Yep, my last parting shot before i go to nus to get seriously demoralised. Hopefully i will be able to get the lang and structure up to std when i come back. (ugh, the writing itself already had me coughing out blood) Too mentally drained to do any revisions now. Oh yeah, and happy 'holidays', if you actually believe in that.

This island. (to be revised)

‘Singapura, oh Singapura,
Sunny Island set in the sea.
Singapura, oh Singapura,
Pretty flowers, bloom for you and me.’


1.

I was washed up to golden land
On the waves of pauperism,
Backed by dank wind five-millennia strong
Back to the old deity in the old well
(Ling had better not forget the incense)
Whose ambrosia had gone moldy in the aftertaste.

Not like here, where the waters flow,
Like new born amniotic fluid, into the veins of
Newly wetted rivers, pumping life-blood
Into the montage of colours –
The gold tooth (and all his possessions)
Peeking out from opium-tainted teeth,
Courting the routine splashes of Dhoby men who bleach
Clothes, and skin into a fashionable white.
Women trot by, livelihoods on their heads,
In the colour of clandestine vows and brotherhood
Hundreds of francs away.

There is the letter writer.
‘Dear ling, I will be going home as soon as the ship fare is paid for.
Wait for me – and don’t forget the incense.’


2.

My dad told me a love story about my great grandfather
and his beloved. I watched as a tear (salty as
seawater), trickled down rills in his cheek,
weathered by age and the fingernails
of the Japanese man down the road.
I have seen many happy endings –

Men trooping off to a place so fine they loathed to return,
Deserting younger kin, who mourn
their absence with gomendasai and sumimasen.
Basking their frolics in syonan-to, a light so bright
Their faces never did turn from the ground.
But the older generation, they were veterans
Putting to shame apprentices, as shadows once more
Contorted with the fluidity of one long versed in the craft–
A simple adjustment from white to khaki.
We are the salt of the earth,
and to the earth we return-
Like what mother said to the bayonet.

Too bad the cherry-blossoms couldn’t survive the heat.
‘Tell me father, in your story,
Did the lovers’ ashes meet in the south china sea?’


3.

Singapore changed hands amidst my infant shrieks
Elicited by the doctor’s sharp smack on-
Bottom, raised high. ‘Ready, get set, go!’
We spurted forth, chubby legs a whirl. Me
And the nation, whose skeptic eye skewered
The promises of ‘greater heights’
In all but silhouette.

Both bibbed, marked with food and number.
Mouths open in a whine (gurgling milky froth)
A piteous purr for one’s own immobility
In this rojak of sand and sea.
It takes getting used to – like durian,
And its billion dollar image – how we always wean
Too soon; from cradle to cradle forgetting,
The Rock-a-bye fall. I think of –
Freddy the frog (green as the king of fruits )
With an overactive thyroid gland. Metamorphosis
Splatters the uniform of the SIA girl, smiling for
Countries so much a part of us.

Dad never did have a penchant for change.
“Oh no. not the same old story again.
I reckon he never did love her enough to go back.”

----

And the sun told the flower,
‘Stop stalking me, for I will burn your petals-
And you will be left bare.’

Of softball's defeat

Whats with hci and sporting defeats? The team acts as if they have done the school a great wrong. Oh come on, i thought sports was all about passion and surpassing oneself? You haven't let us down, heck, people probably don't even care if you keep your championship title anot, as long as you stay in the competition long enough for lessons to be cancelled so we can go to your finals.

Suffering from LDMI. Law of diminishing marginal inspiration. So forgive the bad writing. (and right at the time when i need a second portfolio! great.)

______________

You stand, elevated, miles lower than everyone else
On a second rostrum, the silver of the trophy
Glinting like the sword. This is the warrior's mark
When you blow the dust off the steel and Eye,
lacklustre.

Death before dishonour – how many times
Words and lashings beat that into tender flesh,
Till you perspire, salt seeping into wounds
Like mercury under skin. You exfoliate-

Cursing passion like a prayer. The bushido
Reads: Thou shalt not feel. Unless it be,
For daimyo or emperor.
In which then your passion is absolute.

But you have failed.
We see life on edge.

You grit your teeth. This is shame, beyond words.
Apology a cloke weighing on the jugular,
You gasp! for release and the end to it all.

A quick twist. Blood on your brother's cheek.
You had worked your guts out for this.

back to square one, kid

I thought I would be miserable over this loss.
But having lost, I realised that I never gained.
making my misery unjustified,
my pain self-inflicted,
my words empty mouthings.
and myself.
a great presumptious fool.

Why don't you laugh?

Before we lay down to rest

Dearest Yesterday,

‘Do you not hear me?‘

When the tide brings home foreign rain,
To wash away the stones all worn and plain,
That want of bygone iridescence.

When all those songs of yore we sung,
Linger no more on recalcitrant tongues,
To sooth solitude now forgotten.

When mother earth's familiar sigh,
Falls like whispers on estrangement's nigh
Leaving footsteps on separate earth.

When you and I, and I and you
Look back on shadows that cast us anew
See you not the frou-frou of joy?

So hid behind the tussled mirth
I knew you, as I know this accursed dearth,
Seed of my own nefarious making.

How the sparrow was never blest
To perch upon the mighty eagle's nest
Nor lay its wings on the royal mane.

So I bid you a fond farewell,
Ere memories taint in the pell-mell
Unspoken utterance perpetuates.

‘Oh, we kill each other with sticks
Sharpened at the other end

To thy smiling corpse-‘
This I send.

adieu.

Yours, through eternity and back,
Today.

ATTENTION: RG SEC FOURS!

Barnard called us in and told us he didn't want to lose links with RGS just because of throughtrain. Being desperate for rg juniors myself, I have decided to promote the HWA CHONG HUMANITIES PROGRAMME here on my blog. No doubt they will be charmed and persuaded by my stupendous writing, if any of them ever come across this blog, that is.
_______________________

Ten reasons why RGS girls in the Raffles Integrated Programme (R.I.P) should join the HWA CHONG INSTITUTION (College Section) HuMANities Scheme.

1. College uniform - You get to wear your skirt the proper way, with at least four fingers of urm- waterproof/fireproof/camouflaged sack cloth showing above the pleat. Unlike in the other college, where four fingers refer to the length, the way we wear our uniform is definitely what is more befitting of a premier junior college, or college section, for that matter. PS: inconspicuous folks, and therefore less in need of mimicry, are free to reduce the number of fingers from 4 to anything between 0 and negative infinity, on the condition that they either have astounding psychic abilities (to anticipate spot-checks) or they have Perry as CT.

2. Sense of superiority - Derived from having a principal who is, lets say, inspiring and humourous in an unintentional way. Of course, he is hardly the benchmark for the linguistic ability of the institution, so don't be surprised if the rest of the college speaks English to you.

3. An exceedingly good record in PSC/firefly/SAF scholarships with the occasional President's scholar. Barnard claims that we have links to the Oxbridge admissions panel. (RJ has Harvard, but yeah, what’s the ivy league compared to the alma mater of our most venerated MM, pronounced 'hmm' for short.) So yes, there's nothing much stopping you from becoming an overseas scholar except your grades which, to one being labelled as the crème de la crème in the college, is of course, inconsequential. No one expects you to let them down.

4. Teaching styles are different here. Instead of stressing you out with multiple tests and piles upon piles of homework, the tutors adopt a far more subtle but still effective approach to motivate academic activity. A brief tour of the Humanities staffroom will bring you to the notorious whiteboard of fame, on which is inscribed the names of all your seniors and the scholarships and university places offered to them. I suspect the names are deliberately written in non-permanent ink to facilitate substitution with ours next year.

5. Out-of-this-world tutors- Unlike in RJ humanities where the tutors are heads of department of their own subjects, Hwa Chong humans tutors enjoy a highly relaxed (read: decadent) lifestyle behind the closed doors of the Humanities staffroom where they guzzle beer, eat polo mints and poke fun at unsuspecting authority popping by the door.

6. Lessons, or lack thereof – School on average ends at 1:20pm for the humanities student. On those days prior to productions however, school ends at 8:00am, or whatever time you wish to arrive (if you actually bother, that is.) The later part of the day would then be spent pigging out in the canteen or killing each other with one’s own definition of humour at the ‘cosy corner’ – the stretch of balcony outside the classroom which is a regular playhouse for ants, mosquitoes and humans alike.

7. Own LT, own classroom, own staffroom. A college within a college, which makes us HWA CHONG INSTITUTION (college (college section) section). But we are still all one big happy family of course, heck, some of us even go to the extent of attending sports day to maintain that relationship.

8. Enough growling. Take a break from cheering low and loud. Abandon the tongue-twisting compound names such as Hadley-hullet for the more edifying Greek pronunciations. Scoff upon flesh parades (…) and embrace the holiness of khaki shorts and white umbrella skirts.

9. RI guys in RJ

10. TCHS guys. (Save us from them!)

______________________________________________
anyone still interested, come down to hci with a stout heart and/or a carton of tiger juice for a nice chat with barnard regarding your application for direct admission into HCI next year. Or you could sms me first and we could sit down and have a discussion on how to get round Barnard; a long journey, no doubt.

personal plea: pleeeaaase come. i want juniors who can sing 'dedication', not 'hai tian liao kuo...'

argh. wait for me linette!! i need to get out of here.

失约？

basic law of writing lyrics: Tune change, lyrics must change. This version 2. somehow i think its worse than the first one, so its all up to the melody (revised and nicer!) now to make THE difference. I feel useless.

我还在这里
等着你
等着你除去烈风吹醒的回忆
回忆里
的结局
是我们两没道出的言语

我在学珍惜
这孤寂
孤寂中你能否感应我的努力
努力去
去爱你
爱过以后我就
随着足迹
离去

Artistic mutilation! haha. Sorry fengyi. Zu zhang you salvage la.

我还在这里
这里等着你
等着你除去那烈风吹醒的回忆
回忆里
回忆起
忆起了那段未曾付出的勇气

我在学珍惜
珍惜这孤寂
孤寂中你是否感应到我的努力
努力去　去爱你
爱了以后我就　在这角落
等回音

Yes, so i do sound like a broken record, but this is the last time, i promise!

RJ dance. If only.

Compared to them, we are a bunch of baby turtles floundering in the sand, the condescending glare of the predators reducing us to a mere necessity devoid of soul and purpose. Oh the agony! Of knowing you could have been up there, had not hare-brained impulse and fate consigned you to this lesser existence!

I sound like a child being deprived of candy. I think I am losing my ability to remain impassive. Even towards the most trifling of trifles. Emotion is now anathema to me.

Oh my.

so i fooled two panels! Which means that i am confucian but barnardian, cheena but english, traditionalistic but revolutionary, and pro-pap but pro-spore.

What a ghastly irony. This either means that i am a brilliant billinguist or a treacherous two-faced twit.
(eeks. I am a cultural two-timer!)

Or are they synonyms?

Whatever it is, I am rejecting the lep one, since i am more likely to flunk lep promos and thus lose what i have 'worked' so hard to gain. Anyway, its not as if my resume isn't already cheena enough for them to send me packing to china the next-time-we-meet. (purely hypothetical!) Imagine PPE in chinese! 'Marx and Mao' - A brief course on why we SHOULD and WILL share. Now give ME that.

Europe would do fine, thank you.

Sails are up!

No more suicidal entries. I am back to my normal asinine self.

Its amazing what lame friends and a pot of tea can do to your mood, remind me to stock up on both.

oh yeah. and someone get mr ang back from vietnam quick. i need to be reimbursed for all the trauma i went through.

On a more intellectual note, this is what i learnt the past few days moping ard school.

hci is the prime example of a diseconomy of scale. think monday morning assemblies. (khaki shorts!)
peter's principle is true. think of our one big happy Farm-ily. (over my dead birdie)
parkinson's law is also true. think spotchecks and cs.
the humanities motto is not an empty promise. think lessons, or lack thereof.
barnard's tummy rocks. literally. (humour him to see)

Education has never been better.

now's the time for you to cringe and walk away.

fate has made reparations. I have decided to concentrate on the finer (happier?) things in life, like cap. yep, so i am harping on past glories, so what? this is my mirror, so if you don't like the sight of your own reflection- step out. it would free up a little bit more space and maybe even delay my asphyxiation.

Never did I expect to be able to tell my own fortune, if this be fortune indeed. My pessimism is turning out to be a crystal ball. Fool of a took! A palantir is for everybody. Despair is sweeter when shared. ah, altruistic me.

cap portfolio (written march 05. relevant may 05)

(the intro)
Diagnosis

N. P. D. / Narcissist Personality Disorder -
‘A pattern of traits and behaviors which signify infatuation and obsession with one's self to the exclusion of all others and the egotistic and ruthless pursuit of one's gratification, dominance and ambition.’

Introspection is the order of the day. Its me me and me! But who would bother, I wonder?

A pity my last name's not Plath. Treatment is de rigueur.

This report tracks my road to recovery.

(medical records. aka the poems)

(the conclusion)
The Final test

I don't look into the mirror anymore,
Neither do I turn when people call my name,
I pray for world peace every hour of the day-
I have bleached all my pictures,
My life is a normal black and white.

I am as sane as you pretend to be.

(last page)
DISCHARGED.

shut up dickens.

CAP!
Dammit dammit dammit.

Why must words betray me now,
when it is to them that this must be accredited to?

My contemptuous mind tells me this is a lie.
That Pinocchio will wake up to tomorrow.

I rather a lie!
Than this blasted expectation, this dratted reputation
To live down.

How they will all be kind,
And slash my throat at nightfall.

Pity is a word for god,
Not this soul-battering intention.

But I have learnt my lesson.

Henceforth,
All pictures I paint shall be inked.

Cows and Curtains

(this is highly desultory. one paragraph has hardly anything to do with the next. just take it that i am copying the style of xiao pin...yeah right. haha. )

VT would be smirking if it were here.

The curtains were ineffectual, too few to shield our ungainly movements from the knowing audience, and too red to sculpt the protective atmosphere exclusive to enveloping black. The familiar "Be careful! Cyclorama coming down!" that would usually send the whole crew into a scurrying act of self-preservation is replaced by a boring 'thud', a small, unobtrusive attestation that someone has been less than careful with the props or whatever part of the anatomy newly humbled from its scuffle with solid brick. Flybars, the undisclosed and unrivaled agents behind miraculously quick scene changes, are substituted with a single projector screen too lonesome and banal to stir the blood of self-proclaimed vt veterans. Walking in front of the 'flood lights' during a performance is no longer up there with gluttony, pride, lust, sloth, envy, wrath and avarice as one of the deadly sins.

The props division is a dismal population of three people, one of which is a renegade marooned from publicity. There is none of the spurts of adrenaline induced by frolics in the dark, nor of the childish fascination with luminescent tape. Here, it is a mere passive waiting, a lassitude that comes from the lack of greater stimulation, (passing the actors' placards and glasses can hardly be constituted as work) and long hours at the computer the night before. The irony is just too interesting to miss, and I marvel at how the amount of work done is directly proportionate to the energy one posesses. The more you scream and run and jump, the more energetic you will feel. The more you mope around like a corpse in search of favourable haunts, the more life (or after-life for that matter) will be sucked out of you. This theory explains my behaviour before and after our performance.

I have never really liked cows, my impression of them being dull, pock-marked despoilers of fields and pastures, tolerated only because of their contributions to humans in terms of providing milk and meat, one of which I am unable to enjoy. Whats more, their tendency to be bull-headed, and their cow-ardy acceptance of their eventual fate most definitely does not endear them to me. However, the recent performance has made me change my mind. I no longer averse to cows, indeed, i would gladly welcome two or three into my abode should they show some talent for dancing the tango, or chairing a profit making company, or governing a country or teaching or simpy mooing in that bimbotic way. (Mind that my tolerance for bimbos is not extended to humans) Mad cows with an artistic flair are also welcome.

But enough of cows, this is after all a story meant for humans, and by gawd, there were many of them! There was a very distinct set of people delineated from the rest by their practice of cow-worship. I know this because they laughed and cheered at every alternate line that spouted from the cows' holy lips, regardless of its comic value. Also, most of them donned black shirts with orange lettering on it. It wasn't clear from where i was standing, but from what i saw, they are from some place called yellow city, which i presume is low in dairy stocks and thus accounts for their enthusiasm in seeing its producers.

(ok, i give up. This persona is driving me mad. Shall stop trying to be funny, though i think you all probably didn't even notice. )

(footnote)--------

Yeah, so xiao ping was great. We won 1st prize and we didn't let huang cheng and its 24 year old legacy down. Huang cheng is like this crystal that increases in bulk over the years. Every year adds a new layer to it that helps it to maintain its shiny sheen, but it also makes it increasingly fragile. Everybody regards it with a sense of awe and fear, awe, for the the numerous times it had dazzled with its irisdescence, fear, fear for its corrosion that is inevitable with time, should new technology not be introduced to rejuvenate it. Everybody knows this. We dare not fiddle with this gem, for fear of it shattering, yet we fight tooth and nail should anyone proclaim it less then perfect. It is a treasure we love but cannot touch. An ivory tower we guard but cannot enter. Or dare not, because one wrong move, one moment of folly, and 24 years of pride could be reduced to broken shards of humiliation in one's hand. Our legacy is both boon and bane, it is 24 years of experience that placed us so high in the hierachy of school productions, but it is also this 24 years that prevents us from going further.

Laurels are only comfortable when you are assured of your place. Xiao pin helped (i hope!). But i think it will still be a long way before we reach the immortal green pastures.

Huang cheng jia you!

Eulogy

The strains of the song urge us onward,
We stand at physical attention,
Mouthing syllables like in phonetic class,
Majulah is a self-forged manacle-
The cacophony of a nonchalance too painful to bear.
This is my institution. But we are- what? I had forgot.
History is not my forte, nay, that is six feet under,
Where all the sam suis and coolies have gone
And the spit of the merlion washes away.

You want a story?
I give you half a flag pole and one minute of silence.

The flag hangs limp, as if ashamed.