Casa De Shao

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  • That Time We Visited Donn’s Photo Exhibition

    Donn flashed a wide grin and came close for a hug.

    “Oh man, thanks so much for coming down to support me! Really do appreciate it a lot!”

    a pat on the back means you want to let go don’t pat his back don’t pat his back don’t pat it

    “No problem, I’ve always liked your picture… shootingy… skill-stuff.”

    oh god you magnificent moron

    Changing the subject, I held up the bag I was holding and Mark drew the stalk of broccoli out.

    “Donn,” Mark drew out, with a sense of purpose, a stalk of broccoli. “Here are the flowers we decided to get you.”

    With a straight face, Donn wielded the stalk, “Guys, I really don’t know what to say- This is amazing!”

    Mark pointed out words “CERTIFIED FRESH ORGANIC” on the label.

     

     

  • INTERMISSION I: FP EGR PNR

    I hope I can finish this before the buzz wears off. (no that was not what she said) That glass was horrible.

    ———–

    You are posted to: 30SCE

    Your vocation is: FP EGR PNR

    ———–

    Every 20+ weeks, a phenomenon in Singapore happens where a 3,000-strong mass of hairless adolescents throw their jockey caps and slack for 5+ days. At the end of this period, a haunting groan echoes throughout the island at precisely 1000H, when they receive their postings.

    Where has my happiness gone? Seems like it can be found at the far-West Jurong camp, where I’m due on Monday (and perhaps the rest of my restless days as a soldier).

    I’ve at least 2 people I know who are already/going over there, and I count on Chin Ying’s words that it’ll be much better than it sounds.

    —

    On the eventful (a fast march, pissed-off recruits and no-pissing oh my!) route march, I lamented to my friends about the sadness that was human selfishness, only to receive the wonderful, golden gift of silence.

    My addled brain will now repeat this mistake, albeit to a web-based audience.

    Have you ever truly tried to live in another’s shoes?

    When travelling through a street full of strangers, have you ever wondered what led every one of them to the street? What led the busker to play his guitar so badly on this very street? Is there more to this elderly mother than her calm demaneour? Would this uninterested looking fellow surprise me with tales of his very own life?

    These questions first hit me when I was travelling around China in a tour bus in December, 2011. As the bus trundled up the spiral hills of Xinjiang, I saw an elderly woman walking alongside the road, toting a pack full of firewood. As I laid lazily on the backseat, the mad contrast of our current lives confronted me,  and I started to wonder. Did that woman live in an apartment or a shack? Was she thinking of her children? What was she doing?

    And I laid back, and wondered a little more.

    And recently, I marched past a group of cyclists, and wondered if they knew what we went through for the past 19 weeks. I wonder how my busy friends feel about me now, and whether they’d be much more happy in my footsteps.

    And we’re all selfish assholes aren’t we?

    Whenever a problem comes, we’re quick to point fingers and shift the blame and jump to conclusions and start flames. We never consider the lives of the others and we love to pretend our problems don’t end. Of course, this leads to misunderstandings that should’ve never happened, and as a result, beautiful things end too soon and the honest never really get the recognition they deserve.

    Every conversation starts with a “me” in mind, and whatever the others say are usually heard, but not listened to, until a gap introduces itself. The one that kept mum will spring his mouth, ready to be the next presenter, and this will go on and on until everyone’s exhausted their words and become disinterested. And of course, altruism is but a method of self-soothing, isn’t it? People do things ultimately for themselves; even the most innocent of actions are just behaviours to make themselves feel better.

    Since when have I become so pessimistic? Such a view of humans is definitely overtly in the negative and I do know that I can be easily proven wrong. I’m bloody selfish and I’ve caught myself conversation-hogging a few times too.

    Excuse: We’re all not perfect.

    But… knowing is half the battle, isn’t it?

    I’m not making sense, heh.

    —

    Next: Absurdism; why life is pointless until you agree with that fact.

    And I’m sorry for not sleeping early, as I’d told you.

  • And I Dare You to Survive

    And I Dare You to Survive

    It’s been ages since my last post; forgive my lack of updates.

    I’ve been weak- Correction: I am still weak.

    Every week, it’s the same damn thing; I don’t look forward to the next week, I build up a steadily worsening dread that nearly inflates to a panic attack (I am not kidding)

    It’s a sad fact that every Singaporean son has to go through a ritual, of transforming from a mere boy to a man through 2 years of training.

    That adulthood is nothing but a responsibility forced upon you, which would normally dawn upon you one year or another. Only in our darling country is it a law.

    Every week is a series of dreams and nightmares; I wake up from one to another, hoping that the next day might be better than the last. The nightmares never end, and the dreams end too soon.

    With equal dread and helplessness, of course, the fact that I’ve still to finish my 2 years and I’m not even through my first journey yet.

    Every time we go through a simple set of physical trainings or even a 4km route march, I’d come out of it half-dead, face wet with perspiration and with the most tired face I’d give; one, which many people have commented, looks like I’ve seen death itself in the eye.

    I’m no stranger to failure.

    I’m weak, I’m close to breaking, and I want to give up.

    I understand that many might look at this attitude with skepticism.

    And I have no words for that.

  • Of the Precious

    Of the Precious

    Truth be told, I didn’t actually finish the last post because I was too busy preparing to book in the last week. I have an hour and a half left now, though.

    Each day is an exercise in being strong about all the trainings and punishments till dinner, while each week is an exercise in living till the next weekend. And as each day passes by, I amass more and more “I’ll do”s, such as “I’ll go out alone on Saturday night”, “I’ll find out the name of that vintagey-classical design” or “I’ll finish that card”. Not too different from the schooldays we used to have.

    Outta time!

  • Aut Inveniam Viam Aut Faciam

    Aut Inveniam Viam Aut Faciam

    I’m currently having (In? On? Through? Silly prepositions.) my second book-out, while most of my friends are having their second-last.

    Where do I begin? I’m alive, of course.

    I stubbed my right index finger a couple of days ago. It swelled slightly and hurts when I bend the first joint. I wag the finger as a badge of courage, hard work and (If only the cause were as nobel as it looks; I stubbed it in a game of Captain’s Ball)

    Life right now is very different from the one before. Much more than simply the obvious change in my weekdays; coming back home is a strange experience in the way that my current life as a soldier-to-be has diverged from the life I used to have. Both lives seem to be playing themselves out at the same time, and there’s a sense of detachment that forms from the surreality of returning to an unfamiliar place.

    They like to say that tough times don’t last, but tragically, neither do the good ones. The greatest irony (I think I’m using the term wrongly here) is that I dread returning home. Returning home is simply (to put it lightly and totally ) a weekly revisitation of how I used to live, except… it’s different. Everything feels the same, but it feels like I’ve left a part of my soul in the past, the one that’s comfortable with everything

  • An Invocation for Beginnings (adapted)

    I’m scared. I’m scared that I’m going to fuck this up.

    I don’t want to start, but I will.

    This is an invocation for anyone who hasn’t begun, who’s stuck in a terrible place between zero and one.

    Let me realize that my past failures at follow-through are no indication of my future performance. They’re just healthy little fires that are going to warm up my ass.

    If my FILDI (fuck it let’s do it) is strong, let me keep him in a velvet box until I really, really need him. If my FILDI is weak, let me feed him oranges and not let him gorge himself on ego and arrogance.

    If I catch myself wearing a too-too (too fat, too late, too old) let me shake it off like a donkey would shake off something it doesn’t like.

    Let me think about the people who I care about the most, and how when they fail or disappoint me… I still love them, I still give them chances, and I still see the best in them. Let me extend that generosity to myself.

    Let me find and use metaphors to help me understand the world around me and give me the strength to get rid of them when it’s apparent they no longer work.

    Let me thank the parts of me that I don’t understand or are outside of my rational control like my creativity and my courage. And let me remember that my courage is a wild dog. It won’t just come when I call it, I have to chase it down and hold on as tight as I can.

    Let me not be so vain to think that I’m the sole author of my victories and a victim of my defeats. Let me remember that the unintended meaning that people project onto what I do is neither my fault or something I can take credit for.

    Let me remember that the impact of criticism is often not the intent of the critic, and when I eat my critique, let me be able to separate out the good advice from the bitter herbs.

    There are few people who won’t be disarmed by a genuine smile. A big impact on a few can be worth more than a small impact.

    Let me take the idea that has gotten me this far and put it to bed. What I am about to do will not be that, but it will be something.

    There is no need to sharpen my pencils anymore. My pencils are sharp enough. Even the dull ones will make a mark.

    Warts and all:

    Let’s start this shit up.

    And God, let me enjoy this. Life isn’t just a sequence of waiting for things to be done!

    —-

    The text was originally from the video linked below, by the most talented person called Ze Frank.

    [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYlCVwxoL_g]

    Day 1, see you in perhaps 19!

  • SCARY ADULTHOOD OBJECTOR

    Image

    —

    My heart seems to be pounding frantically, attempting to bounce through my chest and out onto the keyboard. My head’s throbbing and my brain is trying to do the same, whilst attempting to type every single character out.

    An empty cup, reeking slightly of alcohol, sits beside me, reminding me of a resolution un-acknowledged. I’m not going to have time for any drinking soon, so pardon my lack of sticking to things.

    I can feel my face all flushed with intoxication, but I must finish this post before I crash for the night.

    And when I do, tomorrow will arrive, and I’ll have so little time left. Left to walk upon the lands of the earth until my soles hurt and blister. Left to sit and fret for all that matters and all that don’t. Left to breathe free, in the very air that I love to breathe.

    As for the A’s, my results weren’t stellar at all. A great embarassment that only I can feel lingers about. Yes, I know that it doesn’t really matter. Yes, I know that there are better things in life and that I shouldn’t be mulling on something that’s been long over.

    But for a person as aimless as I, lingering in this limbo that is between the end of 12 years of formal education and the start of a gruelling 2, the shame grasps and leaves my heart bleeding. The shame of not having straight A’s while all your friends do. The shame of being someone who didn’t work hard enough, and wasn’t part of the statistics presented on-stage.

    And the deep, deep anger and injustice you feel as all the people who’ve bitched the loudest about failing, and worry about getting poor results, carry on to achieve straight A’s, the kind which I don’t think I’ll ever get to experience.

    And even though I’m leaving soon, I see that not I’m gonna get a farewell that everyone else seems to get. Maybe I don’t even deserve one at all.

    Such bitter words.

    My breath reeks of that drink, the one that I always return to for some kind of solace even though it tastes terrible and should have never existed.

    1 day left, and 19 days after.

  • Resolution #4: Abstain from Alcoholism

    HEALTHY VICTIMHOOD TEACHER

    Vodka with chili and coffee-grinds tastes horrible.

    ~

    It’s a pretty late night. My thoughts start to wander as words, words and words on the screen send my attention away into an ugly future I envision, that of tomorrow.

    Maybe I don’t want to sleep because once I wake up, the dastardly world of TOMORROW would arrive.

    I imagine getting a certificate that has A’s and U’s and I don’t really know what to make of it.

    I start thinking about the dreadful wait that our prinicipal is going to have us endure, as he announces the various successes our school has achieved the previous year. Everyone’s going to try to get him to shut up, but they know that this is an unavoidable tradition of this twisted ceremony.

    About the painfully draggy queue our class is going to form as our teachers call our names and hand that sheet of paper to us, maybe giving us that look when they know what you’ve scored.

    About how everyone’s gonna jump and hop and maybe cry with happiness and totter about, chirping “what did you get?“, while making that goddamn false sympathetic face when they realise that I fucked up. You might not know that face that well as I do. The sorry, sorry look they give as they react the way society demands for them to act in order to sympathise with a sad chump. (of course, the losers always blame the society, don’t they?)

    And it’s the fading smile that always gets me, their joyance dashed by this necessity to feel for you, even though they’d much rather be celebrating and high-fiving you than feel sorry for you. They’ll mumble a few “it’ll be okay”s and turn around to seek the joyful kin of theirs whom. Which is alright, since you don’t want to spoil their happiness.

    The hall’ll be filled with bright laughter, maybe even some tears from those who screwed up too. But the letters on the certificate are going to silence all of this noise for you.

    And who could forget the call of shame, as you hesitate to hit that green phone icon to tell your parents the horrible news, and how they’ll be so disappointed at you for messing up. Again.

    I’m not especially worried about this, by the way. It’s that “come hither” feeling, where you know that the incoming sheet of paper that you’ve worked for 2 years to get is inevitably going to disappoint you, and you’ve prepared yourself for 3 months to take this blow to the gut as well as you can. You know that your future doesn’t really depend on this certificate as much as society (again with the society) wants you to believe. But secretly, deep inside, you don’t want to feel like an idiot or a delinquent for getting sub-par results.

    Here’s a thank you to anyone who’s gonna reassure me, comfort me or just talk to me tomorrow afternoon. I don’t know if I deserve it, but thank you for bothering to make me feel better.

    Maybe my results won’t be so bad. Maybe a forced smile will pull me through all this.

    I’ll be okay, I guess.

    ~

    Edit:

    Ah, as I posted this… post, the large looming date of “1 Mar” showed up on the side of this post.

    3 days left.

  • Resolution #3: Learn the Guitar

    QUICK RICHNESS INITIATOR

    I’m not exactly what one would call a “driven” person. With the excitement of my introduction to the world of Indie music (which only began, curiously, in J1, one of the many, many “norms” of adolescence I was introduced to that year), I began hungering for the ability to play an instrument.

    I successfully badgered my parents to purchase an electric guitar mid-2012, and never got around to playing it despite my promises to.

    I shall learn to play simple songs every chance I get (not much it seems), and acquaint myself with barre chords, hammering on and off and plucking strings.

    That’d be good.

    —-

    I don’t exactly know what I’m fearing. It’s just that the terrible shift and jolt in lifestyles is going to shock me, definitely, and an undisiplined person like me is going to suffer when the day arrives.

    6 days left.

  • Resolution #2: Live the Begending

    HARSH HUMANITY GENERATOR

    It’s an all too familiar feeling – the Begending, the beginning of the end, where the days start to seem too short as time seems to not stop for those grasping at the days that are soon to pass.

    I have 12 days of this so-called freedom left, before I have to depart for… it. The whatifs and ifonlys are starting to pile up in my thoughts, promising that the life ahead would’ve had been a better life IF ONLY I had put more effort into losing weight. Who gives a damn anyway, my head’s too large for the largest helmet. I don’t dread the army. I dread what would happen in the meanwhile.

    Things are changing, definitely.  Facebook is becoming increasingly barren, the messy status updates of friends (now acquaintances) thinning as the boys head to the barracks while the girls start earning.

    Relentlessly-pinging and hair-tearing Whatsapp conversations are now desolate, leaving unanswered questions and frozen laughter in their wakes.

    I’ve never actually been good at adapting to new things; camps used to reduce me to tears and longing for the comfort of the familiar. I used to look forward to the next year in life by looking at my brother and speaking under my breath: well, it doesn’t look so bad after all. And I often prove to be right.

    Time seems to swing you into unfamiliar territory; roadside salesmen ask if you desire a new set top box, the days seem to slip by and the only company you can have are the late nights only fatigue can provide.

    It seems like there’s too little time left, for the words unsaid, for the goals unmet, for the money unspent, for the friendships that I’m not ready to let go of, for the nice things in life that’ll I’d be damn well sure to cherish if only time could only stop for a bit.

    All too quick, all too sudden.

    The promise of maturity 12 days later has become little more than an order, a necessity to age and to face the next stage of life.

    I’ve no other option but to face it like the man I not yet am. I guess.