t intend for me to alone the entire week, I had a roommate. I remember when I found out that he was not a driver, but a transport supervisor like me, I felt instantly warmer towards him. I was stunned for a moment after that, I couldn’t believe that I am really such an arrogant bastard. In the first place I didn’t want to share the room with anyone, and I most certainly feel like making conversations with drivers. I couldn’t believe that I had stereotyped them as being unworthy or incapable of conversation. I know that with my establishment there is a necessity of keeping some distance from them, for they are after all my men, but this seemed almost ridiculous. I admit that often, we are on completely different wavelengths, but the essentials are still the same. Everyone has passions, hobbies, plans for the weekend, a family, friends. Was I really too thick, too high and mighty, too stuck up to have conversations with them? I guess this is something that I shall have to settle, because these are the people that I shall be dealing with day in and day out and they are good people, however this is for another day.

It turns out my roommie was a happy clappy tamil Pentecostal. From day two onwards, he insisted on speaking to me in falsetto, claiming it was his normal speaking voice. He chose the week to begin his foray into guitar and I spent the week listening to him play only down strummed chord progressions and singing Christians songs in tamil. By day three, I had almost as many screws loose as he did, I had had a dream about having a webcam conversation with one of my quadriceps muscles. It was sipping tea from a teacup with it’s pinky out and enquiring about my wellbeing. It was a very very surreal week.

That said I came prepared for the week, I had brought several nonfiction (big mistake) books to camp to read, he on the other hand, was clearly socially awkward, and had nothing to do, he was probably as bored as I was. Me being me, and well trained, I did make conversation with him, but it soon became quite apparent that I wouldn’t be able to establish a connexion with him. He on the other hand, somehow managed to do so, though I suspect it was a matter of transference. Loneliness does that to you, desire for company transferred upon the nearest possible thing. It’s probably why I endured four days of falsetto (he didn’t do this to anyone else). And this is where I truly could have been better! He is a really nice guy, with a good heart. He insisted on treating me to dinner despite being a poorer financial situation.

It was weird talking to him, it was mostly him trying to make the conversation and me replying as curtly as a I could. I could have clearly showed him a much greater amount of charity. I could have shown him more love. I felt really bad on the last night, when he kept asking me to talk to him, but I just had nothing to say to him. He even requested to meet up sometime in the future. I don’t know if I have it in me to acquiesce to his request. That said, I don’t think anyone in the army has actually given him that much of a listening ear before. If S reads this, we may have only known each other for a week, but I’m sorry for being such a lousy friend.

It makes me wonder, what exactly is this special way of relating to people is? I can’t relate to my men, I know what they’re going through, I know what they’re interested in, I know the common topics, but I just can’t connect with them at all. Let’s not even talk about about my colleagues because work is easily a common topic of conversation. Normal people, from my tier of society, the educated ones, I have nothing in common. Small talk? I am horrible at initiating it, I much prefer listening to people. I hope that I will find some way in which I can relate to people.

Clearly, I have much to work on, as a person, as a friend. Communication is so vital in my desired vocation. And I fervently pray that one day I shall live up to that affirmation letter.

I need to talk to you.

Starry night, disquiet'd skies,
Hearts beating, walking towards the other,
While silence on the cold street lies.
A midnight meeting.

Little notes echo and fly,
(Disturbing the chaos of my mind),
From the little music box,
(Deflecting the silence in my mind.)

Nervous looks, uneasy smiles
Hiding hidden frowns.
An inkling.

Look in to her eyes,
Mutter mumbled words,
The wordsmith's brush is dry.

'I like you.'

And it's over. Silence pursues.
The quest now lost, yet some peace found.
Retreat to a safe place, mend the wounds.

I shall miss you.

Bee

Bee

The warm airless morning brought you out.
Tottering around the foliage,
Carrying out your worker duties,
Little bee, little bee,
Buzz, buzz, buzzing out and about,
And all around me,
So busy, landing on my green sleeve.
What do you hope to find Little Miss Bee?
I am no tree,
I am not full of sweet nectar,
Nor have I any flowers to
Attract thee.

Music Box

Music Box

Emptiness, herein lies,
Despondent heart, withers away.
Little notes tinkle and fly,
a music box somewhere plays.

Little stone ballerina
Round and round she goes,
beating heart, stony Estella,
ever silent, she already knows.

In her little box she stays,
Hidden from cruel world,
dancing like little bees play
save for the notes, unreachable.

Somewhat failed attempts at poetry.

Notes about Oli II

Sweet, sweet Oli, where have you been? Hidden
away for many a month out of sight.
Reunited, I can again hold you tight,
Caressing your evil black curves, laden
with your sweet scent, feeling your black innards,
fingers in your orifice, squ'shing out light.
Inserting darkness, so so very tight.
You are pregnant with death, he shall hasten.

Taking my breath away, teasing your button,
squeezing gently, sends you screaming. you bite,
exploding. the night crackles with your might.
this birth shall fell your enemies, then
our affair is ov'r. o wicked demoness
'til again we meet, fade to nothingness.

New Year's Eve

A picture taken on a quiet night.
Long exposure a few friends and a pier,
darkened silhouettes,
sunbursts of night.
New year's eve.
Friends forever, auld lang syne,
a few beers and hugs
and forget me nots,
as time sprinkles sand.
A few years --
A photo in a frame.

Conscript.

A year in green.
A year more, still unseen.
Sit in the lot,
Where live the four wheeled monsters,
for me to guard and command
endlessly.
Whats the point?

The patron(izing) act.

A conversation with a young fifteen year old friend of mine from St Ignatius Church sparked an interesting epiphany.

I asked her what her friends would say if she asked them 'Do you think God is always with you?"

She responded, 'People in my cat class will probably give the expected answer which is 'yes, always with me'.'

That just blew my mind.

Even if it was just the expected answer, it was the right one and the truth at that. Think about it, these young kids, even if they doubt, deep down they know that is the truth, that God is real and is always with them. That requires faith bestowed from on high. They got the basics right.

Now, these kids are going to be confirmed in four or so months from now, and I think we will all be in agreement that they need to continue to learn more about God and strengthen their relationship with the almighty. In fact they should be learning more advanced theology, they should be introduced to deep symbolism and meanings behind the liturgy, they should be taught to develop good prayer habits, have a solid understanding of mortality; that death could happen at any time and how to prepare for it, they should be introduced to history of the church and taught basic apologetics. After all, they already have the basics.

Wouldn’t their annual confirmation preparation camp this June be a wonderful time to touch on all these topics and introduce them to retreats?

Wrong. You see, according to one Facilitator, our young fifteen year old teenagers need to ‘learn to be real with themselves, and real with God. Because in our world today, and particularly in our local context, our youth don't feel. They're taught to pursue excellence, prove themselves worthy of recognition, etc that so many find it difficult to even answer the question, "How are you feeling right now?"’

No… say it isn’t so! These fifteen year olds, who lead normal lives, have normal relationships with people, are emotionally healthy and able to make friends and have desires to pursue excellence, to put their God given talents to good use, are not ‘real with themselves’. No, no they’re clearly faking everything. Oh, and the last eight years of catechism and fifteen years of going for Mass and praying? Completely useless.

Well that certainly explains the theme of the camp, the ‘iGod’. Never mind the unintended screaming heretical blasphemy, we need to sell God to these kids in the form of a suitable pocket sized appliance that can be turned on and off at will and named after a well established toy, God clearly isn’t hip enough for these kids. So, we’re going to have to re-teach them everything as well, and in very simple, dilute terms. After all, these kids are only from low end schools like CHIJ and SJI and RGS, and have to understand such simple concepts as calculus and the Marshal plan, and use tiny words like ‘ terminal velocity’, ‘meiotic cell division’ and ‘alliteration’. They can’t possibly be expected to be able to learn more about God like a grown-up and use big words like ‘consubstantial’ and ‘mortal sin’, or understand any teachings of the fathers and get to know God through reflections in silence and prayer.

No, no no. They clearly need more noise in their lives, and therapy to get in touch with their feelings about God, we’ll call it prelest. Better start warming up the guitar, after all these are faithless moronic teenagers. Well, according to some people.

Dr. House: [explaining why he became a doctor] When I was 14, my father was stationed in Japan. I went rock climbing with this kid from school. He fell and got injured, and I had to bring him to the hospital. We came in through the wrong entrance, and passed this guy in the hall. He was a janitor. My friend came down with an infection, and the doctors didn't know what to do. So they brought in the janitor. He was a doctor. And a Buraku - one of Japan's untouchables. His ancestors had been slaughterers, gravediggers. And this guy knew that he wasn't accepted by the staff, didn't even try. He didn't dress well. He didn't pretend to be one of them. People around that place didn't think he had anything they wanted, except when they needed him - because he was right, which meant that nothing else mattered. And they had to listen to him.

Using your real Heart to find God

I have noticed that feelings seem to have taken over the church. I attended a retreat once and where at the beginning, the facilitator immediately invited us to reflect during the retreat with not our head knowledge, but our ‘heart knowledge’, for we often forget that we are emotional beings as well. He then went on to cite the Gospel of Matthew on the story of the road to Emmaus, where the two disciples, after meeting Christ related that ‘their hearts burned’ when he talked to them. It was a very disquieting moment.

Now, the Heart is very important to us in our journey to find God, without it, we would get nowhere. The Heart according to St. Paul is the instrument of Faith through the Holy Spirit. The Spirit dowels in the Heart. (Rom.5:5), an idea carried on by the Church Fathers. It guides our emotions and our rationality but is separate, it is the real us and is feed by the Spirit mystically through the liturgy. This is the understanding of Heart through the Sacred Traditions.

It is this Heart that the disciples felt burn so fervently after their encounter with Christ.

However, there is another understanding of Heart, the current contemporary definition. It takes Heart to be a synonym for feelings and emotions. This is the definition that I felt the facilitators seem to understand and were applying to the biblical passage. Through this definition, we would understand that the disciples felt a ‘spiritual high’ after their encounter.

Before I carry on, I think it would be prudent to define what I mean by emotions here. They are the fickle feelings that we feel upon reaction to the environment and atmosphere we are in. They are changeable, malleable, subjective and easily manipulated. Directors, playwrights and authors are excellent manipulators of feelings. Through the use of words, lighting, music and many other devices, they successful elicit certain emotions from you. Feelings are also temporary and fleeting, they can be there one moment and gone then next, and hence cannot always be authenticated.

With that in mind, the idea of a ‘spiritual high’ is a very dangerous one. We cannot authenticate it to truly be from God. Worse still, these fickle feelings are always so ooey gooey, we come away feeling good like at the end of a chick flick. An example of the way we, in these times, have come to regard these feelings as normal is through our contemporary idea of romantic love, what Father Z calls ‘luv’. It is seen in Hollywood movies to be all the mushy gestures, gifts, dinners and kisses that culminate in sex. It only shows the good things, but it is not love. True love goes beyond the emotions that we feel at the present. It is the conscious choice that we continuously make, in good and in bad times, and it is this choice that helps us to endure the sufferings of the bad times. We don’t just break off things because the luv seems to have died down. Similarly, after a bout of getting ooey gooey spiritually high, what happens when things return to normal, or worse, we fall into a state of depression, does that mean God is not present in our lives?
No. Obviously, that is not true. We KNOW that God is omnipresent and is always around us, and we know that he is beyond our physical realm, so it is NOT necessary to feel him.

The worst case is that these feelings can be used as a conduit for the devil to speak to us. Fr Seraphim Rose writes about them as a form of spiritual deception ‘which offers to its victims not great visions but just exalted "religious feelings." This occurs, as Bishop Ignatius has written, "when the heart desires and strives for the enjoyment of holy and divine feelings while it is still completely unfit for them. Everyone who does not have a contrite spirit, who recognizes any kind of merit or worth in himself, who does not hold unwaveringly the teaching of the Orthodox Church but on some tradition or other has thought out his own arbitrary judgment or has followed a non-Orthodox teaching - is in this state of deception."’ Hence, to approach our reflections with our feelings as our compass could possibly lead to very damning consequences.

There is a cure. The Fathers always taught to approach these things with Intellect. Compared with fickle feelings, which draws on the environment and things present, our intellect draws upon logic, reason and rationality, therefore it is objective, and has the ability to separate itself from distractions such as the environment. Hence, it is infinitely far more constant then feelings. The intellect has a good many uses in our life, it prevents us from misinterpreting scripture for it requires us to put each passage into context. It allows us to question and seek answers where necessary, it moves us deeper into the meanings of the Traditions and the faith. It fosters a more profound appreciation, something which shallow feelings cannot dive into.

To illustrate this, let us return to example of when someone is feeling a great spiritual low. Now in the state of depression, it may appear that God has forsaken us, or is not real, or any other similar thoughts. So then it would not be important to go to church, after all, why bother if God is not real? That is how someone using his feelings to think will consider these things. However, with intellect, we know that God is real, he is everywhere, including here now with us, and that he is beyond this physical realm, so we cannot feel him. We also know that he is unchangeable and his love and mercy is infinite. So we can conclude that he will not abandon us, he is real and therefore even if we don’t feel him, he is there. A good reason to keep going to church.

However, that said, there is another level of emotions that we require. Earlier, I wrote that the Heart guides both the intellect and the emotions. The ‘emotions’ that I wrote about were not the fickle feelings, but the greater more profound convictions, and passions that we have about our beliefs. These emotions are of utmost importance, for without them, we would not be able to hold steadfast in our faith, and to devote our lives fervently to God. However, these emotions don’t spring from anywhere, they first require solid understanding and knowledge to stand on. The Intellect provides this foundation, because we know, therefore we believe.

These emotions are not ooey gooey gush ones, but solid firm commitments to what we hold dear. These emotions are the ones we CHOOSE to have, and not merely the whims of the situation. They are put across and expressed not through how we feel, but the words we think and say and the actions that we do. They drive us to follow the teachings of Christ.

Thus, the emotions stand upon the foundation of the intellect, and both are guided by the Heart, the seat of Faith. When their hearts burned, the disciples felt not a feeling of being high, but the great conviction and passion that the Spirit brings, and then they knew it to be true. We too can attain this burning, but it is as Father Rose says, we need to approach it with a contrite heart, knowing full well that we are unworthy and to know and believe in the teachings of the Church. Faith isn’t blind.

If you are wise, then know that you have been created for the glory of God and your own eternal salvation. This is your goal; this is the centre of your life; this is the treasure of your heart.
-St. Robert Bellarmine

"I say to myself, I will not mention Him/I will speak in His name no more/But then it becomes like fire burning in my heart/imprisoned in my bones/I grow weary holding it in/I cannot endure it."
-Jeremiah 20:9

Not with a doubting but with a certain knowledge, O Lord, do I love You. You have pierced my heart with Your Word, and from that moment I have loved You. Moreover, behold, both heaven and earth and all things that are in them cry out to me on every side that I should love You.
-St. Augustine

Nothing is more practical than finding God, that is, than falling in love in a quite absolute, final way. What you are in love with, what seizes your imagination will affect everything. It will decide what will get you out of bed in the mornings, what you will do with your evenings, how you spend your weekends, what you read, who you know, what breaks your heart, and what amazes you with joy and gratitude. Fall in love, stay in love, and it will decide everything.
-Fr. Pedro Arrupe, SJ, 28th Superior General (1965-83) of the Society of Jesus

Love is an act of the will.
-CCC 1766

So when your heart is distressed and agitated, put the cross into its centre to keep it steady.
-William Barclay

This is not meant for anyone in particular.

the cruel month of april continues to rain heavy blows upon the dented chevy that was. the dead lilacs are still asleep, and have no desire to awaken.

Month of endless vicissitudes. month of endless woe. blow after blow after blow.

and so the poor tin soldier marches on with his tall hat and his musket gun, trudges through the heavy snow and the arpeggios. walk right by the damaged hansom, the faulty trailer and the rabbit poking far out about the group. His heavy golden pocket watch tick tocking with the heavy hail that followed.

Everyday, the poor man walks on, up a far away hill, to a grassy knoll and sits on a chair in the middle of nowhere and waits. everyday again and again, as the clock ticks, waiting for the surface to scratching, whilst scratching that itch. all in green, how much more conspicuously need he be. and always a little bee would come to visit, yellow on black, or black on yellow, buzzing. bzzz bzzz bzzz up and down in half dance flying.

such a little busy bee exploring all the trees, landing on the one not-tree. oh tiny creature, flirting around, teasing as it lands on the follicles of the forearm, touching and tickling the skin. stinger gently shelved for the moment. busy busy bee, always reading... busy busy bee, beneath the sickle moon tonight; who shines like a little eye in the night, smiling, tired beneath the cloudy eyebags, slowly covering in sleep.

go away melisferra, you are not wanted here. go way busy thing. i do not want to be bothered in this cruel warm evening. the tanks are patrolling.

broken relations that held the ship sailing in the north east now come crashing down. Murphy's law at play, murphy at work all day, existentially nonexisting. sitting in his chair... his hand widens at first, and knocks away the chess pieces. checkmate, the king is dead. All hail, the fisher king.

and the murderer is walked away to hang by the noose.

Dead Rose

Dead Rose (2007)

Dead Rose

You are
A rose ungiven.
It seems so wasted, just withering there.
A failed existence: unappreciated, unfulfilled
unreached potential.
you poor rose, never held, never smelt,
never clutched to the bosom of a loved one given.
A life of wonder, your dying world.

And I sit here to ponder.
What could have been if I had bothered
A try, Walked to her, and muttered a few
Helloes and goodbyes,
And watch her shyly smile as i give to her,
You.
To her cheeks, would a red as deep as your's appear,
And smiles we would have shared.
But I didn't.

Only an 'if' remains,
it runs through our minds and never fades;
I see her face staring in the distance,
and I wonder,
Silence echoes in my ear, eroding the music of love
played here,
And I sit, and watch as you wither,
Watch each red petal blacken and fall
amid the dying screams of rock and roll riffs
and mauls,
I feel as you do,
So silently,
Withering away at the 'if'.

Raining at night

Try to capture the rain in my palm.
Little rivulets prick the skin,
Rolling off.

Slides to the ground,
Uncatchable
As the thunder resounds.

A sharp streak of light divides the sky,
Radiates the deep backdrop,
Villifies the moonscape for all who lie

Beneath the droplets, the celestial tears,
Catching rain, dripping wet.
Here in this dark night sky

O love and luck be lost and found

O love and luck be lost and found
Upon this merry bank. She keeps
A chance recording of those sounds,
And that is all the river seems to speak.

And what are we but lost out here,
When we search through thicket deep
To find that one we hold most dear,
And To watch for one night, the other fast asleep.

The sweet bats sing out the night sky,
And the moon shines on all under her eye
Illuminates those about to make that tie
With faithful bonds, that men shall not unbind.

And the choirs celestially sing
Gratias et Gloria tibi, rex caelestis
Echoed through the earth in its lunar tinge,
This celebration, this union that it is.

And so the years did go by,
With much joy and laughter it brought,
And their love doth multiply,
And then two became five in the twinkl'ng of an eye.

And merry did they all go on,
Until Chronos had had enough,
And into the ground they were torn,
Yet still went on he with that hearty laugh.

And soon he too withered and decayed,
And soon it was time for the petals
To fall and the rose to be put away.
Into the fall slowly and silently did he lay.

Haiti Relief Bake Sale

We organized a Bake Sale three weeks ago to raise funds for the victims of the recent Haitian earthquake victims. It was amazing. We had aimed to raise $10,000 (I secretly thought we could make $15k), and even then, there were many skeptical people, even amongst the planning committee members. Even I fell under the spell of skepticism at one point during the planning and doubted we could even hitting the $10k goal. Everything was almost a week behind schedule, including getting approval and finding donations of baked goods. It was a very stressful and chaotic time. Budgeting had not been done. We needed one more oven. There were not enough volunteers to bake and man the stall. The announcement for the sale went out one week before the actual event, I was thrown outfield on that same week, and donations of goods hadn’t even come in. Yet, God always provides. On our first day of sales, my mother asked me how much we had raised and when asked to guess the amount, she said $50.

So many small miracles happened. We received a generous donation that covered the cost of all the ingredients for the brownies and cupcakes we were going to bake. The re-opening of the canteen; which was supposed to be during that weekend, was postponed, thus eliminating competition. I managed to find a power socket while outfield and could charge my cell phone (my phone battery lasts about 10hrs with use) and thus managed to at least coordinate some of things happening, and not die of boredom. On Thursday and Friday, donations poured in, someone even donated 20 chicken pies and 20 banana pound cakes. We had so many donations by Saturday, I was worried that we wouldn’t be able to sell everything. I managed to convince enough people to help with the selling, and it turned out I didn’t need so many bakers, the kitchens were full with just 3 people already.

However, that wasn’t enough to raise my faith. The donations that poured in raised moral, and yet still the worry lingered. I pressed on though, stubbornly telling all the skeptics that we would raise $10k, even though my heart questioned. I wondered whether we would raise $5k and at least sell all our goods.

That weekend, God truly thought this doubting Thomas a lesson in faith.

I am still amazed and awed in an Augustinian way of how God still shows mercy on me despite all my shortcomings and doubts which make me continually turn away from the Creator, He that made all things. You are truly merciful Lord.

When my mother asked me on the first night, how much we had made, my reply was $3,217. Three thousand and two hundred dollars all from one mass! A far cry from the meager $50 that she proposed. The donation boxes were filled with blue and orange notes. Almost all of the bake goods were sold out. All my brownies had been sold! That was when I realized the power of He who can do all. I knew then that we would hit the $10k, even the $15k.

However, God was not done with me yet. The final amount that we raised over that weekend was $17,850.54. Nearly double that we had predicted and it had far surpassed my expectations. It had far surpassed anyone’s expectations. I was told later that bake sales like this were lucky if they raised even $1500. It truly shows what God can do with a little faith.

Gloria in excelsis Deo. Gratias agimus propter magnum gloriam tuam. It was truly you who ensured that more than enough money would be raised to rebuild the fallen city Lord.

A big thank you for all those involved in the sale, especially to my planning committee, the Youth Rockers Bible Study, Generation Christ and the Young Adults Ministry, my mother, Vivian Liu, Aunty Kathy, Beatrice Ng, Uncle Kenneth, Aunty Gin, the lovely children of the Primary 6 Catechism class and their teacher Uncle Mark, Marie Lee, Michelle and Marie Thio, Aunty Nancy, Aunty Margeret, Aunty Jacqui and Aunty Pauline, Frances Tang, Coco Tree, Simply Bread and all those I have not mentioned. The biggest (well second biggest) thank you is to you, the parishioners. You were responsible for this success. Through your prayers and kind generosity, you have helped to rebuild Haiti.

‘For men,’ he told them, ‘this is impossible; for God, everything is possible’ – Matt 19:26

PS: Since then, we have received a few cheques and the loving substantial donation of a most generous Secondary Four student with a big heart, and it is with this that we now have raised over $18,000 for the Haitians.

Regret.

Someone once told me that 'the biggest failure in life is to regret.'

Regret is the feeling that rubs salt the already open wounds of failure and tears open the healed wounds of the past. It calls to mind all of the past in harsh retrospection. All the questions that are drawn from it dwell on the ever elusive 'what-if' pondering a future that can never exist.

It is a feeling everyone wants to avoid simply because it is a feeling that teaches. It teaches you in the hardest way ever -- through pain. It can bring everything into perspective, and yet swallow you whole. The harder the life, the greater the multitude of regrets. Clearly, everyone tries to avoid it. People and their desire to live life with no regrets, to never look back and go about life free. They are a blind to their futures, living only for whatever situation presents itself before them and dealing with it in a superficial way. On the other hand, people consumed with regrets cannot see beyond their past and can neither make proper decisions.

Yet, we need regret, as we need all failures and for the same purpose that we need all failures. That is to learn. You cannot learn from success, human nature prevents it. Logically, a success in a certain situation will call the organism to repeat the actions when presented with a similar situation, thus conquering it all the same. Yet, humans, we are proud, and our successes we take for granted. And the more we succeed, the more proud we grow, the more lax we become in our processes, which will ultimately result in failure. On the other hand, failure teaches us what not to do in the future. It makes us analysis, reflect and consider the possible places we erred and so that we may end up fixing them. And when we do that, we are learning. Then we will succeed.

Likewise, regret is a failure that teaches, it reminds us of the learning.

Of course, the entire point of this intellectualization is to run away from the fact that I am deeply in regret all of my past. I'm having difficulty now applying for university because I was essentially a prick to my teachers in school. Irresponsibility and a callow attitude are but kind words to describe the way I behaved towards my teachers. Now no one wants to write me a testimonial, and with that lost are my dreams of applying to the UK.

Of course, I don't feel regret merely because I will not be studying in the Uk, that is small part. Upon retrospection of the way I acted in school, playing truant, coming late, being tardy in submissions, if they occured at all, giving attitude to some of my teachers. I feel horrible, because I didn't treat them with respect, my life didn't reflect the values I hold dear. I'm really sorry. I wished I'd had been a better student. Just thinking about all the good I could have done hurts.

I failed. I failed myself, I failed my teachers, most of all, I failed God. Thankfully, I learnt a lesson from all this. Harsh it may be, hopefully I'll it's fruits in the future. Hopefully, some good will come out of my wickednes.

"Since God is the highest good, He would not allow any evil to exist in His works, unless His omnipotence and goodness were such as to bring good even out of evil." - St. Augustine

Valentine

On the topic of this cursed Fourteenth, my favourite poem that commemorates it.

Valentine
Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.