flights

I was an English major in college, so it goes without saying that I wrote quite a lot. Later, I joined with a theatre company in Phoenix, where we produced nothing but original material – the fruit of our own labours. I wrote, I don’t know, maybe a dozen plays during my three years there.

Now, with this blog, I’m writing more, and more regularly, than I have in years.

Periodically over the years, I’ve had to confront the question, “for whom am I writing?” For myself of course, but whom else? What I write only for myself never makes its way out of my journals. The rest of what I write is for sharing somehow, but inevitably I have borrowed bits of other people’s lives here and there, and I’ve had to ask myself what I have a right to share. I change names and details, of course, but more often than not, my audience has included my sources themselves. Still, in narrative fiction or script-writing, a few small steps away from my own real life (and obviously theirs) seemed sufficent to satisfy them.

This is a bit different.

My blog is somewhere between a journal and a narrative. My friends and family read this, and I struggle with the question of how much to reveal, how truthful to be, whom to include.

For one thing, maybe it’s somewhat self-indulgent or narcissistic to lay everything out there. Maybe it’s presumptuous to assume anyone else is interested. At the end of the day, however, this doesn’t really bother me. If my life isn’t interesting, then people won’t read about it anyway.

In any case, I haven’t laid it all out there. I occasionally creep a little closer, but fear stops me. I don’t want to reveal anything about someone else that might make them angry. I don’t want to reveal things about myself that might offend, or shock, or disappoint, or tarnish the image of myself I’ve carefully crafted and honed over the years ;-)

But fearful writing is boring writing, which is why I appreciate people like izzy.

The movie I saw with D was called Closer, written by Patrick Marber, directed by Mike Nichols and competently performed by Jude Law¹, Julia Roberts², Natalie Portman³ and Clive Owen⁴.

It had the feel of something that had been written for the stage, and indeed, I subsequently found out that Closer is Marber’s screen adaptation of his own play. As such, it reminded me of several plays I’d written in my twenties for the Unlikely Theater Company in Phoenix. Marber worked with the same subject matter, rendering it more skillfully. Just barely, which is not to say my work was very skillful. His, however, was a few small steps above something banal and amateurish. A handful of his lines were things I’d actually written myself – verbatim.

The story followed two couples – well, four people who coupled in different configurations at various points in the story. It was about fidelity and forgiveness, selfishness vs. self restraint. It was about truth and lies in relationships and the relative value of each in various contexts. There were no redeeming characters, and I walked out of the cinema feeling like I’d just spent my evening at a cocktail party chatting with a whole lot of people I couldn’t stand.

At the same time, it made me reflect a little on my own relationships and how hard it is to share life with someone. When I think about my own individual life, I would never go back and erase even the most difficult things I’ve been through, and I would never wish for a future without more trouble. I don’t wish for tragedy of course, but eternal unblemished happiness would become a different kind of unbearable lightness.

When it comes to relationships, it goes without saying that you can’t stay in the honeymoon period forever, and a relationship would feel pretty insubstantial if you could. It’s just so goddam hard to endure unhappiness with another person.

Near the beginning of Closer, Jude Law’s character kisses a photographer (Julia Roberts) while she’s shooting the jacket photo for his book. Afterward, she asks him whether he’s living with Alice, the girl on whom he based his novel’s protagonist. He tells her “yes”, he is. She then asks him, in reference to the kiss they just exchanged, “why are you wasting her time?”

I hate the idea of having wasted time, mine or anyone else’s.

^{1 the overexposed
2 the overexposed and overrated
3 the beautiful and underutilised
4 the nearly forgettable}

I met D for lunch and a movie today. We’ve been exchanging phone calls, but I hadn’t actually seen her in about two months. I had nearly forgotten her disarming (to use a euphemism from the movie we saw) smile and the way it flickers between her eyes and mouth.

We ate at a Vietnamese restaurant called Mai, owned and staffed by Vietnamese. We shared a pomelo salad – chunks of fresh pomelo, steamed prawns, steamed pork, dried cuttlefish, sesame seeds, chillis and fresh herbs – followed by a plate of cha ca. The latter was not served Hanoi style (on a hot plate, accompanied by rice paper) but in a bowl, with steamed rice noodles and an interesting fish-sauce-based dressing. I asked for some extra fish and rice paper, to relive a bit of Hanoi.

The owner of the restaurant was apparently watching us, because she strolled over and said, “you must have been to Vietnam, because you are very familiar with our food.” It was a nice observation, if not completely true, and as though she knew it, she kindly offered a few pointers to enhance my education.

My beverage was lime juice, which is my favourite potable in Singapore. It’s always a little too sweet, but when served with lots of ice, it becomes better and better as it cools. Beverages here in general are corrosively sweet. Some of them – bright greens and pinks – even look like liquid candy. And just try getting an unsweetened cup of coffee or tea outside a café or Chinese restaurant.

Asian desserts, on the other hand, are barely sweet at all. Chinese pastries are puffy and breadlike with just a hint of sweetness. Many Indian candies have the consistency and taste of pie crust. And Singaporeans moderate the sweetness of ice cream, for example, by serving it in a slice of bread. Actual white bread (with a little food colouring added). Now that’s an ice cream sandwich.

I was in thailand for 28 hours over the weekend – from touchdown to takeoff. The occasion was a stag party for one of my colleagues, who’s flying back to the states to get married next week.

Bangkok was hot.

Skin-melting hot.

The air is hot. The earth is hot. You can feel the pavement through your shoes. Thai food, of course, is hot. And Thai women…

Well, I don’t like to generalise about such things. But it was a stag party after all, so I had to say it.

The highlights of the weekend were a broken windshield and a chili shot.

We played golf in the afternoon on a nine hole par three course designed as a miniaturised sampling of famous courses around the world. We had caddies, which was a first for all of us, but it’s basically mandatory in Thailand. These were a bunch of giggling women who knew their golf, and their golfers.

For the first couple of holes, I second-guessed my caddy’s club choices, with bad results. So I followed her advice for the rest of the round. She also gave me quite a bit of coaching along the way. I’m no golfer, and I needed it.

Andy hooked his drive off the seventh tee and could only watch as the ball veered toward the adjacent highway. We lost sight of it then heard the one sound we didn’t want to hear. The crunch of safety glass smashing. The ball took out the windshield of a passing truck. The truck stopped. The driver got out to survey the damage and perhaps identify the culprit. We stood around like idiots until the caddies frantically ordered us to keep playing.

Jeff, the bachelor, won the day. As it should be.

After golf, we had dinner at Cabbages & Condoms, a well-known restaurant whose profits benefit various aids research and reproductive rights initiatives. It’s so named because its founders believe that birth control should be as available and accepted as produce.

We were a very sort of calm and well-behaved group of men when we sat down to eat, which was somewhat worrisome. Once the alcohol began to flow, however, things deteriorated nicely.

Bharat, trying to reassert his manhood after polishing off a blue girly drink, ordered a shot of tequila and dropped a big slice of a very hot chili into it. He downed the shot and chewed the chili and never blinked an eye. Damn.

After dinner… well… that’s where this story will end.

I had to report to CLEO’s offices today for an “image consultation” and briefing about the “bachelors finale”. I came straight from a meeting in the city, so I arrived in a shirt and tie. A lavender-coloured Hugo Boss shirt and a lavender-striped tie by Michael Kors. I looked damn good if I do say so myself.

About half the guys were there, in the full range of attire. Everything from low-rider jeans and baggy cotton t-shirts to slick club clothes. Boys mostly, struggling mightily to grow small soul patches or sideburns. Call me uncle bachelor.

I arrived just short of fashionably late – about 15 minutes or so – which was good timing, as I took the last remaining chair. Five or six guys straggled in after me and had to stand. We sat around in silence, basically trying to avoid making eye-contact with each other. Perhaps we were all embarassed to be there. Perhaps the context – of eligible bachelorhood, of 25 cute guys forced to gather in a room – made us all suddenly homophobic.

After a seemingly endless awkward silence, the editor-in-chief of CLEO began to brief us on what to expect next…

She was a very put-together asian woman in a perfectly-tailored black dress that was neither too work nor too after work. She wore dark-rimmed, nerd-chic power glasses and the perfect amount of makeup. Exactly what you’d expect from the editor-and-chief of a women’s fashion magazine.

She surveyed the group and told us we looked “shell-shocked”. She also told us to hit the gym…Immediately. Great.

The image consultation was done individually. Basically, five women looked me over and told me, “your hair works fine” (which is good, because I don’t have any). They asked me to “walk like you do when you’re just walking down the street” (which is impossible when five women are evaluating how you walk). Apparently I walk fine. I asked one of the women to show me what an unacceptable walk would look like, and she sort of jerked across the room knockkneed like a half-paralytic. They measured my waist and my chest, asked me a couple more questions and sent me on my way.

Not unlike a sort of surreal medical check-up really.

I want the souvenir, but I so don’t want to do this. (just three more weeks, just three more weeks).

I saw a dance performance tonight at the Esplanade by Shen Wei, a Chinese choreographer now based in New York. The first piece was called The Rite of Spring, after the Stravinsky piece.

The choreographer describes the piece as, essentially, an exploration of the music itself:

When I first heard Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring in China in 1989, I was enthralled by the rich and evocative texture of the score. Over the next 12 years I continued to develop a creative interest in the piece, finally beginning in-depth research of the music in the winter of 2001. I was further inspired when I heard Fazil Say’s performance of the two-piano version of the score…

The Stravinsky score is constructed with both technical complexity and narrative passion. However, in keeping with my interest in abstraction, it is only the melodic and rhythmic qualities of the music, rather than the story it tells, which inform the choice of movement vocabulary…”

Shen Wei’s roots are in Chinese Opera, and he’s used that foundation to develop a unique physical vocabulary. I’m not sure how to describe it exactly, except perhaps to say it involves a separation of upper and lower body – each following and creating a variation on the other – unlike anything I’d seen before. To pull this off, his dancers had to be physically amazing, and they were.

The second piece was called Folding, and it was much more of a visual tableaux than a physical performance. The backdrop was a blown-up Chinese painting of a fish, and the stage was framed at the edges by billowing columns of white cloth.

Accompanied by droning Tibetan chants, the dancers emerged into the painting very slowly, two-at-a-time, one holding the other. Their torsos and faces were painted white, and they wore thick skirts of black or red cloth.

The most stunning moment came at the end. With the stage nearly dark, the dancers gathered in the center, turned and walked together toward the back. At the back of the stage, they began to rise very slowly – almost imperceptably at first – into the air. Until they all seemed to be floating.

I’m back in the little lion city state after a week in San Francisco. In the end, I was able to get one night of well-needed sleep, although I undid the healing effects a little the next night, via several bottles of wine and three friends in my hotel room.

On Saturday, right before I left, my friend Leilani asked me what I will miss about Singapore when I leave it for good (assuming I do). I struggled for a minute to come up with anything, which has nothing to do with Singapore and its charms, per se. It has everything to do with the city I left – San Francisco.

After a minute, I was able to think of just one thing: the swimming pool at my apartment complex.

Now, bear in mind I was about to leave a city I love and embark once again into the land of Mordor that is the project I’m working on here.* So, my answer was hardly fair to Singapore. This is a lovely place, and there are things I will surely miss.

I will miss the delicious after hours food in Geylang and along my own River Valley Road. I will miss the fact there is an “after-hours” at all. I will miss t-shirt weather. Most of all, I will miss being able to hop on a plane to Bali, Thailand, Malaysia, Vietnam or one of a half-dozen other amazing places on a Friday and be back by Monday.

^{*I’m suddenly feeling the need to qualify that statement, so I will say that this project is not like Mordor so much as it is like the ring quest itself. It has taken this team to its limits. We are a tired and broken bunch. We have promised a lot, and the client has challenged us to deliver even more. It’s something that happens on every project in this business, but I will be honest and say that we feel a painful lack of appreciation for the hard, hard work we’ve done.}

A funny spam from my boss. Probably nothing new to Singaporeans, but as Homer Simpson might say, “It’s funny cuz it’s true!”

The following signs suggest you’ve been in Singapore too long, especially if you come from a Western country…

You’ve lost your sense of irony, sarcasm, and cynicism.

You don’t know what’s lame and what isn’t anymore.

You think there’s nothing wrong with putting chili sauce on everything you eat.

You wait for instructions from people in authority before doing anything. Always.

You join queues without knowing or caring what the queue is for.

You know what “queue” means!!

You can type an SMS on your phone as quickly as you would if you had a regular keyboard.

Your idea of a good night out consists of having dinner at a hawker centre, drinking beer, and then going to another hawker centre and eating again.

You’ve lost your ability to criticize people in higher positions than you, even if they’re wrong.

You accept that expressways here are cleaner than toilets rather than the other way around.

You would buy a $20 product you don’t need if it’s on sale for $10 just to save the money.

You forget to say the last consonant in words like “faCT”, “aTE”,etc.

You think that corn and beans are dessert foods.

You have a high tolerance for nagging.

Most or all of these acronyms make sense to you: NUS; NTU; ERP; SDU; PAP; MRT; LKY; GCT; PRC; TIBS; SBS; SMS; JB; JBJ; AMK; AYE; PIE; ECP; ISD; ISA; 5 C’s; CPF; CHIJMES; SPG; CWO.

You use too many acronyms when you talk, or you create new ones.

You think that nothing makes a girl or guy more attractive than to dress exactly like hundreds of thousands of other girls and guys who all dress exactly like girls and guys in malls.

You think that $100,000 is a reasonable price for a Toyota Corolla and $1,000,000 is a reasonable price for a bungalow, but $5 for a plate of fried noodles is a barbarous outrage.

You believe that not being able to get decent roti prata outside Singapore is enough to keep the best and the brightest people from leaving.

You see nothing wrong with forming committees of select elite people to deliberate and study ways to stimulate creativity and spontaneity.

You justify every argument with the phrase “in order for us to be competitive in the 21st century”.

You think everything should be “topped up”.

You believe that a lack of land is enough justification for the goverment to do what it wants.

You wear winter clothes indoors and summer clothes outdoors.

Durian and belachan no longer stink to you.

You like to have fun, but not too much fun, since you need to correctly gauge the amount of fun necessary to achieve the optimal result. Any more fun that that would bring shame to your family and your country.

You forgot what a city organized around a grid looks like.

In a country where people use smart cards for public transit, you have no problem with construction workers riding in the open backs of pickup trucks.

You think paying $50 for a bottle of booze that costs $15 at home is a bargain.

You’re not confused by a street naming system that locates streets like Clementi Road, Clementi Street, Clementi Crescent, Clementi Lane, Clementi Drive, Clementi Way, and Clementi Avenues 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 all within walking distance of each other.

You get irritated if you don’t see a sign telling you how long your wait’s going to be for a bus, a train, or the expressway to take you where you want to go.

You think that no vegetable should ever be eaten raw for any reason. Except for cucumbers.

No matter what you’re doing at the moment, you’d rather be shopping.

You forgot what chewing gum tastes like.

You say “handphone”, not “cellphone” And you think there’s no such thing as a handphone that’s too thin.

You’re not bothered by the fact that government cares whether you know how to use a toilet or urinal correctly. (People squatting on toilet bowls? What the…???–ed.)

You’re sure that the best way to change social behaviour is through consistent and comprehensive government-sponsored campaigns that permeate as many aspects of daily life as possible. And when they don’t work, you never speak of them again.

You think a bus is incomplete without a TV.

You know why this list needs the following disclaimer:
“This list is intended only as an amusing, light-hearted, and exaggerated look at life in Singapore and is not meant to be taken seriously. There is no intention on the part of the author of this list to make any untrue, misleading, or defamatory statements concerning any person in particular, nor to make any statement intended to cause offense. If any such offense has been caused, the author apologizes and retracts the offending statement. In any event, the author’s NOT WORTH SUING, so don’t trouble yourself.”

It’s early Friday morning in San Francisco. I can’t remember ever feeling so exhausted. Between fatigue and the rest of this time-travel head trip, I’ve hardly felt like myself.

I’m in San Francisco this week, and because I have tenants living in my apartment, I’m staying a hotel near Union Square. I thought it would be fun, but honestly it feels a bit lonely. I can’t put my finger on exactly why, but I think it has something to do with the fact that my familiar life, my friends, etc. are just on the other side of my window, while what’s on this side is the transient life I’ve been living for a few months now. I have an apartment in Singapore and a hotel room in my own city, which makes me feel a little off-center and challenges my definition of home.

When you return from an extended absence, you want things to be basically the same as they were when you left. There’s been a lot of change around here. Some good friends – very talented people – have left or are leaving the company, for example, and one friend in particular obviously feels differently about me than before. It completely makes sense; I just wasn’t prepared for it. So I’m feeling a little sad today, but life happens, and change happens.

My hotel tried to sell me a tour over the weekend. I told them I actually live in San Francisco, so now they probably think I was kicked out of my home by an angry girlfriend or something – especially since I told them I wasn’t sure when I’d be checking out. Anyway, maybe I should embrace the transient aspect of my trip and book the tour.