Casa De Shao

Author: shao

  • I Care For Your Suffering

    I Care For Your Suffering

    Shao:
    Hi bb just rambling

    So she’s on her fourth date and I’m tea partying yea

    And I’m trying to access my biggest fears but they don’t form and I’m like it’s okay I feel better anyway

    So I’m at a place where I half accept that she is seeing someone else

    And yet it doesn’t mean I am abandoned because she insisted on giving me water and cares for my wellbeing

    And so it’s a fact thst she cares for me and yet doesn’t prefer to be with me romantically so there’s the challenging of my assumption that her dating someone else means me being abandoned

    So since there is some resistance, the challenge just becomes a weird half acceptance that life just works that way

    And I sat and figured that today a lot of people showed me care

    And I am capable of being cared for…

    But I am still upset that I cannot be the one she wants to be with

    And I think I’m in a space where I’m beginning to grasp what thrownness is

    Where things are not personal but they just… Are

    And it sucks to high heavens

    And I can observe everything happening, Her loving someone else, terror client being kind, me having a good conversation with sascha

    And these feelings are kind of numb but the entire shape of all these lived experiences are not personal and not related to who I am and what I perceive of myself

    And this ends up feeling like a sort of non-evil/not-scary desolation

    Like the end of a movie when a camera just pulls back from me as I stare into the distance

    And so many things are happening around me, in spite of me, without me, with me

    And all this time I’ve been drowning in the turbulence of these events but this time I’m just sitting at the riverbank in an odd spectator role feeling completely out of the way from these events

    Part of this whole mess of feelings is an empty resignation because I’ve been lusting after her for the past few days that once I stop tenzing my shoulders it feels that letting her go is the resignation, like you said yesterday, “let the resignation stay”

    And part of it is a strong refusal to be sad because today has been so good that her dating that guy “shouldn’t” be the thing that ruins it

    And part of it is anticipating future sadness, especially on valentines

    So I’m typing this all out and further realising that

    Along the river analogy

    Acceptance would be standing in the river and letting it flow around me and if anything pushes me to let it be

    Being in a trance of resistance would be flailing against the current

    And where I am now is sitting at the riverbank, feeling removed from everything and observing and reflecting upon everything

    Noticing the power and tragedy of thrownness

    But I can feel a bit of sorrow from this

    Which feels like a little bit of acceptance

    Which is like me wading back in

    Ready to reattend to the river

    And understanding that despite all the thrownness

    I am still standing

    I am still capable of sorrow and joy and love and compassion

    And as I type this I can see my heart peeling apart

    I can feel the pain

    And incredible tragedy

    As I reintegrate into the river

    It is cold and it hurts

    But it just is

    I am no longer numb

    I am sobbing

    But it’s the good faggy kind

    Where’s it’s good to feel again

    It’s good to rejoin the orientation group of life

    And it is good to notice how fucking brutal everything isb

    And yet how little it can affect me if I just let it flow

    It is good to feel that despite all this pain

    It will be over

    And there will be many other water currents in my life

    That will bring me joy or sorrow

    This is way better than numbness

    I wanted her so bad

    Because I had no idea how to face everything else

    That the earnest happiness she can provide

    Was all I could fathom

    The only life buoy in these rapids

    Ping:
    :))

    Shao:
    And it fucking sucks but

    The river can never hurt me that bad

    If I just let it be

    Love u

    OK I’m gonna run

  • Anaphylactic and Super Hypochondriactic (Twenty-Six)

    Anaphylactic and Super Hypochondriactic (Twenty-Six)

    some strawberry field in Dali, fuck if I know

    Somehow or somewhere, crushes have always had been a way for me to fill in a Void which I failed to recognise in myself.

    This Void is the mythologically derived Ego, which bears a narrative written along its folds and crevices. These narratives are borne from various bits and pieces of fables that we were fed since young, by our parents.

    To me (and I am sure most of you), our parents were Gods who wrote the world. I worshipped them, in a society that applauded you for doing so.

    Our crisis of confidence comes when our parents reveal their mortality, either when we realise how fucked up they are (Dad broke a glass and blamed me for putting it too close to the edge of the dish rack) or when they reveal that they can’t exist forever.

    Dad was unpredictable and had terrible esteem, one that he would hand down like a room-height portrait. He would lash out erratically (never physically abusive), and be nice at other moments.

    Of course, when you lash out at a kid unpredictably, what happens?

    He thinks that he’s defective.

    He imprints upon anyone who shows him a little bit of affection.

    One day, his two closest friends discover a mutual attraction, which (to him) confirms that he is fundamentally defective. The confirmation seemed to be a catalyst to several years of depression which was by no means avoidable.

    (It took me like, 9 years to realise how fundamental this idea of defectiveness was.

    To my closest friends of my JC years who might still be reading this:

    I apologise for my lashing out. I apologise to the bottom of my heart. I was a terrible baby about it. You guys did so much to prove to me that I still mattered; it took me too long to realise that this issue was simply inherent to my beliefs. If it matters any more, I’m very different now. I’m wiser. Maybe I’m too late.)

    Could you believe that? Fundamentally defective.

    My therapist and I worked through these narratives that I recognise. There’s an Ego and an Inner Child.

    The Inner Child just wants to be loved; the Inner Child just wants to prove that He can exist. The Inner Child wants to be told that He is Safe.

    The Ego tells the Child that this is dumb, this is all dumb, and what the fuck are you doing? That glass was shattered because of you.

    At Ginett, they provided little bags with the words “MASK BAG” stamped upon them, and a little version of their fleur de lis logo imprinted above in red ink.

    I consciously leant back in my rattan chair, staring up and to the right of her head. Part of me I wanted to look like I didn’t care when I so, so did.

    “I just wanted to know…”, I bit my lip as I tried to formulate something I wouldn’t regret saying-

    “What we were.” I cringed as I failed. I looked over the large table to her-

    She was tearing strips of paper from the bag and dropping them into the candle-cup, with an intense, distracted wonder. She looked alert for the first time that evening, which betrayed her attempt to look fine.

    I desperately wanted to ask her if she was listening, but I knew that the answer was that she was, and that she was subconsciously trying to appear cool about a heavy topic.

    She would then proceed to produce various forms of excuses: “I’ve never seen you that way” (ouch, and not what she said last time) and “I’m sorry for leading you on”.

    God, fucking, damnit.

    I’m Twenty-Six and my bones still hurt from when she (another dear, dear friend, I love you) said “im going out with someone this coming week”.

    I feel like I’ve let down a weird apparition in the form of younger, J1 Shao. He’s hovering behind me as I slouch on an office chair, begging me to not be “pathetic”. He thought I’d have everything sorted out.

    You know what’s so bad about this feeling of being defective?

    I truly, truly believe that in some form or another, I am so, so fundamentally defective that I will never be loved.

    That I will never be safe, for I will always be on the brink of being driven away, the Beast, Quasimodo, Shao.

    Even at this juncture, the Ego is at a loss for words, because this is so true to His being; this is the very reason He exists.

    Behind the curtain of Oz, under the veneer of the emerald glasses- surprise! The Ego was the Inner Child all along. The Inner Child fears that he has absolutely no reason to exist on this plane. He does all in his might to find a tribe that accepts Him; but once they do, it is deemed a fluke. He seeks out yet another tribe and yet another tribe, trying to obtain external acceptance for a Belief an Old God had left behind. This Belief is a dark, inky stain that will always permeate his actions.

    He has walls, eyes and ears that distort every perceivable sensorial input. Even though he has a dragon’s hoard of evidence that He is likable, His Belief corrupts and renders it all worthless.

    A meaningful gaze, a hug, a kiss, a cuddle, a blow-job, a fuck, a doe-eyed look, a marriage, a baby, money or a smile will never provide the love that he will existentially require.

    He will never be happy, until he learns that He is good enough.

    And it is not that He will never be able to rid Himself of the Belief. He will learn to handle it and observe it.

    He has to learn that He is safe.

    Here the tears flow.

  • Be Excited For Me

    Be Excited For Me

    NTU Centre for Contemporary Art, 2 Days Before Lockdown

    (disclaimer, written on 13 Sept, published on 24 Oct)

    Ariane’s workout class last Saturday killed the front of my thighs, but I’m still going to go running with Tracy now.

    Okay, I’ve been running from thoughts easily and somehow it is becoming increasingly sexy to just watch Adventure Time and or listen to a song, so I’m gonna like, write this down.

    Have you ever had that feeling of not wanting to start a new TV series because it’s just so daunting to begin watching something with upwards of 100 fuck you episodes?

    Ping’s got some sort of BTO…?

    And suddenly it’s really easy to slide down the marmalade slippery slope, with all the ideas that being still single somehow means a great deal about who I am. Or rather, who I am unable to be.

    Suddenly, I feel like I should not be watching adventure time, I should not be bothering myself with writing about my feelings, I should not be…

    Wait… Whose judgement am I afraid of? My own?

    Who is going to shame me so badly that I am supposed to mail order a bride, “settle for someone” or kill myself before I hit 35? Society? Who?

    Sankar and I declared that this year is was the Mockey (friend gang, don’t think too much about it) Year of Bad Romance, because two of them have recently broken up at this ripe old age of 25 too.

    And sure, there are people I desire so badly, but I can handle a second of desire, a second of solitude, a second of self love, a second of hurt, a second without her.

    That’s right! I’ll do this second by second. I can handle it, second, by second. Not too far in the future, not too far back.

    Thanks for listening.

  • Am I Done Dying?

    When I started falling for people, it seemed to be the most romantic thing in the world.

    I’d never watched rom-coms on purpose, but my idea of romance was archetypal. Hugs, kisses and lots of fucking.

    (more…)
  • Toilet-Urgent Fever Dream

    Toilet-Urgent Fever Dream

    Landing in Texas

    Or: Shao on his inspiration behind the hilarious play Caller Unknown in the 2019 Internal Productions

    First Published on NUSSync, NUS Stage

    Reproduced here without permission because I’m the author

    I remember this idea’s conception very clearly.

    I was sitting in the middle middle-aisle seat, sleep-deprived, needing to pee but unwilling to disturb the gruff-looking Korean man to my left or the eager young man to my right for the third time that flight. He was halfway through one of the Bourne movies, one of those that was constantly on loop on AXN.

    Through this strange meeting of archetypes, my inability to leave my seat and a Bourne movie which I was very familiar with, I then explored the idea of metaphorical social immovability in order to distract myself from the bottom rung of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

    How would one imagine to get rich quick?
    What kind of illegitimate means could we explore to get rich quick?
    What if the scammer was Singaporean?
    Why aren’t Singaporean kidnapping scam artists a thing? and
    Is he at the last scene of the Bourne Ultimatum?

    In every piece of writing you engage in, there’s an element of yourself in every character, like it or not; you can say there’s always a bit of a monologue inside every play, a monologue from the playwright themselves. When writing the characters, I didn’t realise how much Ma in my play was like my own mother until I reread it again a few months back; she was a little guilt-trippish but ultimately caring. The stern Korean man became Mr Chan, while the eager young man became Jason. And everyone in the story got a piece of me.

    Jason, the indignant son of Ma, is spineless, easily persuaded and points out how everything is insane.
    Anthony became my outlet for pop culture quips and my frustration with too much Bourne.
    Nathaniel, who directed the play, made me play the paper-thin antagonist, Mr. Chan.

    In the heart of it all, playwriting is a mechanism for me to explore a shower-thought in a more excessive extent than through conversations in real life. It is a way to acknowledge my ability to tell a story in a format which others can enjoy. I plan to write a lot more, of course; Caller Unknown was written in a way more suited for TV and was quite hand-wavey in terms of logic, but I’m still immensely glad that it was directed and acted by Stage members who had so much fun bringing my red-eye-flight, toilet-urgent fever dream to life.

  • I Heard Your Footsteps

    I Heard Your Footsteps

    On a Tonner, Around Yishun
    (more…)
  • It’s Always the Evenings

    It’s Always the Evenings

    Orlando International Airport, Florida

    I turned on the knob that sends water to the toilet hose, but it sprayed towards the toilet paper, a full roll, and I don’t know, but it feels at least 1/3rd wet.

    I feel bad, because that is a tremendous waste of toilet paper.

    Reservist starts tomorrow, and yesterday, it felt like it was gonna be hell.

    Today, not so much. Or maybe I’m catatonic. Here’s how I’m dealing with it.

    I’ve just had a short nap. I’m lying on bed, fetally, opening Instagram, closing Instagram, opening reddit, closing reddit, opening Instagram and noticing this behaviour.

    I’m slapping myself on the wrist for the mindless attempt at escapism.

    The world is tinted with a dull faintly purple light. It makes me nervous.

    I have poor affinity with the evenings.

    I like to visit my friends’ houses. It paints their routine, what they come home to see. Where they lounge when they’re safe. What bed they text me from. What fits into their mental maps.

    In the evenings, when I’m alone, I fantasise about how my friends are spending time with their families.

    Sitting around the dinner table, around the TV, watching another movie in the Bourne series.

    Maybe they’re showing another kinder, more genuine side of their selves. Maybe they’re different and meaner. Maybe they’re mellow. Maybe they take charge for their family issues. Maybe their parents are still Gods.

    It’s weird (or maybe it totally explains) because I don’t like to stay at home.

    Too much sarcasm from dad. Too much anger from Kor. Too much anxiety from mom.

    I’ve inherited all of those neuroses from all of you guys. I don’t like it. I don’t need more of it.

    Mom always jokes (I’m sure that she means it, though) that she doesn’t want me to be like a tenant in this house.

    I should put in some effort in our relationships, shouldn’t I?

    Of course, I always wait until moments like these before thinking that I shouldn’t take things and people for granted.

    One of my biggest fears is not getting enough sleep, or power for my phone.

    Both ways to disengage and teleport into the future. Maybe I should stay present more- oop there we go again.

    I can do this! Everyone does! What’s a little sweat and sand in your crack?

  • You Will Be Safe

    You Will Be Safe

    Orange County Convention Centre, Orlando, Florida, USA

    This year, I will be twenty six. There is a discomfort with that number, because being a twenty six year old is planting your one step for mankind in late-twenties territory.

    I’ve been thinking of writing something for a long while, but my fingers have been hovering over the keyboard every night with no juice flowing through them.

    Even as I’m writing this, I’m tabbing out to Instagram to mindlessly scroll around posts when I’m stumped on what to write-

    Oh, I’ve just got a mental foothold-

    All I’ve ever strived for in life was the feeling of safety.

    When you laugh, which I do lots of, you are indicating danger has passed.

    When the world pins your worth to your grades, it cultivates a fear of abandonment if these grades are not met. Abandonment is unsafe.

    When dad crunches his face into a distorted scowl if he cannot understand you, he inculcates a deep fear of being misunderstood. Misunderstanding leads to disdain. Disdain leads to abandonment. Abandonment is unsafe.

    When your joke bombs, when people criticise you, when you are overseas with others and you suspect people don’t like you or when someone you like so much as breathes the same air as someone else… These are fertile grounds for abandonment. And these are unsafe.

    I don’t know what started the whole abandonment thing. Maybe an uncle touched me.

    Never take things personally. Don Miguel Ruiz. An all encompassing statement to minimise suffering.

    A lot of my anxieties and insecurity come from a general need to be safe. Somehow, my parents (surprise surprise) didn’t accord me that favour.

    Most times you can draw explicit parallels from your parents’ behaviours to your own quirks and issues.

    We inherited meanness towards mom.

    We inherited a shame of our poor living conditions, a toxic shame of failure and a biting fear of everyone else.

    Kor inherits dad’s hunched gait as he returns home, his short fuse! His “self-sacrifice”. His resentment when nobody acknowledges this sacrifice.

    I’m tired. You’ll have to make do with half formed thoughts, sorry about that.

  • In a Name

    In a Name

    White Clan Self Administration Region, Dali, China

    I cried twice this trip.

    At the beautiful age of 25.

    One of them, I sat on a more-form-than -function bench in a Chinese megamall and tearfully told my brother how his apparent anger was not his and was learned from dad. And the other, was when after a brief altercation, he told me that the other relatives on the trip thought I was lazy. I’d declare, dramatically, “I hate family”, before walking off to stifle my tears.

    There’s a saying that when a child cries, it’s because this child is in one of the worst situations that they had ever experienced.

    Somehow, I have a really concerning issue with being disliked on overseas trips. After Europe, Taiwan, Ipoh and Dali, I’ve managed to triangulate all the issues into that one.

    It’s really not about being alone that bothers me. Orlando was fantastic. I was thrown into fuck up after fuck up during that trip to catch The Black Keys, and I came out of it not even shaken, but exhilarated at my ability to handle a cluster fuck thrown my way.

    A silver lining about this is that now I know that I am capable of handling situations calmly and independently. The bad side is that I have to work on my courage to be disliked.

    Despite all this, I always find something to miss about these trips. It’s always a small detail. The absinthe from Taiwan. Balcony cigs at Ipoh. Wearing a scarf in Dali. That kind of thing.

    One thing that surprised me about China is-

    Well, you know how Americans always whinge about how China is everywhere in America?

    America is everywhere in China as well. Signs, Jeep, brands, English signs.

    Everyone is trying to be everyone else.

    How the fuck do I get over you? This is all going to be sappy. This is my blog. Judge me not, I am very self aware.

    In this length of 11 days, not seeing or interacting with you has reduced you to an amorphous blob of values, of which I can’t even pinpoint. I can’t even visualise what I am yearning for.

    In this daydream, you are shapeless. You are just a title. You are Her. And Her is in a medium, that medium is you.

    God damn, I fucking want you. I fucking want you to fucking want me.

    Every time you say you’re gonna do something, with your beautiful enthusiasm for life, I want to sign up for it too. Just to spend time with you. That’s stupid gross. I don’t usually want to… do things at all.

    I sometimes daydream of you. Holding my hand and us walking through flower fields together. I shit you not, that’s my idea of a relationship. It’s overromaticised, which means it’s unrealistic, which means I really don’t want to be thinking about this, because that’s unrealistic.

    I’m a kinda tall person. When you stand close and peer upwards at me like a kitten saying “what should we do next”, I just wanna end my life there and then.

    When you hang out with other guys, I get jealous. I hate it. Both you hanging out with other guys and me getting jealous for you hanging out with other guys. The latter reminds me that I’d be a lousy boyfriend. A jealous boyfriend. And you will leave me. Which is a lame and weird heartbreak, because it’s like breaking up with a goddess, a mother, a sex doll.

    I think the next word of the month is going to be Jealousy. Or Ownership.

    Anyway, my therapist has been on medical leave for the later half of October and the whole of November. I’m gonna get so much bang for my fuckin’ buck if she’s not comatose by now.

    I hear it’s rainy back in Singapore. Hopefully that will ease everything.

  • The Hero’s Journey (Twenty-Five)

    The Hero’s Journey (Twenty-Five)

    North Gorge Walk, North Stradbroke Island

    I was sitting at my computer, painting a comic when the numbers flipped to 00:00. I eagerly checked my phone for the next half an hour. Well, two wishes so far.

    I have to remind myself that humans are very good at making patterns out of repeated events and objects, like astrology. Those stars form a shield shape. These seasons are better for crop growth. Nobody likes me because nobody messaged me. Stuff like that-

    I’m joking! Some people like me. I just demand that everyone else did too.

    (more…)