The Realm of the Fallen

CDP 438 Entry #2

2012-02-04T01:26:00.001+08:00

Words catch me and they have a certain power that grapples. When I was reading Charged, all those NS memories came right back. Not that anything bad happened, on the contrary it was a lot more agreeable than I imagined, it was fair to say the least, just do your fair share of work and you’ll be fine. Which was why this gross misunderstanding between Hakim and Russell intrigues me so, reality is much plainer than what people often imagine it to be. As I summarized in class, it was a gross misunderstanding that got coloured. The scene I chose captured me because to me this was the crux of the entire story. A kind of acceptance between the two major protagonists, but there is also a sense of immense pity as despite knowing that race was never an issue, their deaths have set off a disastrous ripple throughout the country which they can never hope to heal. It highlights the fact that people take racism as a reflexive defence against whatever wrongs being done to them. Racism effectively became the convenient scapegoat for the fire that engulfs Charged. There is conflict because of miscommunication, and that is all revealed here, however, it is a pity because this accord between no longer has any bearing on the direction they play is taking – because they are dead. Only the audience would know.

CDP438 Entry #01

2012-01-30T21:52:00.003+08:00

To put it succinctly, it feels as if a director is like the conductor to an orchestra. There are so many elements one has to coordinate just to reconstruct a story from scratch. The 6 basic questions of who, what, where, when, why, how are the basic needs a director has to address.

I will be working with Sofia and Ziting to recreate scene 3 and scene 4 of Charged. The first thing that came to mind was how we were going to double up the roles with more characters than actors. To me that is an issue that can be solved with some experimenting and logistical planning. The deeper issue for me was, from an artistic standpoint, how as a director, will I able to create convincing NSFs out of these two girls who has never been through National Service.

The challenge for a director seems to be how he is able to communicate the exact motivations he wants for the actors to portray in their characters, all this despite the disparity in their experiences (me having been through NS, and the girls not knowing what it is like). Our group will be meeting before class on Friday to decide how we will answer the 6 questions.

I just wish

2011-12-13T18:27:00.002+08:00

I just wish that I could be all that you ever wanted.
Now I need to move on but I don't know how.
What do I do and where do I go from here?
Sometimes I wish that the tears would flow.

You.

2011-12-04T15:18:00.002+08:00

Every fiber of my being
Is infused with thoughts of you.

When you left me.

2011-10-08T09:54:00.003+08:00

You said you didn't have the time
I said OK
You said the attraction faded
I said OK
And I never said anything anymore.
I lay there in my bed, my phone flung to some corner
I just lay there
With that sick, familiar, wretched feeling in my chest.
Only much much worse than I have ever encountered.

I had always believed that it would get better.
And for awhile it seemed like it did.
Things get better after every let down
But no. This is one too painful.
I'm not sure if I can handle the next.
The better it gets at the beginning just means the harder I fall at the end.
I fell hard. For you. Harder than I ever have for anyone at all.
It makes me wonder, how I can ever love again?
I am not sure if I dare to dabble with people anymore.

Perhaps once again, I should listen to the little voice of truth inside
Despite me not wanting to believe it each and every time.
All those happy memories that you have left me
Something heavy stirs in my heart each time I recall.
The little quirks you have, I remember with a little tinge of melancholy.
Must you haunt me at the edge of my mind like this?
Scars never fade.

I only hope I'd still find someone like you.
One who will keep me.
But I'm not sure when he comes along.
I'll be able to open up as I did with you.

I wish I could cry it all out.
If only I knew where to find the tears.

Ramblings.

2011-02-07T19:50:00.001+08:00

It has always been a question of mine. Can one achieve a state of spiritual communion with God or some other almighty being, without the aid of the church or said religious institute?

One's beliefs are as I have come to believe a very intimate thing. Too personal sometimes to be constrained by the limits placed upon another by the church with some set of rules.

Can we not as God's children seek direct communion with our Father and await his answer? Why does his word have to go through the filtering of the church? Indeed, some may say that the church helps to shed more light on His wisdom they may well be diluting it in their failed interpretations more often than not fraught with human selfishness?

Granted not all have the means to seek enlightenment, therefore the church exists as a guiding beacon. A gentle guiding shepherd. Last I remembered, God gave us free will to choose, the church may guide, but ultimately it should be left to us, the individual to take his own path. The church is not infallible.

Just a thought.

Envoyé de mon iPhone

Modern Drama Essay.

2010-12-06T19:35:00.001+08:00

Aaron Lim Si Ru
Asst Prof. Daniel Keith Jernigan
HL 306: Modern Drama
6 December 2010

Pirandello’s Endless Hall of Mirrors.

In the course of our study of Modern Drama, we have attempted to answer the question of whether Realism was conceptually unsound. Certainly, numerous points have been made that Realism is somewhat lacking in its portrayal of reality. While I agree with that, I think we need to understand while Realism strives to be as accurate as it can in its portrayal of reality with its adherence to sets and presenting society warts and all; it is ultimately a representation of reality. We cannot conflate Realism with reality and demand that Realism accurately depicts real life as it is ultimately confined to the conventions of the stage. Realism, in my opinion is merely a perspective taken by theatre seeking to understand the world. As Shakespeare famously said “All the world’s a stage / And all the men and women merely players”, Pirandello exemplifies this quote by suggesting through his Six Characters that our reality, the reality of our existence that we are so secure in, one that we so fastidiously construct around ourselves, could very well be an illusion (2.7.139-140). Pirandello in Six Characters in Search of an Author explore the possibility that reality could be no different from artifice, since we dictate reality according to our understanding of it.

Realism as mentioned earlier is a form of representation; it is a means for us to understand the world and ourselves by functioning as a mirror of reality. Realism merely attempts to replicate the world as accurately as it can on stage albeit it is lacking in some respects but no form of theatre can replicate real life exactly as it is, simply because it is bound by certain conventions of the stage. Hence, for theatre to be useful and drama to take effect, Realist theatre specifically targets the warts of society via the melodrama and scandals of our lives. While it may not be an exact representation, the dramatic tensions and effects achieved are what we can commiserate with in real life; Realism thus achieves its effect when the audience achieves catharsis from the performance. Therefore, I conclude that Realism is not inaccurate in its portrayal of reality, it is merely superficial akin to taking freeze frame shots of reality and only the ‘best’ photos which are the scandals and melodramatic elements of our lives are chosen to represent reality as a whole. Indeed the Son informs the Producer “of the absurdity of his Company’s attempting to recreate his family drama”: “Not even the smallest reflection of ourselves is to be found in you… Do you think it’s possible for us to exist confronted by a mirror, which is not content to freeze us in the image of our own expression, but flings back at us an unrecognizable image of ourselves” (Sogliuzzo 227, Pirandello, “Six Characters in Search of an Author”). The Son is essentially commenting on inability of Realism as a mirror to reflect reality: “the image of the subject imitated in the other renders that likeness grotesque” (SparkNotes Editors). When presented with our own faults in the mirror of the stage, we revile the vileness presented to us of ourselves; because it is presented on stage separated by the 4th wall, hence, we deny all likeness to ourselves, condemned to living a life of denial before the mirror. Pirandello thus attempts to shatter our reverie as we rot away before the mirror that is Realism.

The way which Pirandello explicitly challenges the boundaries between acting and being is not to expose the theatrically unsound concept of realism but rather to delve deeper than the level of representation which Realism was confined at. If Realism were like taking a picture of real life, then Pirandellian Anti-Realism would be like taking a picture of a picture by means of his Metadrama. Yet, even that term ‘Metadrama’ is rather confining, it isn’t merely a play within a play. If it were simply that, then the 4th wall would still be intact; the audience is still separated from the ‘reality of the stage’ surely they will be aware that theatre itself is an artificial construct. The audience would still be secure in their Reality of the world because the play within the play is bound to the ‘reality of the stage’. The self referential nature of the production is presented before the audience, the way the ‘reality of the stage’ interacts with the ‘reality of the play within a play’. Through this, the audience draws parallels from their Reality with that of the ‘reality of the stage’. Therefore, by the above argument, Metadrama is an attempt at representing Reality as well, but of course Pirandello didn’t just stop at that. In Sogliuzzo’s words, while it reveals his “convictions regarding human personality, the play ultimately concerns itself with a philosophical question, the distinctions between life and art” (226). Pirandello complicates this distinction by staging the staging of a play within a play. The play begins by presenting the inner workings of the theatrical process on stage. However, instead of proceeding to present a rehearsal of Pirandello’s Mixing it Up, the Six Characters enter with “a tenuous light… a faint breath of their fantastic reality” these characters possess “a reality of their own, independent of their author” (Pirandello, “Six Characters in Search of an Author”, Illiano 2). The fact that Pirandello specifically uses a Door Keeper to usher in these Six Characters must mean that they are not to be conflated with the crew and actors. Pirandello raises a poignant question here: if they appear uninvited, not as audience, not as actors and crew, then where do they come from? Sure enough the characters proclaim their own reality like “to living beings more alive than those [cast & crew] who breathe and wear clothes: beings less real perhaps, but truer” (Pirandello, “Six Characters in Search of an Author”).

These characters are literally meant as they are written to be: fantastical characters given life, just as the story of a book is real, their existence as characters must be as well, whether or not they are contained within a book. This brings to light an unanswerable question that Illiano strives to answer: are the characters more real than the actors? The answer to this question will depend on our understanding of what is real. If ‘reale’ is understood as that which is “physical, having a body” therefore, “only the actors have physical substance, possess bodies, and are therefore, real” (Illiano 4). However, if ‘reale’ is understood “in the philosophical sense of pertinent to res itself, and therefore substantial and everlasting” the characters are then more real than the actors (Illiano 4). The ambivalence of the whole play centers on this duplicitous question, we would be caught in the same dilemma even if we turn the question around and ask: are the actors more real than the characters? Again there is no answer simply because people are both physically consistent as well as mutable and perishable, in Illiano’s words “it is an insoluble dichotomy” (4-5). However, this dichotomy was one that Pirandello never attempted to answer, it was a moot question besides its “artistic purpose” (Illiano 5). Pirandello himself “says that the creatures of his inspiration, once conceived, achieve a complete autonomy” therefore, for the purposes of this essay, I will attempt to argue that the characters are real with a reality that is separate from the audience and the actors (Illiano 5-6).

Indeed, the stage is a unique place where one gives “life to immortal works”, yet when such works need no breathing of life to, holding an existence and reality unique unto them is quite a conundrum (Pirandello, “Six Characters in Search of an Author”). These Six Characters have already broken the 4th wall between the production of Mixing it Up and themselves, they have not however broken the 4th wall with the real audience; and that is the issue here. The fact that the Six Characters maintain that 4th wall between them and the audience means that both their realities, however real they both maybe, are different. Indeed the Leading Lady says: “We are the audience this time”; this further complicates the relationship between audience and the performance (Pirandello, “Six Characters in Search of an Author”). I’m inclined to believe that the actors and crew are the only performers left; the real audience is left watching on one side; the real Six Characters recounting their lives on the other. The stage is the focal point of this ‘mise en abyme’ where both realities touch upon the fantasy of the stage. Pirandello has essentially created a hall of mirrors on the stage, indeed any audience would be shocked to find that such a possibility might be extended to their supposedly immutable reality; that their preciously guarded reality might just be a single reflection in this infinity of mirrors. As Pirandello is aware that the stage is an artificial construct, the effect of the ‘mise en abyme’ creates an infinite amount of realities repeated unto itself and each one of them could be just as real. The performance, which the audience is observing could be a single one frame, and that they may be observed from another frame beyond their knowledge. Just as the reality on stage is an artificial construct that wasn’t bound within a book, it can also suggest that the audience is like the Six Characters: living characters unbound within a book, a construct of an unknown, unseen author.

As we struggle to grapple with the multiple frames of reference between the audience, the stage and the six characters, the Father further blurs the distinctions between these frames: “We act that rôle for which we have been cast, that rôle which we are given in life”, a line that could refer both to the audience and the actors (Pirandello, “Six Characters in Search of an Author”). Pirandello then accentuates this effect at the conclusion of Act 1 where the Manager agrees to the experiment and together with the Six Characters they go off stage, leaving the audience with the actors who had come to serve as the Six Characters’ audience. This disconcerting effect is further emphasized when the actors start to complain about the Manager’s breaking of theatrical conventions, the Leading Lady’s lines I imagine would be a clear reflection of the audience’s thoughts: “If he thinks I'm going to take part in a joke like this” (Pirandello, “Six Characters in Search of an Author”). The reality of the actor’s complaints, “the breaking of the frame and the staging of the scene within the audience would ratify what we saw as real” (SparkNotes Editors). As the events on stage draw closer to the audience’s reality “the real time pause, delimiting both the interruption of the action and the intermission, similarly attempts to fold stage reality into that of the audience” (SparkNotes Editors).

The ‘mise en abyme’ theme of the mirrors of reality climaxes in the final scene of Act 3 where the deaths of the Boy and Child occur and the distinctions between the staged and reality are challenged to its limits.

Some Actors. He's dead! Dead!
Other Actors. No, no, it's only make believe, it's only pretence!
The Father. [with a terrible cry]. Pretence? Reality, sir, reality!
The Manager. Pretence? Reality? (Pirandello, “Six Characters in Search of an
Author”)

Indeed, the abrupt ending of the play only makes it harder for the audience to decide between reality and illusion of the stage, in fact Pirandello himself suggests that there was no distinction to begin with. The Actors’ confusion amidst the general confusion reiterate once more the central thematic conflict of the play: “the contention over the reality on either side of the Actor/Character looking glass” this conflict is sealed within this insoluble dichotomy when the two possible ‘authors’ of the play enact a final mirroring act between reality and the pretence of the stage (SparkNotes Editors). The audience is inevitably left to take sides, to agree with the Father would be to ignore such a limiting distinction of reality; to agree with the Manager would be to cling on to such meaningless delineations; and like him allow oneself to be played a fool by Pirandello.

I do suppose reality is what we make out of it, be it opening our minds to further possibilities or shutting it off to remain safe in our illusion of reality; we are constantly in search of answers to the question of our reality, alas, it is the one question that constantly evades all our efforts at understanding. The irony therein is that we invent representations and illusions to bring us closer to that unfathomable reality, theatre in this case. Though I often wonder if we aren’t running around in circles caught in the loop of a ‘mise en abyme’. Pirandello’s thoughts are definitely not prescriptive to our understanding of reality, they merely raise possibilities, leaving it up to us to explore those possibilities beyond this play, pushing us to search for our own authors.

Works Cited
Macrone, Michael. “All the world’s a stage.” Brush Up Your Shakespeare. Cader Company, 1990. eNotes.com. 2007. 4 Dec, 2010
Sogliuzzo, A. Richard. “The Uses of the Mask in “The Great God Brown” and “Six Characters in Search of an Author”.” Educational Theatre Journal 18.3 (1966): 224-229. Web. 5 Nov. 2010.
Illiano, Antonio. “Pirandello’s Six Characters in Search of an Author: A Comedy in the Making.” Italica 44.1 (1967): 1-12. Web. 5 Nov. 2010.
SparkNotes Editors. “SparkNote on Six Characters in Search of an Author.” SparkNotes.com. SparkNotes LLC. n.d. Web. 1 Dec. 2010.
Pirandello, Luigi. Six Characters in Search of an Author. Trans. Edward Storer. New York: E. P. Dutton, 1922. Web. 5 Nov. 2010. .

Renaissance Lit Essay.

2010-12-06T19:34:00.001+08:00

Aaron Lim Si Ru
Asst Prof. John Richard Tangney
HL202: Renaissance Literature
30 November 2010

Breaking free from the Paradox of Desire.

Sonnets in general deal with the theme of love, and with love unrequited there comes lust and desires. Shakespeare presents all these in myriad forms both lofty and low. Master of imitation, Shakespeare in my opinion surpasses his predecessor Petrarch in many ways, oftentimes breaking the tradition of the sonnet form and setting his own precedents. While the original Petrarchan sonnets celebrate and revere the objects of their adorations and desires, they are ultimately caught in the paradoxes of their passion, between pleasure and pain. Petrarchan sonnets are fixated on the state between wanting and not getting. Shakespeare however attempts to grapple with that sempiternal question of desire. I will be discussing his attempts at breaking out of that vicious cycle of jouissance as well as his search for solutions to that impasse.

To properly understand Shakespeare’s sonnets, we need to understand that his sonnets are a reaction against the Petrarchan tradition of sonnets. While Petrarchan sonneteers are singularly ensnared by the image of the “chaste and aloof blond beauty” and their “moods confined to what the Renaissance thought were those of the despairing Petrarchan lover”, Shakespearean sonnets are anything but (Greenblatt 1061). Shakespeare sees the paradox of the Petrarchan object of desire as a ‘freezing fire’ or a ‘pleasant pain’ and realizes that these sonneteers are unable to break free from this paradox of desire, thus are limited and confined by it.

Shakespeare defies the objectification and compartmentalization of the Petrarchan blazon, mocking the use of hyperbolic similes. Such conventions are shattered in “Sonnet 130” with “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun” (Shakespeare 1). The reification of the woman by the Petrarchan sonneteer, foisting impossible aesthetic qualities upon her physical form ironically emphasizes the impossibility of the Petrarchan lover obtaining her by distancing himself away from her. It appears as if the Petrarchan lover desires this state of impasse more than he desires the perfect lady herself, he desires her only because he knows he cannot obtain her, but without her existence there would be no desire in the first place. Thus with this anti-Petrarchan sonnet, Shakespeare manages to close the gap of this impasse first by de-objectifying the woman, simply by not describing her as a Petrarchan sonneteer would, “I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground” (“Sonnet 130” 12). His realistic portrayal of a typical woman with her imperfections makes her more accessible than “any she belied with false compare” (Shakespeare “Sonnet 130” 14). Despite her mundane appearance, the poet thinks of his love for her “as rare” as the lofty proclamations of the Petrarchan lover (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 130” 13). Therefore, Shakespeare elevates himself above the Petrarchan lovers, as he is capable of loving an ordinary woman, not trapped by the paradox of adoring a woman that is out of his reach. Shakespeare has transcended the limits of love being defined solely by the despair of the Petrarchan lover, yet even as he escapes this paradox he meets with another.

In “Sonnet 129”, the poet recognizes the emptiness that desires carry with them, and falls into the paradox of grappling with the lust associated with sexual desire. In essence, desires once sated would leave a void, creating a vacuum for more desires; hence the concept of desire is innately paradoxical because it can never be really sated. Shakespeare describes the desire for lust as “past reason hunted” and lovers are often “mad in pursuit” of it (“Sonnet 129” 6, 9). Yet once that desire has been fulfilled, it is “enjoyed no sooner but despised straight”, condemned immediately as an “expense of spirit in a waste of shame” (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 129” 5, 1). Spirit here refers to semen being expended in a wasteful manner; the pun on spirit also refers to vitality, as semen is the seed of life in the womb. The pun on waste suggests that sex is not being used for its rightful purpose of procreation, that in this wasteful “expense of spirit”, the womb (waist) is also left barren (waste) (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 129” 1). Desire is like something once “in possession so… past reason hated”, Shakespeare thus points out that there is no purported love or sense of fulfilment at the end of the road of desire (“Sonnet 129” 9, 7). Therefore it is troubling to note that the Petrarchan sonnets often conflate desires with a physical object that the line is often blurred. Desire is not an object; it is a state of mind if left unchecked would consume the individual. Shakespeare asserts “all this the world well knows; yet none knows well / To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell”, clearly we are well aware of the innate paradox when consumed with lust but we indulge ourselves knowing the outcome (“Sonnet 129” 13-14). The poet’s impersonal tone never once states that the subject of the sonnet was himself, but the vehemence of the voice behind it suggests otherwise, the poet knowing full well the effects of lust surrenders to his own lustful desires and lashes out for the lack of his better judgment. His malicious tone, “perjured, murd’rous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust” signifies a kind of hatred towards the woman that can inspire such lust and lack of control (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 129” 3-4). Such is the paradox of irresistible desire, once fulfilled it is quickly replaced with great disgust and hate.

Shakespeare recognizes that there is only shame at the end of the road for lust, that the desire aroused by a woman is superfluous and sexual. Desire exists at the very core of our being, “had, having, and in quest to have” and we constantly seek it out only to repeat a foul vicious cycle again (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 129” 10). According to Plato’s Symposium, human beings were originally thought to be whole androgynous hermaphrodites with no visible gender; Zeus later decided that they were too numerous and they were split into their constituent male and female parts. Male and female lovers are then thought seek out and constitute each other, that in their flawed physical union, they were at least whole in the flesh. However, therein lies the root of the problem; sexual union is limited to the realm of the flesh. Humans are then cursed to continually seek out their perfect partners, only to find that at something is inherently lacking in each other, in their failed union; it is like attempting to mend two broken pieces of glass, no matter how carefully mended, the cracks are still visible and the imperfections still exist. As Adam said to Eve in Milton’s Paradise Lost, “Part of my soul, I seek thee, and thee claim / My other half” (Milton, “Book IV”, 487-488). Such desire is inevitable but it is also vacuous at the same time, because one cannot wholly possess another person completely; even so it is only for a short moment during sexual intercourse. This form of desire will never be fully satisfied due to the limitations of sexual intercourse. An individual is still a half, despite two lovers becoming one together, once left alone however, an individual is divided again and the process of desire repeats itself.

Up till now, the discussion of desires in loves unrequited and in lusts wasted has been limited to a man’s desire for a woman. Shakespeare complicates this by introducing a love triangle of a beautiful young man and a married dark lady. Shakespeare places this young man on a pedestal of sonnet worship in the style of Petrarch. However, he consigns this dark lady to twenty-five sonnets that “dwell on her imperfections and falsehoods and the paradox that nevertheless she inspires physical desire” earlier discussed in “Sonnet 129” and “Sonnet 130” (Barber 660). Shakespeare clearly scoffs at his desires, yet unable to break free from them. In contrast to the sonnets addressed to the young man, “there is exultant contemplation of the beloved’s beauty and cherishing of his whole identity but nothing of specific bodily prurience” (Barber 660). Clearly, there is a difference in the kinds of love he lavishes on the two; to the young man the love expressed is more lofty and reverent; to the dark lady it is unabatedly physical and sexual.

In my opinion, this is Shakespeare’s attempt at breaking out of the paradoxical impasse of desire. In “Sonnet 138”, it is clear that his desire for the dark lady is purely sexual, so much so that her blatant lies do not bother him, “I do believe her, though I know she lies” (Shakespeare, 2). Her infidelity is not an issue; to him she is only a tool for which to reassure his insecurities despite “wherefore say not I that I am old” (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 138” 10). Therefore, in exchange for her sexual favours, he is assured of his sexual prowess. Yet even he knows that this must fade with the ravages of time, this dalliance with the dark lady is merely “simple truth suppress’d” (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 138” 8). The final couplet “Therefore I lie with her and she with me, and in our faults by lies we flatter’d be” signals his resignation to the temptations of desire for “love’s best habit is in seeming trust”; that pretence and embracing desire is much easier and less painful than confronting the shames of lust (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 138” 13-14, 11). Shakespeare succumbs to this impasse of sexual desires, imperfect, lacking and flawed as it is, he offers another source to supplant what is missing from this desire that sex alone cannot fulfill: the young man.

While the love he has for the dark lady is clearly eros or erotic love, the love he has for the young man is that of caritas or altruistic love. It is through the young man that the poet experiences “the sum of life’s powers and perfections”; Barber is suggesting that the young man satisfies the poet’s desire for a more intellectual and wholesome relationship than the dark lady’s purely sexual relationship (660). Barber states, “there was a cult of friendship in the Renaissance …[that] set ideal friendship between men above love for a woman” and that it was not uncommon for Elizabethans to use the term “‘lover’ between men without embarrassment” (660). This can be seen in “Sonnet 20”, when Shakespeare refers to the young man as “the master mistress of my passion” where ‘passion’ here refers to the strong feelings the young man enraptures him with, beyond that of mere sexual desires (2). The final line acknowledges that sexual relations between men “had no place in Elizabethan social life” hence Shakespeare defines their relationship as such: “Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their [woman’s] treasure” (Barber 661, “Sonnet 20” 14). Shakespeare’s intention here is that he should enjoy the ‘passion’ of love of his young friend while they procure the treasures of female sexual favours to satisfy what is lacking in their friendship. Evidently this coincides with the mercantile treatment of the female body, the poet merely makes use of her to satisfy the needs of male sexuality. In retrospect, it is not too different with the laissez-faire attitude he has for the dark lady in “Sonnet 138”: “Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue” their sexual relationship with each other is thus based mutual benefit and exchange which stands in stark contrast to the caritas he freely gives: “Mine by thy love” for the young man (Shakespeare, 7, “Sonnet 20” 14).

Indeed, the love expressed for the young man is love expressed by “identification rather than sexual possession”, it is the kind of love that “galvanizes his whole consciousness”, a process of finding “himself renewed in his friend” (Barber 662). I think that his relationship with the young man is a form of rebirth if not redemption from the debilitating effects of his guilt-ridden and shameful sexual relationship with the dark lady. Even though he cannot have a fulfilling sexual relationship with his friend, nevertheless it provides a reprieve from the paradox of loving a woman. But this solution for the paradox of desire is ultimately transient however, for the young man and the dark lady are “like two spirits do suggest me still” (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 144” 2). In “Sonnet 144”, it becomes clear that the young man though a “better angel” is not able to completely replace the “worser spirit” of the dark lady; this is despite him favouring the companionship of his friend for fulfilling his intellectual and cerebral needs, it seems as if he still cannot do without the sexual fulfillment of the dark lady (Shakespeare, 3-4).

Hence the poet arrives at a dilemma again and this is given visual effect by, “To win me soon to hell, my female evil tempteth my better angel from my side” (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 144, 5-6). Shakespeare here presents us with the tug-of-war between the ‘female evil’ and the ‘better angel’ for his soul; not unlike the ‘Good Angel’ and ‘Evil Angel’ in Doctor Faustus, reminding us of the pyschomachia tradition where the young man can be construed as a personified Virtue and the dark lady, Vice. As much as the poet here tries to blame the dark lady for “Wooing his purity with her foul pride”, he does not actively seek the truth: “Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt / Till my bad angel fire my good one out” automatically assuming the worst outcome (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 144” 8, 13-14). Clearly, Virtue and Vice are two irreconcilable concepts, and Shakespeare’s delicate balancing act between the two up till “Sonnet 144” falls apart miserably. What is even more disturbing is that Shakespeare does not attempt to confirm his suspicions instead is willing to languish in his self-doubt. The final line suggests that he is convinced that the dark lady has tempted the young man away from his side, that Vice has won the day. But what he is also saying is that the young man is ultimately masculine, like the poet he has his sexual needs and will ultimately succumb to sexual desires. Albeit Shakespeare demonstrates that love between men is on a higher cerebral level than the purely sexual relationship between men and women; but humans are ultimately limited by their gender and it is their gender bound urges that compel them to fall into the paradox of desire once more. Therefore Shakespeare, despite his valiant attempts returns back to square one again.
It seems that the paradox of desire is a fate to be suffered by humanity, for desire is innate to our being for we are divided individuals all seeking to reconstitute ourselves in our imperfect ways. If this desire that we seek to satisfy by carnal and intellectual means fail, perhaps the only solution left is to satisfy that desire in God. In “Sonnet 53”, the poet directs a question to the divine “What is your substance, whereof are you made, / That millions of strange shadows on you tend?” (Shakespeare, 1-2). Shakespeare recognizes the flawed nature of our sexual union and he understands that God is able to tend to ‘millions of strange shadows’ and fulfill their desire for union at a much higher spiritual level that is not transitory and fleeting. Therefore, if that desire may not be fulfilled in another individual, it may be fulfilled in God through the Eucharist, where one would physically embody and take unto himself the body and blood of Christ in turn reconstituting our divided selves from and fulfilling our desire to be whole again with the body and blood of Christ. However, while this appears to be the solution to the paradox, it may not have been possible for Shakespeare lived during the time of the Reformation where his Catholic heritage had to be suppressed, neither was he overtly religious. Perhaps he did see it as a possibility, but living the Reformation where one could not profess his faith freely kept him from taking this option. Then perhaps Shakespeare’s intention was merely to seek more understanding in the cosmos and life in general with his sempiternal question of “What is your substance, whereof are you made” (Shakespeare, “Sonnet 53, 1).

Certainly Shakespeare has managed to escape from the Petrarchan despair of not being able to obtain the object of his desire. Yet he stumbles upon the bottomless pit of shame with his craven and paradoxical desire for the dark lady. And as much as he tries to supplement his sexual desires with his more intellectual desire with the young man, he realizes that he cannot have both and is caught once more by the unanswerable question posed by the Petrarchan sonneteers. Shakespeare himself did not proffer the solution to turn to God for the answer to the paradox of desires; nonetheless, as seen by the religious matter sprinkled sparingly throughout the sequence of sonnets, I think there was a desire however small to seek God as an outlet for life’s unanswerable questions be it regarding the paradoxes of our human desire, or not.

Works Cited
Shakespeare, William. “Sonnets.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2006. 1062-1076. Print.
Milton, John “Paradise Lost” The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2006. 1908-1927. Print.
Greenblatt, Stephen, and Abrams M.H., eds. The Norton Anthology of English Literature. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2006. Print.
Shakespeare, William. “William Shakespeare Sonnet 53 What is your substance, whereof are you made” William Shakespeare The Complete Works. 16 November 2008. 25 November 2010.
Barber, C. L. “Shakespeare in His Sonnets” The Massachusetts Review 1.4 (1960): 648-672. Print.

Medieval Lit Essay.

2010-12-06T19:32:00.000+08:00

Aaron Lim Si Ru
Dr. Walter Wadiak
HL201: English Literature to 1500
29 November 2010

Power of the Human Agency against the Divine.

Throughout the Middle Ages, the gods and their divine influences were thought to play a major role in the lives of men. The gods in Chaucer’s work are often depicted as agents of great change in the lives of his characters. Henryson, Scottish Chaucerian that he is also explores the positions of man and god in his Testament of Cresseid. Henryson in making use of the divine agency to cast judgment upon Cresseid suggests that there exists a hierarchy of being between man and god in medieval thought. I shall attempt to reveal the depth of influence the gods were thought to have over the realm of human affairs, overt or otherwise. To me, the passive and helpless treatment of Cresseid’s predicament then be seen as metaphors for the limitations of the human agency against the dominion of the gods, as well as the capricious Wheel of Fate.

The world of the Testament of Cresseid is embroiled in war, violence and the destruction of life. Thus, on the surface it seems as if the poem is aimed at evoking the readers’ sympathy for Cresseid’s predicament as the “‘wofull end of this lustie Creisseid’ are punctuated three times by passionate, highly amplified exclamations of grief” (Craun 26). Sklute also points out that many critics agree that the threefold nature of her sufferings suggests that the eventual and noble acceptance of her fate can be construed as a kind of salvation (196). Sklute however argues that we “automatically assume a Christian vision on the part of the author” because the graphic “disfigurement and disintegration of his heroine understandably makes us want her to be saved as a means of consoling ourselves for her miserable plight” (196). In my opinion, not only does the poem not offer Cresseid any chance for salvation, it also condemns her. In fact the whole poem points at the eventual doom of Cresseid, engineered and influenced by the divine powers.

If we were to examine the astrological influences, Venus and Cupid are the prime divinities in the poem; there is not a hint of a benign divinity with perhaps the only exception being Juppiter, “God of the starnis… and nureis to all thing generabill” but he offers no reply to Cupid’s merciless indictment of Cresseid’s blasphemy (170). Their power however is uncontested, “quhilk hes power of all thing generabill / To reull and steir be their greit influence” (148, 149). Phoebus the god of light and rationality is placed in direct opposition to the ascendant Venus, and “hir goldin face” replaces his light of the sun (13). Phoebus here is clearly “on the wane”, the sun never rises in the poem but rather sets twice, first in the introduction, second right before the Complaint of Cresseid (Sklute 189). According to Sklute “in the planet god sequence he [Phoebus] is deprived of his own agency, riding in – not guiding – his own chariot, drawn across the sky and doun into the sey” (189). Henryson’s presentation of the planets in descending order is also rather revealing of his opinion on the weight of their influence. Mann states “Chaucer’s creations of a cosmic perspective all take the form of a movement upwards and outwards” (96). Henryson’s Testament however contrasts with the Chaucerian tradition, “the order in which the planets appear suggests a movement downwards and inwards” (96). This frighteningly claustrophobic effect of the planets “discending fra thair spheiris”, having the cosmos themselves “bearing down on Cresseid” we are able to see the weighty backlash of circumstances on Cresseid’s deeds (Mann 96, 147). This reinforces in a very tangible way the influence the divine agency has that “man’s smallest actions invoke a crushing burden of inevitable consequence” (Mann 96).

With the apparent emphasis on the divine, it is not surprising to note that the sufferings of Cresseid only come near the end of the poem. Henryson places the focus on the gods in the introduction and Cupid’s trial. Since Venus and Cupid are at the centre of the divine agency in this poem, their realm of influence is greatly reflected in the content of this poem. Venus is the Goddess of Love and her influence over this realm of human affairs is described as,

Quhilk Venus hes in reull and governance,
Is sum tyme sweit, sum tyme bitter and sour,
Rich unstabill and full of variance, (233-235)

There is also a “late medieval tendency to equate Venus with the Goddess Fortuna”; the above description of Venus is also quite similar to how Fortuna turns the Wheel of Fortune “instead of the traditional iconography of Venus, ‘naked, fletynge in the large se’, with her garland of roses and her fluttering doves” (Mann 98). Cresseid having enjoyed the height of her fortune is clearly on the downward spiral of the Wheel. “If Venus is fickle, then any who follow her – like Cresseid – must of necessity be fickle” (Sklute 193). This also reflects Henryson’s take on the mercurial nature of erotic love on Cresseid’s part for her “history is in itself an illustration of Venus’ ‘gret variance’” (Mann 98). This troubling conflation could explain Cupid’s merciless indictment focusing singularly on Cresseid’s act of blasphemy, effectively criminalising her and his attempt at disassociating her from Venus. This not only foreshadows her inevitable end but it also reinforces the absolute judgment of the gods and their divine and arbitrary influence over the realm of human affairs.
The narrator himself is not exempt from divine whim, indeed Henryson ensures that the narrator is well aware of the fact; Aries sends down “schouris of haill gart fra the north discend… and causit [him] remufe aganis my will” (6, 21). The narrator functions like a medieval bard, Henryson gives him “ane uther quair I tuik” so we recognize that the narrator is merely recounting a story, and that both the bard and his story must exist under the auguries of the divine. The narrator also “traistit that Venus… to quhome sum tyme I hecht obedience”, yet despite that Venus did not grant him his desires for his obedience, “and in the auld the curage doif and deid” (22,23,32). This is a possible reason for the judgmental and often mocking tone behind the narrator’s voice, Sklute describes him as “a shrewd old man who makes up in moral righteousness for what he lacks in sexual potency”; it is no wonder that his brand of ‘moral righteousness’ is rigid and without mercy. It is upon the influence of these two deities that the narrator pens the Testament “of fair Cresseid, that endit wretchitlie” (63). In a sense, he is appointing himself the arbiter of human affairs of the characters in the Testament, casting judgment upon Cresseid; indeed we often notice the frequent and timely interjections of the narrator in key events. The narrator can thus be seen as a representation of the divine agency as I attempt to highlight the judgmental aspects of his voice.

Before the introduction of Cresseid, he first introduces “fair Venus, the bewtie of the nicht”, and Venus is later described with “greit variance, quhyles perfyte treuth and quyhles inconstance”; the narrator later conflates the image of the goddess with Cresseid as he first introduces her as ‘fair’ as well. Clearly he is preparing the reader to confront the faithlessness and wanton promiscuity of Cresseid before she even appears; the reader is given an impression of Cresseid before she even speaks; the narrator has in fact given us the predicated fate of Cresseid. The narrator interjects, “I have pietie thow suld fall sic mischance”, it appears as if the narrator commiserates with her misfortune, his apparent underlying jealousy of Cresseid (due to him being unfavoured by Venus) recently under the favour of Venus and Cupid suggests that he is merely being schadenfreude in his show of ‘pietie’. Notice that the narrator is quick to excuse her almost immediately “I sall excuse als far furth as I may” then blames in on her “womanheid” all over again. Recall that the narrator says he is acting under the auguries of the gods, namely Venus herself, therefore it supports the idea that Cresseid’s path in the poem is slowly being carved out for her by the narrator (and by extension the gods’ as well), gradually being revealed to us just a step earlier before Cresseid herself takes it (61). Cresseid here does not have a choice in the matter, and it is intriguing to note that she doesn’t even seem to want to have a choice in the matter, throughout the poem she merely laments her misfortunes one after another. Henryson hints at her eventual end with the title of his poem as well. At first in Cupid’s judgment scene, her testament can be read as evidence; her infidelity and sexual transgressions are a testament to her sins. However, the meaning for the word ‘testament’ changes as she “maneir maid hir testament” as a final will before her death (576). Here the divine interpretation of her testament eventually shapes the final testament of Cresseid herself. The conflation of the two meanings reminds us again of the precedence the divine agency takes before that of the human agency.

As noted earlier, Cresseid is an inherently passive character, she does not act, she merely reacts to the events thrust upon her; her reactions are also mostly self centred. The first lament of Cresseid occurs when Diomeid had his fun with her and had “hir excludit fra his companie” (75). Without the presence of her protector and lost in an alien land she launches into her lament; blaming “fals Cupide” and his blind mother Venus for her fate as a sexual outcast (134). In doing so, she absolves herself of responsibility over her own life and subjects herself to the influence of the gods. After Saturn metes out his punishment, the narrator intercedes for her “O cruell Saturne, fraward and angrie, Hard is thy dome and to malitious” (323-324). This is unconvincing because he of all people should know the arbitrary nature of the gods’ decision. If the narrator had meant to be more convincing, he should have interceded during Cupid’s judgment instead of interceding in the midst of her punishment. In retrospect, his plea evinces no sympathy from the readers; it is technically pointless and forces us to question the narrator’s true intent. Her second lament comes after she has been afflicted with leprosy by the gods, her father finds out and “thay togidder murnit had full lang… for he knew weill that their was na succour” (376, 379). It is telling that even for an intermediary between humans and the divine, Calchas is helpless against the will of the gods; needless to say Cresseid is even more powerless and she resorts to blaming her “wicked weird” (385).
In her final lament of the triple “O fals Cresseid and trew knicht Troylus” she finally turns inward and realises that it was she who “clam upon the fickill quheill” of Fortune (546, 550). Cresseid realises that it is not “supernatural malevolence” that was the source of all her misery (Mann 96). Mann argues that divine laws are already in place, something that Cresseid was unaware of until the end. The divine agency is “neither friendly nor hostile; they are the indifferent laws of the universe”, and because Cresseid has disobeyed these laws, she is being punished (95). It doesn’t change the fact that she is a passive character and it is this passiveness that highlights the active influence of the gods on her. The image of Cresseid as a helpless beggar waiting on the streets for alms can thus be seen as a visual metaphor for her passiveness. Some critics argue that “she maybe demonstrating a heroism akin to tragic heroes” but her remark does not in any definite sense indicate a form of salvation (Sklute 196). Given the way the poem was abruptly chopped off, Cresseid’s final proclamation, “Nane but my self as now I will accuse” may actually be construed as a “a resignation to despair” rather than any possible kind of salvation; as well as submission and acknowledgement of the inscrutable and often mutable forces of the divine agency beyond her ken (574, Sklute 196).

Clearly, the influence of the divine plays an important role in medieval life; the Testament of Cresseid is Henryson’s attempt at finding a more definite meaning behind it. Cresseid’s journey through the poem is certainly testament to that kind of epiphany one receives. I cannot help but think that her final realization is merely touching on the tip of the iceberg. The gods’ overt interventions gradually fade away, yet the machinations of the poem continue to guide Cresseid towards her end, a clear hint that the gods work in more ways then one. In the eyes of the medievalists, perhaps it might serve as a lesson in sin and retribution and that the journey of life though determined by the gods can be a meaningful one.

Works Cited
Henryson, Robert. “The Testament of Cresseid” Troilus and Criseyde. Ed. Stephen A. Barney. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc, 2006. Print.
Mann, Jill. “The planetary gods in Chaucer and Henryson” Chaucer Traditions. Ed. Ruth Morse and Barry Windeatt. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Print.
Sklute, M. Larry. “Phoebus Descending: Rhetoric and Moral Vision in Henryson’s Testament of Cresseid.” ELH 44.2 (1977): 189-204. Print.
Craun, D. Edwin. “Blaspheming Her “Awin God”: Cresseid’s “Lamentatioun” in Henryson’s “Testament”.” Studies in Philology 82.1 (1985): 25-41. Print.

20th Century Theatre. Essay.

2010-12-06T19:30:00.002+08:00

Aaron Lim Si Ru
Lecturer Chris Lee Ban Loong
CDP201: 20th Century Theatre: Theory and Practice
19 November 2010

Finding the self in the non-self.

It has always been my belief that drama or theatre, or rather the process of it all, is a long arduous journey that one undertakes to find a deeper understanding of oneself. How ironic, in a society that is filled with people wearing perpetual masks daily. Changing them as the situation demands, everyone else should be a master actor. But they are not, and that’s why we are in this very class, slowly touching our faces and acknowledging the existence of these masks.

CDP101 has been an eye opener; drama club in junior college did little to help. My concept of theatre has been shattered and enlightened. Theatre of Cruelty, Poor Theatre, Theatre of the Absurd, Epic Theatre, Naturalist Theatre, Realist Theatre, there are probably dozens of sub genres that I don’t know about but all the time up till now, I was merely touching the tip of the iceberg in realism. CDP101 did a right job in providing a diverse introduction of the myriad theatrical conventions. We were given the freedom to create, experiment and put together a presentation with only a guiding, however not a masterful directorial hand.

CDP101 is like an exploratory module. CDP201 is the ‘real’ introductory module towards theatre. Theory is substantiated with consolidated with practice and honed with execution. It’s back to the basics, the root of theatre. The differing theatrical practices today all stem from a single root of expression, simply put they are all different means of expressing our very human condition. Thus, 20th Century theatre is perhaps an attempt at reconciling all these diverse forms of theatrical practices. I shall attempt an analogy of a tree; the branches of the tree are like the differing theatrical practices that we have learnt from the masters. All these practices however come from a single trunk of knowledge, of how the body works. The roots are thus like the different methodologies that constitute how the body works; voice, breath, movement. My understanding of the class is that 20th Century theatre is an attempt at the holistic understanding of how elements in this whole ‘tree’ influence one another.

In a general manner of speaking, our first foray into the theatrical space, we carry with us our preconceived notions, our emotional baggage, and most of all our selfhood. We have an identity, a name and a self. Yet, as actors we are required to take upon us a fictional identity, one which is inherently at war with our ‘master’ identity. In Chekhov’s opinion, “actors must reach beyond their everyday lives and feelings, into the realm of their Higher Self”, a self that is unburdened by “emotion memory” (Daboo 269). Chekhov requires his actors to cast aside their emotionally laden selves before they can become good actors. Chekhov likens the actor’s burdened state of mind, as being like a “small dirty envelope” because in theatre, a good actor must needs be able to take on a diverse range of roles, “our real-life memories do not offer enough potential in themselves for this transformation on stage” (Daboo 269). Therefore to access the unfamiliar actors must first let go of their own emotional memory, actors need to become impressionable again, actors need to undergo metamorphosis for it “enriches and expands the consciousness” (Daboo 269). This notion perhaps sheds some insight to when you said we were not characters but ‘actors’ in our penultimate rehearsal.

Stanislavsky adopts a slightly different approach of what he terms as ‘Solitude in Public’. In essence an actor is asked to visualize a circle where he must focus his attention, and this circle is the realm of his acting; “within the circle… nothing exists but the world of the stage” (Wegner 87). In the same way, actors are asked to cast away all exterior influences and distractions, to train the mind upon the realm of the stage. Whilst entering into the state of ‘Solitude in Public’, one is still aware and conscious of the ‘public’ space, which could refer to the audience and other actors; ‘solitude’ then refers to the level immersion within the character, the imaginary circle that surrounds the actor.

One can see influences of both these methodologies in the practices we do in class. We are asked to be aware of the ‘I’, the ‘Us’, the ‘We’ and the ‘Them’, differing levels of awareness and consciousness, which we must acquire. If one were to visualize, it would be like drawing concentric circles around each actor, each larger than the first, with the first as the awareness of ‘I’ around the actor as the deepest level of concentration. We are then asked to connect on the 2nd level of ‘Us’ with our fellow actor, establishing an almost visceral connection within this ‘visual corridor’. As we move to break this corridor, more concentration is needed to maintain that tenuous link with the level of ‘Us’; this inadvertently leads to something resembling the Stanislavsky’s idea of ‘Solitude in Public’. As we proceeded to introduce disturbances to break into this ‘circle of self’ we had to strike a balance between completely thrown off and completely ignorant of these disturbances, we are likewise trying to balance solitude with public awareness. Whilst in this state of awareness, we recited snippets of dialogue from the script. Honestly, I was trying very hard to process all these actions; my bodymind was pushed to its limits. However, there were visible results when I rehearsed after the exercise. The lines showed me a meaning I had never seen, previously I had attempted to understand the lines from my limited life experiences but after the exercise where most of my emotion memory has been scourged, my mind was like a blank piece of paper, free for the lines to imprint their nuances upon me. In doing so, I have to some degree, embodied the requirements of the character rather than striving to represent the character through my own flawed interpretation of it.

In Grotowski’s own words, “ours then is a via negativa – not a collection of skills but an eradication of blocks” (Grotowski 17). For me, creating that corridor to form the realm of ‘us’ is in its own way an eradication of blocks in communication with my fellow actor. It is the opposite of the active and systematic deconstruction of a character, but rather the “requisite state of mind” should be one of “passive readiness to realize an active role, a state in which one does not “want to do that” but rather “resigns from not doing” (Grotowski 17). To put it succinctly, it is to gain knowledge of being a good actor by learning what does not constitute a good actor.

Our progress in theatre it seems depends on how far we are willing to regress past our fixed notions of theatre. Chekhov asks us to ‘unburden’ ourselves; Stanislavsky wants us to limit our awareness into a focused space; Grotwoski tells us to forget. Metaphorically speaking, it is almost as if we are asked to shed off pieces of clothing, which we wear to define ourselves, becoming naked again, free from any clutter physically and mentally as if we are newly born into the space. We like babies slowly become aware of the way we breathe involuntarily, however as we grow, we consciously control and interrupt this innately natural breathing mechanism leading to a loss of ‘kinaesthetic knowledge’. It is this knowledge often referred to as “wisdom of the body” that we seek to recover but unlearning our conscious actions – via negativa (Grotowski 17). Thus, as we work our way down to the basic mechanics of theatre, we are able to draw that line of commonality from the branches all the way to its roots.

During the final presentation, there was a sudden introduction of the rapid exchange in Love a Quartet, and that the whole play could be performed in the same succinct manner. You said that we were taking too much time. Could it be that we were again lapsing into trying to infuse our own meaning into the lines instead of letting them speak to us? All that I have ‘learnt’ for the play was thrown out of the window, I realised that I was becoming aware of the changes that I was making. So much so that at times during the actual presentation I was questioning what I was supposed to be doing, but there is no answer to that question, it is all written in the lines. There is no motivation behind the character, there is only meaning imbued within the lines. There is no subtext hidden between the lines, there is only the context in which the lines are spoken. Therefore, instead of trying to read into the subtext, I should simply react according to the context of the play. Perhaps Joseph was right, we weren’t really learning to act; we were merely beginning to learn to read closely.

At the end of the course, I have not learnt much about acting, except maybe learning about the uses of certain dramatic exercises, but nothing really specific about how to act. Yet, I feel as if I have come away as a different person, drama isn’t really about how to act, but how one sees things. The whole journey was like removing a veil from my eyes, teaching me to see many things, which my old eyes will have missed. After this removal of blocks, perhaps only now the path of learning can finally begin.
1571 Words.

Works Cited
Daboo, Jerri. “Michael Chekhov and the embodied imagination: Higher self and non-self” Studies in Theatre and Performance. 27.3 (2007): 261-273. Print.
Grotowski, Jerzy. Towards a Poor Theatre. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1968. Print.
Wegner, William H. “The Creative Circle: Stanislavski and Yoga” Education Theatre Journal. 28.1 (1976): 85-89. Print.

Classical Lit Essay.

2010-12-06T19:30:00.001+08:00

Aaron Lim Si Ru
M. Jeeshan
HL 107: Classical Literature
16 April 2010

Determining Determinism in Greek Culture.

Determinism is the notion that every event, including the effect of supposed free will, is causally determined by prior events and thus free will is theoretically impossible, at least in the context of most Greek culture. For most aspects of human life in ancient Greece, the gods hold a great amount of influence, exerting their authority over human events, essentially dictating human life; any rebellion against godly authority is often met with dire consequences. Determinism represented in the authority of gods over human life then emerges as a common theme in Greek Literature as classical writers attempt to understand the relationship between humans and the gods.

Elements of determinism can be seen in many examples of Greek literature, chiefly in the epics because the writers typically invoke the Muses to guide their writing as seen in the very first line of The Odyssey as Homer writes, “Sing in me Muse, and through me tell the story” (Homer 1). In doing so, Homer relinquishes his will to the Muses to determine his epic, in other words, he is merely transcribing the will of the gods; that it is a work sparked from divine inspiration rather than the creative spark of mortal imagination. Most known Greek histories are passed down as oral traditions, the notion that that the gods guide these stories and epics, lends these stories an air of authority. Such epics then become deterministic of Greek culture as the Greeks strive to emulate the glories and successes of the heroes in said epics. In a sense, the determinism of the gods becomes transposed into stories that serve as instruction for the Greeks.
In Book 1 of The Odyssey, the place of the gods are established clearly, the epic itself is directed by the inspiration of Muses as Homer implores them to “lift the great song again” to impart this piece of oral history to the Greek peoples (Homer 1). Zeus himself lays down the dire consequences of defying the gods’ will as represented in Aigisthos ignoring Hermes’ warning and willfully commits adultery with Agamemnon’s wife. Not only does this particular episode foreshadow the dire consequences of mortals attempting to skirt the authority of the gods, it is also a declaration of the gods’ influence over the lives of men, that their will is inescapable and a clear indication that men lack the ability to make independent decisions; always kept in check by the gods’ warnings either knowingly or unknowingly. While the gods do not always directly interfere with human lives, they act as deterrents that serves as part of a causal chain in the decision-making process of the Greeks, leading to an outcome determined by such prior events.

As Homer himself is writing under the auspices of the gods, Odysseus his protagonist is likewise a pawn in the game of chess between the gods in The Odyssey. Athena discusses Odysseus’ fate with Zeus in Book 1, not only does this show that Odysseus is no longer a free agent, it highlights the god’ intervention on human life that the path he should take is being decided for him. The gods, in the beginning of Book 5, indeed heavily determine his journey; they hold a council once more to decide his fate and Zeus declares “make it known to the softly-braided nymph that we, whose will is not subject to error, order Odysseus home” and Hermes is sent to release Odysseus from Calypso’s grasp (Homer 82). Odysseus is clearly placed at the mercy of the gods’, completely dependent of on the auspices of the Pantheon. His imprisonment by Calypso can thus be seen as a metaphor of divine control over his life; his own free will is forfeit to that of the gods. It is also telling that while Homer expounds the various qualities of his hero, Odysseus for all his wit, guile and intelligence, is unable to break free from Calypso, a clear indication that human will is ultimately privy to deterministic will of the gods. Thus, even as Odysseus expresses the desire to return home, that will to do so is inconsequential unless granted freedom by the gods.

Aside from the direct decree of the gods charting the events of human life, their influence manifests in other forms as well. As he is freed from Calypso, Odysseus sets sail for the island for Scheria, charms the princess Nausicaa and obtains safe passage to the court of the Phaeacians. Though these may appear as decisions made by Odysseus of his free will, they too have been guided by the divine to come to pass. Odysseus navigates his way using the stars to find land and spots Scheria, this may seem like an act independent of divine will but Zeus has already decreed in the beginning of Book 5 that “he shall make land upon the garden isle, Scheria” (Homer 82). Furthermore, it was Athena who appears to Nausicaa in a dream urging her, “how so remiss… leaving thy clothes uncared for, Nausicaa” to wash her clothes by the river creating the ‘chance’ encounter with Odysseus (Homer 100). Even as Odysseus appears to win Nausicaa’s trust through his own charms, it is Athena who secures that trust by making Odysseus especially handsome that Nausicaa falls for him and provides him the passage to seek help with Arete, queen of the Phaecians. Odysseus is thus provided with the illusion that his success is due to his intelligence and charm, unknowing of the fact that his actions have been altered by divine will. Therefore, even though Odysseus does display instances of free will in his actions when not being overtly commanded by the gods, his actions are merely a single event in a long chain of determined events put into action by unseen causes. This raises a possibility that free will could be an illusion, that the decisions made could have been caused by prior events and not necessarily stemming from one’s ‘free’ will; reinforcing the notion that free will is an alien concept in Greek culture that their lives are ultimately determined by forces beyond their ken.

The gods in The Odyssey appear as arbiters of human affairs united under the collective will of Zeus, yet it is troubling to note that they are not as impartial as arbiters ought to be as can be seen in Calypso’s indignant indictment of “you vile gods, in jealousy supernal”, a clear indication of the double standards of the Pantheon of which Hermes conveniently ignores (Homer 84). Clearly, though they are gods, they are not as immune to human foibles as they should be, Ovid’s Metermorphoses shall offer more insights. The fact that the Greeks have created so many deities to govern diverse aspects of human life instead of a singular divine entity seems to hint that the gods are merely divine representations of human experiences. Indeed, in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the gods are portrayed as imperfect beings with many human faults, underscoring the perfect divine beings they are supposed to be. It is thus ironic to see Apollo, the god of pure reason succumb to the irrationality of love and as a god of medicine helpless with “no herb to cure [his] passion” (Ovid 23). Even Jove the ruler of the Pantheon is not as all-powerful as he is portrayed to be, “as Jove was about to hurl his thunderbolts at the whole earth, he stayed his hand: he was afraid that all those flames might set the sacred sky ablaze”, thus he is still limited in the aspect that he is unable to fully grasp the consequences of his actions (Ovid 13). Evidently the Olympian Pantheon is far from perfect; its gods are troubled by eros, embroiled in petty conflicts with each other, often ruled by their passions than by logic. All these evidences point to the existence of a higher power above that of the Olympian gods. Ovid mentions an unnamed divinity during the cosmogony of the universe, “a god-and nature” representative of all the primal forces of existence, compared to the Olympians whose scope is only limited to that of human experience (Ovid 3). The limitations of the Olympians serve only to reinforce the fact that they alone cannot be considered as the sole agents of determinism as they appear to be influenced by a higher power. Thus the Olympians become subordinate to the deterministic forces we thought they once wielded, therefore instead of the Olympians acting as the absolute arbiters they can be seen as intermediaries of deterministic forces.
Determinism being an unbroken chain of prior occurrences can be traced back to the origin of the universe, where the first uncaused cause sets off a chain of events. It is the one being which does not move, but rather one who attracts movement causing the primordial swerve to spark off creation and a whole chain of events akin to the domino effect. Although human life in Greek literature is often depicted as guided by the mandate of the Pantheon, the Olympian gods are themselves determined by a power far above their own, even they have to submit to the caprice of the fates. If The Odyssey’s place in the Greek canon is representative of Greek culture, the way that Odysseus is ultimately bound by his fate, free will in Greek culture simply exists as an illusory concept.
1550 Words.

Works Cited
Ovid. The Metamorphoses of Ovid. Trans. Allen Mandelbaum. San Diego: A Harvest Book Harcourt, Inc. 1993. Print.
Homer. The Odyssey. Trans. Robert Fitzgerald. London: Vintage Books. 2007. Print.

Introduction to Theatre.

2010-12-06T19:29:00.000+08:00

Aaron Lim Si Ru
Jocelyn Chua
CDP 101: Introduction to Theatre and Performance Skills
14 April 2010

Being Hungry

We fell upon Hungry by Ng Yi Sheng by pure chance, it was a piece that attracted me in a very primal way after taking a more in depth reading into it. I’m not surprised that I missed it earlier when I came across the book; it simply struck me as too absurd. But beyond that façade of absurdity lay the very raw desires of the characters, something that could be easily molded into various theatrical practices beyond what other scripts permitted. The themes of desire and of breaking free from stereotypes were universal enough to be explored in different aspects. Therefore, after rummaging through a few plays that were too restricting, we settled on Hungry.

Hungry was essentially non-naturalistic in its storyline, of dead people, a forgotten god and a corporeal form of death. The setting too was sparse, it never specified where the play takes place, we can’t be sure if it’s hell or purgatory or somewhere in between. The playhouse although well capable of creating wondrous effects, incorporating all of that into a 10 minute production would have been too much of a stretch without compromising our theatre and performance skills. Since “Brecht was against the use of lighting effects to create atmosphere and mood” we decided to emulate his style of epic theatre to make full use of our resources (Erstin 121). Taking into account the minimalist stage, props, sets and the absence of lighting, it has also served to dispel “any illusion of reality”, with a lone toilet bowl seat as a set; which, by itself would have achieved to some extent the V-effect in estranging the audience from any illusory form of reality (Erstin 110).

We placed much emphasis on the notion of wanting liberation in death due to the ambiguity of the entire setting. It is neither hell nor heaven, and essentially it became an exploration of the characters wanting freedom from this limbo realm. This medium of representation resonated with Brecht’s idea of ‘epic’ theatre where “the complexity of the human condition… could no longer be understood in isolation from… social, economical and historical forces” affecting the lives of people (Erstin 111). Simply put, the human condition cannot be understood by exploring the psyche of an individual, but rather through our relationship and reactions towards socio-political influences in our lives. Which stands in direct contrast to naturalistic theatre’s exploration of a character of ‘psychological gestures’, ‘epic’ theatre is anything but; Brecht seeks to educate his audience by highlighting human relationships because “the smallest social unit is not one human being, but two human beings” (Erstin 118). Brecht does not care for the inner workings of a character; he is more concerned with how their inner desires are expressed in their outward attitudes and actions, even Machu’s monologue is directed at the audience to forge a social relationship, unlike other self reflexive monologues in naturalistic productions. Likewise, we needed to do away with characterization and focus in finding a political or social message to portray in Hungry through the expression of human relationships. Liberation as it seems was merely a theme of expression, while Brecht in his view thinks that “the audience… should not be made to feel emotions, it should be made to think”, to be critical and not to be immersed in the play; our version is anything but (Erstin 110). We found ourselves instinctively trying to ‘get into character’ which was a naturalistic technique of finding the psychological gesture behind a character. We had to banish that mindset and find specific ways to shatter the illusion of reality.

Keeping in mind the theme of liberation, we decided to take a political slant, questioning a totalitarian regime and the characters’ fight for freedom. What was originally Chinese Communism gradually evolved into Nazi Fascism simply because fascist governments adopted a more authoritarian stance coupled with the will and ability to carry out violence when necessary to achieve its goals. As I was originally cast as Death, the fascist government was portrayed in the archetype of Death as the absolute arbiter, representing the authoritarian power of the fascist government and the strangling grasp of dictatorship. Death was a challenge to grasp or rather it was a challenge trying to grasp the gestures representative of a fascist government. The script however did not seem to resonate with fascist authoritarian overtones, my Death turned out to be an insidious agent that acts behind the shadows rather than an omnipotent dictator that Death is supposed to be. Yet it was a challenge to strip down the script without losing much of its meaning, struggling to maintain coherence of the plot and facing the difficulty of portraying the political message, relying instead of sets and sounds to relay the message. We were regressing back into naturalistic theatre, which Brecht eschews.

After the full dress rehearsal, we realized that we lacked constancy in our presentation, lacked conciseness in the episodic stories that felt rather naturalistic. Some actors left the stage while others remained in tableau; hence the V-effect was lost becoming more of naturalistic theatre with exits and entries. Episodic stories were unclear, as they didn’t convey the political message in a succinct manner; the episodes were leaning towards naturalistic expression, hence we were not able to fully shatter the illusion of reality. There came a need focus on the social relationships between each character and how they react to each other to flesh out our political agenda. Brecht placed heavy emphasis on “the clear and stylized expression of the social behavior of human beings toward each other”, in the way which Brecht shifts the focus away from the psychological workings of the actor, he emphasizes the way the characters react with each other (Erstin 119). Hence, actors that are not involved in the episodic stories are frozen in tableau; a character like Death is omnipresent but does not participate in conversation is often blank-faced and does not react to the other actors. In juxtaposition, the other actors’ exchanges are often flatly stylized or overtly emotional in a stilted manner, using specific actions to communicate social relationships between the characters.

Several changes were in order; the entire script was rewritten, retaining only the original mother-child scene. Minor casting adjustments were made; I took the role of Sarah (now known as Salah hoping to achieve an alienation effect), Ziting took the role of Death. The rationale for this change was to concretize the social relationships between the characters, there was some unease with the old pairings, I felt that Ziting was being overshadowed by Lester, and by casting her as Death the omnipotent one, would give her more space to explore without being pressured to perform on par with Lester’s high level of energy. Furthermore, the episode of the lesbian artist and the student was not clearly shown during the rehearsal, and there wasn’t adequate time to fully flesh out individual stories.

Since Brecht believed that the smallest social unit was two human beings, we pushed homosexuality up a notch to portray Guak and Salah’s relationship as gay lovers being prosecuted for their love. The mother-child episode is left unchanged, but coupled with the homosexual episode; it served to reinforce the innocent and pure notions of love being mercilessly crushed by a brutal fascist regime. The scene where Death dances with Machu is vaguely reminiscent of the same sex pairing between Guak and Salah, I am hoping the parallel would evoke the spirit of criticism within the audience, forcing them to question even further the motivations behind Death as Brecht himself would have intended.
Death as the omnipresent character stands in stark contrast to both episodes, she represents the cold-blooded hand of the government snuffing out the lives of all the other characters even in death; the scene ends in a tableau of all four characters collapsed on the stage with only Death left standing in centre stage. The line-up party hat scene is in my opinion perhaps the most jarring inversion of expectations we have managed with stilted portrayals of happiness bound in a flat line by the invisible hand of authority. The lines are presented in rapid succession, coupled with the mechanical snapping of heads by the actors, finally ending with the classic Hitler salute with the characters as puppets and Death as the puppeteer to shatter the illusion of reality. Yet despite the stilted delivery our intention was never to eschew emotion, Brecht in no way renounced emotion “but tries to strengthen or to evoke them” within the audience (Erstin 126). Hence, by using alienation techniques and estranging devices to prevent audience identification and empathy with the characters, we hoped to spark audience emotion directed not at the characters but towards the political message we are sending.

Hungry. Even going by the play’s name it was meant to be a negative play, the pure and innocent are invariably crushed, an inversion of expectations from the traditional happy ending or emotional catharsis in tragedy. Brechtian theatre offers no easy resolutions or personal lessons on life, it is a theatre designed to arouse indignation, drawing contradictions, shattering illusions for the deluded; it is a theatre that offers nothing for the audience to take away. Brechtian theatre merely invites the audience in to jar their senses to true reality, leaving them not with satisfaction but with questions.
1551 Words.

Works Cited
Erstin, Martin. Brecht. A Choice of Evils. London: Mercury Books Heinemann Publishing. 1959-1965. Print.

Shaw's Victoria Essay.

2010-12-06T19:27:00.000+08:00

Aaron Lim Si Ru
Michelle Chiang
HL 103: Survey of Literature II
07 April 2010

Lifting the Veil of Victorian Pretensions

In Bernard Shaw’s play, Mrs. Warren’s Profession bitingly satirizes Victorian treatment of women and the supercilious nature of Victorian society as a whole. Similar to the Victorian predilection for saying things by not saying it, Shaw himself invokes satire upon Victorian society by hinting at the social evils without blatantly saying it often creating a comedy of manners. If the Victorian mask of manners can be seen as the first superficial level of society, then the social ills which the mask of manners hide and that Shaw easily exposes can be seen as the second level of society. However Shaw’s caricatured portrayal of characters are clearly aware of the veiled second level of society and their blasé reaction to such social ills hints at a deeper individual moral disintegration. The Victorian predilection for the repression of expression leads to the suffocation of desire as the tight lid of Victorian behavior is sealed over the basic human need for freedom.

Shaw wrote Mrs. Warren’s Profession in 1893, during the Late Victorian Period at the time of the era’s decline. London was considered to be the “centre of civilization, the queen city of the world without peer” vaulted to its apex of the world through rapid industrialization (988). The attention of the Empire was focused on commerce, technological advancement and military conquest. This has in turn led to the widening of the income gap, the gradual disappearance of the middle class and the various failed military engagements at the fringes of the English Empire. As neighboring powers started to challenge English military dominance, the Empire’s influence slipped into decline. However, the English superior impression of themselves did not diminish, they saw it as their moral obligation to colonize and civilize the natives. The “Irish Question” is thus an example of English double standards in exploiting the Irish under the pretense of taking the moral high ground of extending civilization to the Irish. Looking back to domestic issues in England, it appears that this double standard is also practiced with respect to the lower classes. The struggles of the lower classes are attributed to their general immorality rather than the invisible exploitative hand of the aristocracy. With this in mind, Shaw exposes the true nature of prostitution; thus, subverting the expectations we have of religion, education and marriage.

At the beginning of the play, Shaw mercilessly strips away the Victorian mask of manners, using satire and epigrams to clinical effect, blatantly exposing the duplicity of Victorian society. Mrs. Warren is described as “a genial and fairly presentable old blackguard” and Vivie is described as “an attractive specimen of the… middle class Englishwoman” both of which are clearly oxymoronic and conflicting descriptions (1747, 1751). Praed is described as “daunted and conciliatory” while Vivie is described as “strong, confident and self possessed” a clear inversion of Victorian societal expectations for men and women (1746,1747). Shaw shatters the veil of appearances by providing us with a contradictory presentation of the characters, as if their appearances are inherently at odds with their intentions, which is exactly what Shaw intends to expose.

Shaw pokes fun at the hypocrisy of religious authority, complicit with immoral behavior hiding behind the pretense of moral superiority. Reverend Samuel being the only religious figure in the play is ironically portrayed as an ineffectual figure of authority, unable to command respect and one that indulges in the vices of alcohol and prostitution. To add on to his miserable description, his moral character is utterly destroyed by Frank’s recounting of his past deeds where he tried to bribe Mrs. Warren for his letters and Mrs. Warren’s open declaration of their relationship. Religious authority is clearly being abused in Victorian England, “publish and be damned” is telling of the double standards practiced by religious individuals saying that they will not be damned by their sins by virtue of the higher power of God behind them. The so-called moral paragon that is the Church is nothing but a means to manipulate authority for personal gain.

Vivie is a product of education in an industrialized society, though she is described to be “highly educated”; the scope of her education seems painfully limited (1747). Vivie herself says that she knows “next to nothing”, it seems that the core of her education is constituted only of mathematics and basic living functions no more than an “ignorant barbarian” devoid of any moral education (1749). This can be clearly seen in the mechanized and practical manner in which she behaves. In Act 2 at the supper scene, she is fixated on the “supper difficulty” focusing on “counting” and the logistics of the matter instead of the people inconvenienced (1760). Vivie’s obsession with numbers and work is Shaw’s subtle jab at education simply as a means of churning out people as tools to fuel the industrial society.

The sanctity of marriage is cheapened; marriage becomes a form of subjugation for women. Marriage becomes a bargaining chip that that women used as an exchange for social status like Mrs. Warren’s half sister being “held up to us as a model because she married” (1766). Women become commodities expected to perform as domestic or sex workers, marriage thus becomes an exchange of services, a transaction “kept his room and the three children neat and tidy on eighteen shillings a week” (1767). The institution of marriage then becomes a darker form of transaction and exchange of goods in comparison to prostitution because it is legally binding, ironically one sanctioned by the Church.
Shaw states, “that prostitution is caused… by underpaying, undervaluing, and overworking women so shamefully that the poorest of them are forced to resort to prostitution to keep body and soul together” (1745). This is due to English belief in the laissez-faire economy, leading to a lack of labor laws in place to protect women from exploitation at the workplace. Overwork, long hours and harsh working conditions can hardly be construed as honest work, it is no different from exploitation. Between the “whitelead factory” and “the river”, it was basically a choice between dying from exploitation at work or to become a prostitute. Survival for women has ceased to become a choice of morality but rather of two sorts of immorality as noted by Shaw (1746). When prostitution becomes a matter of circumstance rather than choice, it becomes a harsh reflection of Victorian double standards on the commodification of women.

Evidently, Shaw in his blatant portrayal revelation of such hypocritical social practices and his vindication of prostitution seems to hint at something more insidious beneath the mask of satirical humor. While the supercilious civility of Victorian manners does much to accentuate the satire of Victorian society, to me it seems as if there is more to that than meets the eye. In my opinion, what precipitates Shaw’s attack on religion, education and marriage is that the immorality behind these institutions is merely a façade to mask something more detestable and repugnant. It has become a Victorian habit where people “[say] no when [they] meant yes”, certain things are said while a lot are actually left unsaid in the subtext, a dichotomy between appearance and intention (1748).
In the straitlaced Victorian society where many things were taboo, desires were often repressed by societal expectations. The play’s loud redress of biting social issues pummeled at the tightly bound ideals of Victorian society, shattering public opinion of education, religion and marriage, shedding new light into the concept of prostitution as the great evil. Shaw mocks and strips away at the pretensions of these social institutions by revealing their duplicitous natures. People were forced to confront that which they have always closed one eye to, their very primal desires which they have kept so closely guarded, the seething moral rot beneath the Victorian mask of manners. The comedic elements only serve as a temporary escape for the audience unwillingly to confront their desires.
Shaw uses comedy to chilling effect; he tempts the audience to uncomfortable laughter with his mockery of the results of Vivie’s education, Reverend Samuel’s ineffectual religious authority and of the bondage of marriage which Mrs. Warren escaped from. As the typical Victorian audience attempts to come to terms with Shaw stripping away at their pretences, they are slowly being ushered to confront an even darker truth. In Act 1, the characters are flirting in good humor and well established relationships are laid out, Mrs. Warren and Vivie are introduced as mother and daughter, Samuel and Frank are introduced as father and son. However, familial conventions are slowly put into question at the end of Act 1 when Reverend Samuel is hinted to have had a relationship with Mrs. Warren “[appearing] on the threshold, and is immediately transfixed recognizing the clergyman” (1756). Relationships between the characters are plunged into even murkier waters in Act 2 when Samuel “couldn’t tell anyone the reasons” for Vivie and Frank marrying; “Praddy” and “Kitty” using pet names on each other and “[shaking] hands affectionately”; Mrs. Warren refusing to divulge Vivie’s parentage when Vivie asks, “who was my father” (1759, 1763, 1765). Familial conventions are shattered, Crofts or Samuel could be Vivie’s father; Frank and Vivie could be siblings; Praed could be Mrs. Warren’s new customer. Moreover, most of the evidence presented are not overtly revealed in speech but conveyed via intricate stage directions and unspoken hints. However, due to the nature of Mrs. Warren’s profession, we will never know for sure. This scenario that has been presented to the audience is probably one that is true albeit one that has yet to be fully acknowledged because everything else is considered “blessed… but the truth” (1772).

In Act 3 we are finally confronted with the ugly truth, one that has become so repugnant to our senses after Victorian sensibilities has mutated it beyond recognition, veiling it beneath the mask of manners. From uncomfortable laughter in Act 1 to the shattering of conventions in Act 2 to the resounding crescendo that is the rifle scene at the end of Act 3. The audience is rudely confronted with the notion of incest at Crofts’ declaration, “Allow me, Mister Frank, to introduce you to your half-sister, the eldest daughter of the Reverend Samuel Gardner. Miss Vivie: your half-brother” ironically, the ‘truth’ here is hardly a blessed thing (1779). Shaw’s naturalist theatre takes an incisive slice into a typical Victorian household exposes an exact and honest rendering of Victorian life without the intrusion of society’s expectations, inviting the audience to lower their guard to the issues being explored as Shaw systematically strips away the masks of manners then at the social ills which served as a mere façade to hide the disintegration of morals within Victorian society. Frank offers the temptation to “[cover] up in leaves” a biblical allusion to shame, representative of the Victorian knee-jerk reaction to hide once again beneath the mask of pretence like how Frank is pretending that their incestuous relationship is of no consequence at all (1779). Despite hard evidence of such moral disintegration, what’s worse is probably the Victorian penchant here for denial, “the way fashionable morality is all a pretence” which raises the possibility of an amoral Victorian society, and the inability to see for itself the rot that their society has devolved into (1788).

In the closing act, the setting shifts out of the domestic home to the public sphere of Honoria Fraser’s chambers. The characters resume the stilted masks they wear, Vivie immerses herself in work, becoming a purely mechanical being; Frank’s facetiousness comes to the fore as he ignores the fact of their fraternal relations; Praed is still the ever-vacuous Victorian concerned only with his superfluous aesthetic pursuits and nothing else. In the bid to unearth the repressed persona beneath the pretensions of Victorian society, we have unearthed nothing but hollow shells of the characters. Perhaps even the basic desire for freedom has been smothered by strict Victorian conventions, and that the only escape is to conform and lead a lie, a lie which in time has slowly evolved into a twisted kind of truth; that the only means for survival is the seal away the want for freedom.
2023 Words.

Work Cited
Shaw, Bernard. “Mrs. Warren’s Profession.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2006. 988, 1743-1790. Print.

Acting and Representation Essay.

2010-12-06T19:25:00.001+08:00

Aaron Lim Si Ru
Zheng Jie
HL 815: Acting and Representation in Theatre and Film
23 March 2010

Breaking the Mould of Representation and Reality.

Reality is defined as the world within the reach of our five senses. The corporeal world, which we can interact with, is commonly accepted as reality. Anything outside of that realm is deemed the realm of the ethereal and the imaginary. Yet, is the realm of reality merely limited to our sensory perceptions? The Matrix clearly challenges that belief, that the world we perceive are merely electrical signals processed by our brain, so what exactly is ‘real’? In this comparison of Plato’s Theory of Forms and Antonin Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty, the definitions of reality take on myriad forms. Plato perceives reality through the lens of logic, shunning all forms of representation, where Artaud challenges the realm of rational thought, pushing to explore the limits of perception beyond the realm of thought. The notions of mimesis appeal differently to both Plato and Artaud. In Plato’s opinion, representation in Art is twice removed from Truth, which is the highest form of reality. Artaud on the other hand, theorizes that theatre is life; theatre is a form of presentation and not representation, a means to access a higher form of reality beyond the realm of sensory perception. Clearly, for Plato and Artaud, the notion of mimesis cannot be totally abolished in their quest for reality beyond the tangible world. Reality and representation thus share a somewhat tenuous relationship, which I will use to attempt the definition of reality.

Plato’s Analogy of the Divided Line is an expression of the four levels of existence, essentially highlighting the gaps between the visible world and the intelligible world. Representations in his opinion, are the furthest removed from the ideals of philosophical truth, even lower than the realm of physical objects, because they are mere shadows, things that do not actually exist, like a painting of a tree instead of an actual tree that exists in the physical realm. Thus, such representations can only serve to distort our sensory reality. Yet, even the current sensory reality that we live in, that which we can see, touch, feel and taste is a faded one. Compared to the reality of forms, ideals and thought, our physical world is a mere corrupted existence compared to the world of ideal Forms. Therefore, to access the highest and most fundamental kind of reality, of Form, most forms of representation are abolished or discouraged in his utopian Republic.

Ironically, in recording the Socratic dialogues and producing it in the form of dialectic is in itself a form of representation. Plato himself represents Socrates’ speeches into textual form, in essence demoting Socrates’ metaphysical ideas into mere physical ones. Furthermore, in his quest to seek out the ideal reality, he relies on allegories and metaphors, most common of which is known at the Allegory of the Cave. The Allegory itself is again a fictional recount of Socrates dialogue with Glaucon. This highlights the fact that the ideal of forms is clearly not a simple concept that can be grasped with our five senses that we use to determine physical reality. To be able to access the highest form of reality, it must needs be understood through metaphors and allegories that uses our knowledge to bridge to that which was previously unknowable and out of reach to the world of ideal Forms. While other forms of representation distort truth, rendering them mere shadows, his metaphors and allegories serve to bring one closer to the abstract truth.

Clearly, representations cannot be completely alienated from our perceptions of the ideal reality. Hence, we need to define the boundaries of representations. Plato removes evocative forms of music and poetry because Art is a misrepresentation of the divine twice removed from truth causing a deleterious effect upon human morals. While Art is a form of misrepresentation, the literary techniques used in its expression are not, as in Plato’s Allusion of the Cave and the Metaphor of the Sun. Therefore, representation devoid of emotions and based on logic and knowledge instead are the key accessing the abstract. Representations can then be seen as simply mediums to access the ultimate reality, the representations on their own are still mere shadows compared to reality, and such forms of representations must be devoid of evocative elements.

While Plato attempts to define reality, Artaud uses the Theatre of Cruelty to elicit a violent response through his physical determination to dispel what he deems as a false reality, which he said, “lies like a shroud over our perceptions” (Artaud). Artaud sees reality clouded by representation, like cinema and traditional Western theatre. He believed that words restricted the conveyance of real meaning, and advocated, instead, “for a theatre made up of a unique language, halfway between thought and gesture. Artaud described the spiritual in physical terms, and believed that all theatre is physical expression in space”. In retrospect, that is not entirely dissimilar with Plato’s exploration in his Theory of Forms. The only exception being Plato gains access to a higher reality through logic, knowledge and a sense of goodness. While Artaud sought to explore the realm of the imaginary through his theatre, believing them no less real that the physical world. Reality becomes a consensus between theatre and the audience, accepting the fact that when they enter a theatre to see a play and, for a time, pretend that what they are seeing is real. By doing so, Artaud shatters the 4th wall, drawing the audience to meld with the performance as the actors make use of gestures and sounds to evoke a response that is primal, honest and true within the audience, pushing their sensory experience beyond that of logic, relying on metaphorical senses to access unadulterated reality, one that is beyond our normal sensory perception. Theatre according to Artaud then becomes a presentation on life, not mere representation, “for if theatre doubles life, life doubles true theatre” (Artaud). Theatre exposes the real life without any pretensions, producing clarity of mind and perception with the ability to grasp the abstract and by extension a metaphysical form of reality.

Artaud strives to explore reality beyond the realm of rationality and logic via his eschewal of language in the Theatre of Cruelty. He chooses instead to focus on bodily gestures and sounds to transform our concepts of reality. He aims to break the masks of rationality behind which we often huddle, “breaking language in order to touch life”, forcing us to confront something mystical and visceral in the deepest parts of our psyche, a part of ourselves that has gradually been forgotten but not any less real (Artaud). Language can thus be seen as representing ideas into text, during the process which something essential that cannot be expressed in words are lost, not dissimilar to Plato’s eschewal of representation. Artaud’s elements of cruelty are expressed in requiring the actors to “completely strip away their masks and show an audience a truth they do not want to see”. This relates back to the prisoner in Plato’s Allegory of the Cave being dragged out of the cave and thrust into blinding sunlight. Being accustomed to recognizing shadow as the only form of reality, he would be struck blind by the harsh sunlight in comparison to dim shadows, unable to comprehend that form of ideal reality.

Evidently, both Plato and Artaud agree that our immediate reality is only a mere shade of the pure form of reality beyond the reach of our empirical senses. Plato attempts his definition of reality upon logical deduction, however realizing that logic is limited in its exploration of the abstract, Plato ultimately resorts to representation in the form of metaphors and allegories albeit devoid of Art’s evocative elements. Artaud in his case abolishes language as a rational construct, one that confines human sensibilities to mere words. Theatre of Cruelty then serves to jar our senses out of the stupor of that shade of reality, which we perceive as the only absolute reality, blithely ignorant to the existence of a reality in the realm of thought and imagination. Theatre of Cruelty thus becomes a forceful presentation of Life upon the audience; its elements of representation drawn from hieroglyphics crafted by bodily gestures to draw the audience back to a repressed reality long forgotten. As much as Plato and Artaud differ in their practices, they both admit the fact that to achieve a higher sense of reality, representation cannot be completely abolished. Yet neither should representation be embraced as a hallucination shrouding our understanding, but rather we should be made cognizant that representation is merely a medium for a greater understanding of a higher reality and not lose ourselves to its allures.

In this discussion about the methods of Plato and Artaud, we have determined that there is a higher form of reality beyond this physical reality that resides purely within the reach of our empirical senses. Both Plato and Artaud failed to determine what reality is, leading us to believe that reality is undeterminable, an unachievable utopia like Plato’s Republic, or one that is too horrifying to behold in Artaud’s sense. Ultimately, trying to define reality is like drawing a circle and saying that is reality, but by doing so are we not excluding the reality that is outside of the circle. A circle that both Plato and Artaud have been trying to break out of, thus I can only say that reality is an unknowable concept that is constantly being explored as we venture further away from our familiar concept of reality, a concept we can never fully encircle and define.
1587 Words.

Works Cited

Antonin Artaud, Mary C. Richard (translator), The Theatre and Its Double. Grove Press, 1994
Plato, G.R.F Ferrari and Tom Griffith, eds. The Republic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008
Wikipedia contributors. “Theatre of Cruelty.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, 29 Jan. 2010. Web. 22 Mar. 2010

Singapore Lit Essay.

2010-12-06T19:23:00.001+08:00

Aaron Lim Si Ru
Miss Esther Wang
HL105 Singapore Literature
11 March 2010

Mere constructs: the Merlion and the Singaporean Identity.

In Alvin Pang’s “Merlign” and Grace Chia’s “Musing on the Merlion Myth”, themes of dislocation and the struggle to determine the origins and significance of one’s identity are being explored. The Merlion is the clear focal point of both poems as they attempt to dissect the artificial construct that is the Merlion. The symbolism behind the Merlion is not what it seems, exposing the paradox of the Singaporean identity – another construct, both poems have vastly differing attitudes on this issue which I shall attempt to highlight.

I will first be exploring “Musing on the Merlion Myth”. Singapore literally means “Lion City”, the symbol of the Merlion thus is a representation of the change that the “lion” has taken on the mantle of “fins and a fishtail” evolving to the Merlion it is today (Chia 35). Such evolution can be seen, as a response to the nation’s needs, the need to constantly change itself to fit into the rapidly changing state of the world, the struggle to maintain at the top. This reflects the mutability of our fledging nation. While the nation is certainly flexible, it certainly lacks a sense of permanence. We are too young a nation to have a proper sense of history to ground us as a cohesive people.
The sense of change, upheaval and uncertainty is clear. In Chia’s poem, “no more jungles left for you to prowl” portrays the dislocation felt by the immigrants when they first came to Singapore, removed and uprooted from their homelands and placed in an alien land (35). Chia also projects an image of turbulent change as the people and by extension the nation “evolve, adapt” and “become mutant” (35). The juxtaposition of imagery from stanzas 1 and 3 of prowling jungles to concrete forests, Chia condenses the dizzying pace of our progress from a land of immigrants into a thriving city. Chia also avoids a chronological recount of our history, preferring the use of evolution, mutation and morphing to describe the pace of Singapore’s growth. This reflects the unnatural and artificially boosted speed of our progress and also to our lack of history.

The frenetic pace of change taking place thus creates the need for a common identity to ground us amidst the winds of change. The dislocation of the populace from the nation’s identity is thus visualized, as there are “no more jungles left for you to prowl”, which can be seen in relation to the notion of home, as the lion would be in the jungle (Chia 35). Home, the place of warmth and comfort is instead portrayed as harsh and cold, “flat as paper”, an unfeeling and steely city with nary a trace of warmth (Chia 35). Chia’s ‘generous’ use of such imagery creates an almost mercenary image of Singapore heightening the sense of dislocation from the nation as a home.
Chia attempts to resolve the issue of dislocation by exploring the symbolism behind the Merlion myth. The Merlion is born of necessity, “a nation’s dreams made you a myth” (Chia 35). Being too young a nation to have any proper sort of myth however, the myth of the Merlion is thus a constructed one, to fulfill a nation’s need for stability. The “nation’s fears” of instability forced the Merlion into being, turning it to “stone” (Chia 35). Hence, the Merlion can be seen as a stabilizing force, albeit one that is constructed for the convenience of stability. In relation, the hybrid nature of the Merlion being half fish and half lion can be seen as a reflection of the multitudinous diversity of peoples coming together eventually becoming a hybrid people of a unique culture. By virtue of such a parallel, the Merlion thus becomes a binding force for the dislocated peoples, forging a common identity when it was once non-existent.

However, Chia herself seems to be in two minds about the creation of the Merlion myth. The dichotomy within the image of the Merlion, being a “frozen statue” stiff and unmoving yet bursting with dynamism that is the “water of life” creates a sense that the Merlion itself is a fractured entity, its statue unrepresentative to its symbolism, akin to how the populace is dislocated from the symbolism of the Merlion (Chia 35). This forced union of the natural ‘water’ and the artificial ‘statue’ parallels the constructed myth of the Merlion, an oxymoron in itself, because one cannot simply construct a myth into being. This sheds light to the oxymoronic nature of the Singaporean identity, artificially created by the foisting of a constructed identity upon a dislocated people. This so-called Singaporean identity is merely a name placed upon the amalgamation of different cultures, none of which uniquely Singaporean, reinforcing the fact that it is created, not cultivated over time.
Chia clearly recognizes the hollow representation that is the Merlion, yet despite the unnatural truth of the fabricated myth and identity, she states, “I wish to believe in you” (35). Chia seems to hint that should Singapore be without a rallying banner under the Merlion, all that we have built would be lost to dissension. The entreaty of “I wish…” hints at the above possibility, something that the poet wants to avoid. Truth would then be empty words without stability and Chia wishes to have the same kind of stability for her “daughter’s daughters”, not wanting them to be born into a divided nation as in Singapore’s younger days (35).

One would question if truth is preferable to stability. The Merlion being a creature of myth has evolved past the need for authenticity, a myth exists to instruct, whether it is a ‘real’ myth or a ‘constructed’ myth does not matter, what matters is that it has served it’s purpose as a unifier. What is important is that people “ a century from hence would listen to tales of the lionfish” even if it is one “that no one has ever seen” (Chia 35). The truth behind the Merlion myth becomes subjective when it’s constructed nature fades from memory, yet its symbolism remains “ferocious, strong, slipping into a collective’s unconsciousness” (Chia 35). The Singaporean identity thereby becomes an indelible part of our identity, our heritage.

In “Merlign”, Alvin Pang explores the themes of dislocation from a different perspective. Pang examines the dislocation of symbolism from the Merlion, it has become a mere physical statue; the symbolism behind the image of the Merlion has been lost. Pang compares “websites”, “cameras” and “postcards” to “verses”, “pride” and “praise”, stating that superficial representations of the Merlion have overshadowed the real symbolism behind it (40). Pang questions if the Merlion has lost its purpose of being, becoming merely a fount of tourist wealth, embellished beyond recognition. The statue of the Merlion, whose appearance was supposed to be a reflection of its significance, has now been dislocated. One is without the other, mere representations without meaning. While Pang arrives at a similar conclusion with Chia regarding the dislocation of the symbolism of the Merlion, he does so with representations to explore symbolism versus Chia’s use of concrete imagery.
“Merlign”, an intriguing twist of words between ‘Merlion’ and ‘malign’, as if saying that the Merlion itself is a malignant concept, an artificial taint, a construct of necessity, “a heap of fashioned stone” to fulfill a need (Pang 40). “Merlign” likewise is a constructed concept, merely a name created by the poet to expose the hollowness of the Merlion, an icon that has no roots. This is similar to Chia’s struggle to find a significance behind the national icon, yet failing to do so, succeeding only in exposing the faults and fractures of it’s creation. Its twisted progeny is described as the “titan child… terrorizing history”, an affront to history threatening to blur the lines between history and myth, a construct influencing the impressionable future generations (Pang 40). While Pang does not directly refer to the paradox of the Singaporean identity, the creation of the Merlion as an impressionable national icon certainly influences how the nation perceives itself. Thus the artificial nature of the Merlion is also reflected in the maturing of our Singaporean identity as a young nation. By extension, the Merlion could then be seen as tool to mould the ideals and culture of our nation.

While Chia is able to accept the necessity of the Merlion as a constructed national icon, Pang instead strips it bare of its constructed symbolism and exposes it’s emptiness, refusing to associate himself with the false symbol. Pang scorns the pathetic metaphor that is the Merlion. He ridicules the “need” for a stabilizing force, which by virtue of such a “rock” based metaphor; we can make its representations “bear weight” (Pang 40). By Pang’s use of such a blatant metaphor of “rock” and “weight” he exposes the superfluous origin of the Merlion, that by virtue of it being made of “rock”, it has weight and by extension “weight” in it’s symbolic value. Which he describes as “wallow[ing] in metaphors, an indication that the creation of the Merlion was an effort in futility and it’s influence on the Singapore identity, detrimental.
In Chia’s poem, she paints the Merlion as an outlandish object, alien to Singapore, a dislocated icon, despite that; she finally acknowledges its significance. Pang on the contrary, begins by creating a familiar yet enigmatic image of the Merlion through “postcards”, “praise” and “a face poets love to woo” (40). In highlighting the enigmatic nature of the Merlion, he evokes a spark of curiosity in the flow of the poem, binding the reader to his chain of thought. In stanza 7, Pang paints the idyllic picture of a child enthralled by the “giant too tall for a child’s mind to wrap around” and the child’s curiosity to understand the “giant” too is mirrored in the reader as “risking… a closer glance, a furtive stroke, reaching for scale and contact” (Pang 40). Eventually, the familiarity of the Merlion fades into oblivion, replaced by a child’s innocent ignorance mirroring the Pang’s own inability to “apostrophize” any “weight” with “what is rock”. Gripped almost by a sense of desperation, being unable to comprehend the significance of the statue, Pang turns to the physical, hoping to find meaning in the tangible when the intangible eludes him. This phase mirrors Chia’s struggle with the dichotomy and confusion regarding the fractured entity of the Merlion, yet unlike Chia’s gradual reconciliation between her insecurities and the Merlion, Pang moves in the opposite direction.
Pang dismisses Chia’s reconciliation as a form of “pretence”, maintaining the view that the constructed symbolism foisted upon the Merlion, are mere “riddles and voices” and that the “heap of fashioned stone” lacks true symbolism behind it’s statue to “carry souls” (40). Essentially claiming that, no amount of attaching meaning and symbolism to the icon would hide the fact that it is a mere construct. In the last stanza, Pang literally destroys any form of representation behind the Merlion, “rough beast, you are neither idol nor ideal”, he goes on to expunge the icon from our Singaporean identity, treating it as an outsider and addressing it as such “you”, almost a bitter reminder to the beginning of Chia’s poem. The figurative emptiness of the Merlion is accentuated by the physical hollowness of the “titan child” at Sentosa whose “heart is hollow, cold and open for admission” (Pang 40).

Pang plays upon the bitter irony of the Sentosa Merlion being hollow so as to admit visitors, yet to be unable to hold on to the representation of the Singaporean identity, very much like a basket that cannot hold water. In a sense referring to our identities as something intangible that cannot be forced into “fashioned stone, too light to carry souls” (Pang 40). Lacking the gravitas of history to lend “weight”, the Merlion functions like a basket unable to hold any water. Just as Pang expunges the icon from our Singaporean identity, the Merlion expunges itself of us as the water it cannot hold. “Keep what matters and what counts” which is nothing, “the rest you can spit as spray” which is our identity being expunged from the Merlion (Pang 40).
Both poets recognize that the Merlion is merely an artificial construct through their exploration of dislocation and highlighting the paradox that is the Singaporean identity. Yet, their methods of exploration are mirrored reflections of each other. Chia makes use of concrete imagery to construct the Merlion, breathing life to intangible myth. Pang instead illustrates the elusive symbolism of the Merlion through empty metaphors, failing which he resorts to attacking the it’s physical form. Mirror opposites of each other, it falls on us to decide which is merely a reflection and which is the real.
2114 Words

Works Cited
Pang, Alvin. City of Rain. Singapore: Ethos, 2003.
Chia, Grace. “Musing on the Merlion Myth” Reflecting on the Merlion: An Anthology of
Poems. Ed. Edwin Thumboo and Yeow Kai Chai. Singapore: National Arts Council,
2009. 35. Print.

Mes Essais.

2010-12-06T19:22:00.002+08:00

You know, after all the hard work and late nights I've put up with these pieces of shit which are my brain children.

I oughta put em up to share.

Behold the agony of my years.

How far I have fallen

2010-11-30T19:20:00.003+08:00

Where is that confidence whereupon I so freely wielded. Where is that lithe grace whereupon I walked among my peers. I have become withdrawn into myself. I have lost that bold confidence. I have grown cold. I look back at the year that has gone by and I simply cant believe the mistakes that I have made. And the repercussions that follow still leave hints in its wake. I am falling into this spiral of fear and dread. For the future I was once so confident about I dread with every passing moment

Why? Why have I allowed myself this lapse? In French, in class, at work, in hall. Is exhaustion and fatigue the only excuse I have for myself? Where is my drive for life. Where is my strength? What is it I seek that gives me strength to push? Or have I debilitated for far too long in this cozy cell of mine. These false impressions. Every time I stand up only to be crippled again. Fear has taken over me. Irrational fear. I hate this. This pit of self-pity. I need more than this.

10.10.10

2010-10-10T09:21:00.002+08:00

Merci beaucoup mes amis.

I sincerely thank all of you who have taken time off to attend the event. It isYOU who have made the event a success, it would not have been possible without your support.

You cannot possibly imagine the jitters I was having right before I came on stage to perform for all you. I wanted it to be a tribute from me to you, for all the times we've come to know each other, wherever I may have known you from. What matters is the now.

Words aside I have had a wonderful celebration. It's probably the first and last time I'll ever do such a crazy thing. Ever.

Once again, no amount of thanks can express anything I can say to you. You will be kept in my heart.

The efforts of these months shall not go to waste

2010-10-09T18:23:00.002+08:00

After such a long hiatus of not blogging. I am here once more. This is a sad place for awhile for I haven't found anything happy to keep here.

I am disappointed. Very disappointed. I'm not angry, simply nonchalant. For it is nothing if you make me angry rare as that be, I will have forgiven you in a day. But if you have disappointed me, me who holds all my friends in the highest regard, I expect only the least in return.

I never had a proper bash. It doesn't materr how much I may spend. If it be for my friends I would spare no expense in this annual event. Gifts are not required, I ask for your long-awaited presence; no more.

You were in my top 10 list. That was how much I valued you. You were the first two invites to be sent out. But... None even bothered to call. I think no more needs to be said.

Fighting!

2010-08-15T20:27:00.002+08:00

It takes alot of finesse to be non judgmental. Simply because it is too easy to be judgmental. One can judge another with little or no effort. Keeping that in mind to be true to yourself takes alot of courage. It is simply easier to change according to your circumstances. Changing faces, wearing masks; we are all master shapeshifters.

Few take the road less trodden, because it's tough and untested; one fears the unknown. They'd stick to the devil the know than the devil they don't.

I have attempted on the path of the one less trodden. I have fallen a few times, but I shall simply raise myself and walk again. For I can only stronger after a trial if I don't fall. For success is not in never failing but rising for every time we fail.

I wish that I didn't have to do what I am doing if I were born with a silver spoon or that I was born without a care in the world other than some superficial needs and wants. No reality has come alot earlier for me and I have no choice but to stand up to it; and that involves some sacrifices.

I blame nothing; for what can I blame upon ignorance?
And so they say ignorance is bliss; yet how can there be bliss if one is ignorant of what they are ignorant about? There is no learning, understanding or even empathy merely dislike, disgruntlement and anger.

I will learn along this journey of life, this is merely one of the many chapters in that infinite tome of knowledge.

How long how long.

2010-08-02T11:40:00.002+08:00

How long ago was it when I first started to blog. It's rather curious to see the way my thoughts have evolved and changed, maybe not even for the better. Life has indeed brought me to unexpected places, given me unexpected surprises and bestowed upon me unexpected friends. I couldn't have been more thankful.

As of now, I am teetering on the edge of the Great Unknown of the Adult world as I know it. As much as I wanted to deny being of age, there is no turning back. Life is whisking me off to the strangest places. Oh how I hark back to the days in Catholic High. Kidding around in JC. Boys to men in NS. That period of blissful nonchalance has passed and is long gone. All I can do is to look back at the times that I had wistfully.

- "As the shock of the cold water hit me, a familiar sensation washed down my spine. Time is of no consequence in this realm. As I close my eyes, I hear the familiar sounds of the night; the silent song of the waves, gentle whispers of the night breeze. Nothing but darkness before my eyes, punctuated with little blips of light in the horizon; stars aplenty and the warm orange glow of the floodlights - a corona around my frame. All is still as I exist simultaneously between this schism of time in my mind and reality. I was here and otherwhere, same place, different time."

I let forth an open-hearted laugh as reminiscence filled me, my world came to light again. All I am looking at is a white tiled wall in a dinghy showeroom. All thats left of my other consciousness fled back into the recesses of my memory.

It felt real. For a merest fraction of time. I felt connected.

I knew it was a tough road.

2010-07-04T23:42:00.003+08:00

But why did I do it?

I did it because I want to prove my mental fortitude. I challenge myself to my limits daily, because I never really gave a thought to my future doesn't mean that I can't start now. I knew it was tough because the statistics for failure were shown to me, but I want to be one of those that endured everything that was being thrown at them. I want to do this because I don't want to confine myself to a lifestyle that is projected upon me, I want to take the road less trodden. Because this is the time for me to still be able to make mistakes and stand up again, and not 20 years down the road with all the responsibilities on my shoulders, any mistake made might be cripple me forever.

If you so wish to remain in your precious little enclave, you are most welcome. It is your choice. I chose to venture out into the great unknown, the so-called leap of faith that I have taken. I can understand your misgivings, hence I will not try to convince you against something that is deeply ingrained. I just ask that you respect choices. It really doesn't matter that family may sometimes choose to be ignorant, but that might not be true because you and I are entitled to each our own opinions.

I cannot say that I will succeed for sure. But I will certainly try my best.

Lights.

2010-06-13T02:53:00.003+08:00

I wish that I lived near the sea.
Hear the waves crash.
The night horizon is an enchanting sight.
A sight that I have gotten so used to.
A sight of warm lights the blip the winedark sea.
A sight that can swallow me up endlessly.
It feels so warm.

To be with the sea of memories once more.

You don't have to know everything.

2010-05-26T19:29:00.003+08:00

I'm 23 this year and still I have failed at asserting my own independence. Financially dependent on my Mum, still I'm hoping I didn't have to so I can finally be free of this bondage. Live on my own before I go crazy from the endless, incessant and insensitive questioning that I would often rather not answer.

You don't have to know everything about me. Even if I know that you know some things. You don't have to make it absolute. You don't need to know everything. I have a life that I don't have to report to you for. I will choose to tell you things if you didn't come asking in that voice that insinuates that I have done you some grievous wrong by holding my silence.

You and I both know that we speak metaphorically each time, hidden beneath the lines, so WHY do you want to bring it up insinuating that I'm incompetent, perhaps to you the word pride does not exist in your dictionary, or that YOUR pride overshadows everyone else's in this house.

So why don't you give a try letting me be, because I know how to handle my own affairs and it's about time letting me make decisions without consulting your consent first. Time for surprises, Mom.

So many things. So many things.

2010-05-13T23:52:00.002+08:00

A great many things have happened lately and I want to bring them to order. I have been very frustrated with myself, and the dismal performance at the volleyball courts. I have been playing it for about 1.5 years, and the standard and level of play is just capped there. My movements are always wrong, the balls are never accurate, the few things i can really be proud of on while playing are few and far between, being replaced by better players. I hate it, I have to do something about it, I try and try so hard to focus, to control, to play smart. But I'm just not good enough.

A few job opportunities came up, and now I'm kinda wondering where I should place my time. FOC Pnp is kinda taking it's toll, I'm beginning to wonder why I landed myself there, but I just gotta do it. It's my responsibility. Some diamond thingy with Aaron Justin. Prudential. Helping Alan with classes. I'm leaning towards the classes, but that isn't around the corner. Prudential = Sales = Commission. But I'm not confident with sales, but I decide to give it my all, I can't bum around like this.

I am excited by all these future prospects, but I can't lift my heart because of that one person. Again. I really wonder how people see me, what people think of me, how people judge me. Perhaps I need to take a look in the mirror, perhaps I'm the pretentious one. I am the rude one. I am the one being really superficial, but I just can't see it. Until you went silent, I don't know what to think. Have I said something I shouldn't? Have I tried to hide what I really meant? Have I said something I didn't really mean? Have I shattered the image of innocence you had of me? Perhaps I have really broken my own rules unknowingly. All that empty sophistry.

I used to be so "emo", I thought I had conquered that feeling because I have conquered my stupidity for one person. It was an illusion merely, conquering one does not guarantee immunity from all. I am feeling the pangs again, let my common sense prevail. Please, it is a terrible cycle I want to extricate myself from. When I say I'm no longer an "emo" wreck, I may wanna rethink my definitions again.

Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence.

2010-04-22T18:47:00.002+08:00

Work intrudes but I shunt them away, I let Ryuichi Sakamoto take me for a ride for a few sparse minutes of bliss. I wish I could hang forevermore in this lilting melody with nothing on my mind, no one by my side, but just thoughts of you, holding you.

Why. It's a question I cannot answer. Smses flood in. Msn tingles for my attention. But I can only rivet my eyes and my heart on that few words of reply from you on FB. I close my eyes when it comes. It seems my simple little wish will never come to pass. Ryuichi reaches the climax, as do I when metaphorical tears brim unbidden, for my eyes have been dry for ever so long. No, it is my heart that cries, the stab of sorrow from your nonchalance. Blithely unaware, for I am nothing to you, a thing that can be assuaged with mere words, empty words that hold no meaning behind its inflection.

Behind the facade of books and work, you fade away into oblivion. I would that my heart could do the very same. Oh how I cry out for release.

That boy is a monster m-m-m-m-monsterrrr....

2010-04-15T03:36:00.003+08:00

Pardon me, I just got hooked on that song, albeit a little late. One wonders why I'm up at this hour, indeed; I wonder that myself. It has been a ritual to stay up to god forsaken hours for so long I don't remember when I started. But for once, my mind isn't lost in the labyrinths of my essay concepts. Most, if not all assignments have been cleared, CDP 101 Final Presentation concluded on a wonderful note. It was certainly a joy watching each other's meticulously put together production, I can't help but shed a tear. How melodramatic.

But that's just how things are, an entire AY is coming to an end, and for some reason I'm just feeling a tad bit more pensive than usual when my mind goes wandering off to some faraway land. Dead people, that flashback of ghastly make up, I can't help but stifle a giggle. Not that I ever giggled.

I just don't know what to do. Clearly I have a lot to do. Revision to be all completed by friday for the most ultimately intensive examination ever. But I don't know what to do outside of this academic realm. Yes, there is that desire to do something I've always wanted, but here, this world; this society; this place; fosters to such hope. I've always thought myself the conformist, but that changed when I made my decision nearly 2 years ago.

I am being honest with myself. Certain things I want can never be fulfilled, at least not here. It is saddening, it's not like I hate this place, no I love it, it's my home. I'll be a displaced alien anywhere else (ok maybe not). Sometimes I can't help but want to fly, but my wings are clipped.

I can't sleep now. No not so soon. But I know not what to do. What do I make of this mockery of life?

Questions. Doubts. Fears. Incalculable Uncertainties.

2010-04-06T21:59:00.000+08:00

There is just so much work. I’m being torn apart. Sometimes I wonder if I really did sign up for this. Brings me back to OBO days, when I’m just out there staring at they grey sea, dreary waves, the black night, okay pathetic fallacy I know, its actually quite beautiful when I remind myself of it now, that I wouldn’t really mind being there again, lulled to sleep by the waves. Alas, reality is a harsh one, and the world a cruel one in which we live in, things were never really that easy in OBO, I went thru hell, I put my mind through worse, all that mental anguish, anguish, anguish. There were times where I screamed all my soul out into the silence of the night with that equal silence in the deepest of my being, I felt like a great big hollow with a great big echo resounding with nothingness into the empty shell of the great metal thing that keeps me afloat along with a hundred other disillusioned idiots. Rime of the ancient mariner, just another bunch of lost sailors out at sea, doomed and cursed to eternal unrest in eternal undeath, to float among the witchy and eldritch lights in the depths of the oceans, flash, flashing, flashes, rippling, undulating, waves, echoes, like orgasms in the water slick.

But there’s so much work. Calls, emails, projects, rehearsals, meetings, essays, oh god the essays, a never ending stream on unconsciousness that pervades even my sleep, my phone is the devil, so many times I wished that I could just smash it into smithereens into nothingness that likewise I might disappear away from this wretched wretched existence. But I can’t die just yet, not just yet, just one more month before I can really fade away, throw my phone away and be alone for a while, but not really can I run away, for once I’m back home there will be no peace at all less the one sanctum I have.
A stream of consciousness. Nothing more.

I wonder if you'll ever know how it feels like to be me.

2010-04-02T15:43:00.004+08:00

I wonder for how long I can lie to myself that I'm happy talking to you
Or I'm actually tearing myself apart.

The Sacred Band of Thebes

2010-04-01T11:49:00.002+08:00

I unwittingly fell unto this while researching into Classical Greek stuff.

And if there were only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their loves, they would be the very best governors of their own city, abstaining from all dishonour, and emulating one another in honour; and when fighting at each other's side, although a mere handful, they would overcome the world. For what lover would not choose rather to be seen by all mankind than by his beloved, either when abandoning his post or throwing away his arms? He would be ready to die a thousand deaths rather than endure this. Or who would desert his beloved or fail him in the hour of danger?

From Plato's Symposium

The Sacred Band originally was formed of picked men in couples, each lover and beloved selected from the ranks of the existing Theban citizen-army. The pairs consisted of the older "heniochoi", or charioteers, and the younger "paraibatai", or companions, who were all housed and trained at the city's expense and fought as hoplites. During their early engagements, in an attempt to bolster general morale, they were dispersed by Gorgidas throughout the front ranks of the Theban army.

But was there ever an invincible army?

Defeat came at the Battle of Chaeronea (338 BC), the decisive contest in which Philip II of Macedon, with his son Alexander, extinguished the Theban hegemony. The traditional hoplite infantry was no match for the novel long-speared Macedonian phalanx: the Theban army and its allies broke and fled, but the Sacred Band, although surrounded and overwhelmed, refused to surrender. James G. DeVoto says in The Theban Sacred Band that Alexander had deployed his cavalry behind the Macedonian hoplites, apparently permitting "a Theban break-through in order to effect a cavalry assault while his hoplites regrouped." The Thebans of the Sacred Band held their ground and nearly all 300 fell where they stood beside their last commander, Theagenes. Plutarch records that Philip II, on encountering the corpses "heaped one upon another", understanding who they were, exclaimed,

Perish any man who suspects that these men either did or suffered anything unseemly.

300 SPARTA! Much?

You can break my heart with a single word.

2010-03-31T17:22:00.000+08:00

Neither here nor there.
Nor yes or no.
Okay.

Sow the seeds of fear.

2010-03-29T11:16:00.002+08:00

Cyril Wong had said that poets need to be able to delve to the deepest and darkest part of their soul and dare to display it and say this is the depth of my feeling. Those who shun away are mere empty husks who are afraid of feeling.

Indeed, where my heart and voice had failed me
Let my words now speak for me.

I know not why and how this irrational fear grips me again.
It is so primal, so unrelenting as it holds me in its grasp.
This cold hand clutched around my chest. Clenching and clenching.
I cannot... the world collapses around me.
Until all I feel are my flustered heartbeats and that icy ring.

Questions abound, but the answers evade me so.
Now I dare not even mention " "
For fear, that I would fall again into the abyss
Master of me, I once soared with joy, and now I freeze in fear.
No, even that very pronoun conjures madness.

If my words have spoken at all.
Poetry is too obscure and not powerful enough.

When we are so far apart.

2010-03-23T01:10:00.003+08:00

My thoughts inevitably stray towards you.
As always without fail, you capture me.
I wonder, as always, when your mind is blank.
Does it ever stray towards me?
Even if it doesn't, do you, like i
Often conjure up silly things we might have done?
I wonder at the times when life gets you down.
Would you look towards me for the hand to lift you up?
Because I have always looked to you as a beacon.
Have you like I, felt alone with all the cold quilts?
Devoid of any warmth.
It's just the thought of not wanting to wake up to his cold reality.
Alone.

Am I a dalliance, merely?
Would you ever feel the depths of my feelings.
I wonder, when I have nothing but you in my mind.
Would I ever have even a little corner in your vast universe.

How much hurt can I take?

2010-03-20T23:29:00.004+08:00

I don't want to whine to you.
This is just how I really feel.
For you.
I never knew it hurt so much to give your heart to someone.
But seeing you breaks me.
Part of me goes to 7th heaven with you.
Part of me languishes in pain.

Why does this guilt eat away at me?
For I No- please. No.
I freeze when you talk to me.

Why.

Like ice, I fall and shatter.

Because it hurts so much to be called thus such.

My heart is like a desert.

2010-03-15T22:36:00.002+08:00

It is harsh and barren.
With nary a hint of green.

My heart is like a desert.
Where dark night descends
With nary a hint of light.

My heart is like a desert.
Where rough winds rip their talons through
Carving valleys and rivets in my heart.

My heart is like a desert.
Where the scorching heat burns like wildfire.
And the chilling cold clutches with icy fingers.

My heart is like a desert.
It is a frozen one. A tundra.
All stark whiteness and blackness at night.
There is no colour.
When all colour there is
Has been stripped away.

Grant me the mental fortitude to weather this harsh desertscape.
Grant me the strength of will to stand alone and stand strong.
Because to stand without the one person in my heart, requires more than just pillars of strength to hold me from fallin.

The 200th Post.

2010-03-07T02:21:00.002+08:00

Steer your ship in clear waters.
Do your navigation.
Stay the course.
And you will reach your destination.

Stay the course.
For I am with you.
In my silence.

You got my respect.
And so much more.

Without You.

2010-03-03T23:41:00.002+08:00

I should have known.
I should have known a long time ago.
But I know you.
I think I do.
I hope I do.

Hot and Cold.
Test me no further.

I'll look past that.
I'll wait for the time to come.
When I can wake up next and see your face.
Once more.

With you.

2010-03-02T13:16:00.002+08:00

Beside me.
It's almost as if
Nothing can get me down.

Can we just stay like this
For just a little longer?

Because
Waking up to see your face
Was the best thing ever.

I am still here.

2010-02-19T17:27:00.002+08:00

I'm still the boy you knew.
Still the boy you knew...

Amidst all the joy and laughter.

2010-02-15T20:22:00.000+08:00

I walk alone.

How do i do it?

2010-02-15T07:48:00.002+08:00

How can I show you that I still care.
Without seeming patronising, or desperate.
How can I show you that there's just so much more to say.
Without having my intentions misread.
How can I let you know the truth in my heart.
Without you doubting me still.
How can I express all that and more.
With mere words alone?

It is now when I know not what to say anymore.
Reason crushes me.
Logic defeats me.
Reality mocks me.
My truth lies merely in my imagination.
Too far flung for you to see.
Though I would still hope that you will.
One day.

The City Slumbers.

2010-02-15T07:22:00.000+08:00

But I won't.
Not for the nights.
Most of all tonight.

V-Day.

2010-02-14T18:39:00.003+08:00

There is simply a sense of emptiness that follows with me this very day. But then again why am i not surprised at all. It has been like that since I started to fall in love. I have been falling ever since, never once soaring to the heights promised. So why am i not surprised.

I guess I'm past whining about being alone again, it's become kinda numb for me even to feel anything at this time. I am happy for the couples that have come together, witnessing the union of numerous others are sort of like a bittersweet thing for me. For all I have seen all my years, this is the one thing that has been eluding me all this while. Despite my beliefs that falling everytime would only lead me to stand up to greater heights... Yes, I've been standing taller, learning many bitter lessons, but I'm impatient - why am i nowhere nearly there yet?

It is a truly frustrating thought sometimes.

I feel like an ant being placed in a maze of doors, one such maze that spans an incomprehensible space. Filled with doors at every turn and corner. Doors that open to dizzying drops, doors that refuse to open, doors into torture chambers, doors leading to insidious traps, doors that never lead to bliss. Where might that single door be, in this dizzying space of a maze of corridors?

Believe me when I thought I found it, only to close it upon myself because of my painful skepticism of other doors - might this be a trap. I want to open it again, only to find it bolted. I don't really care anymore, because even if it were merely a beautiful illusion, it's one that I would wanna lose myself into even if for that short period of time...

Please spare me. I have been begging and banging at that door for so long my knuckles bleed, but the blood at my feet is not from my hands, but from somewhere deeper down. Please open up, even if to give me a sliver of light upon my face.

I don't want to face the dark rooms no more.

Words just fail me now.

2010-02-07T23:17:00.000+08:00

The Night Full of Stars.

2010-02-07T14:26:00.000+08:00

I doubt myself sometimes. Really. As much as I have the strength of will, to do achieve what I want, I’m not sure if I have the perseverance to hold through it till the end. I am so jaded, so disjointed and so dislocated with this whole sense of reality. I wonder if I can find a space of my own without being invaded by alien thoughts all the time.

Perhaps you were right. Yet maybe you were wrong. But alas! Who can really tell for sure, whatever it is that drives a certain individual? What is it that drives me? I often wonder if my I can justify my means with the ends I achieve…

I find the very bedrock of my self shaken. There is a thin line between arrogant ignorance and believing in myself. What is it that I really want? I have been asking myself that question for so long. But the answers that I give myself are ever changing. I know not what I want. I really don’t. Where then is my direction? Where do I go from here? I don’t really know.

As I lay on the bed, staring out into space. I wish I were out at sea. Where the waves would calm me. Staring at the blanket of stars, sparkling tears in the sky at the sadness of this world. I wonder if I could find some solace in the kindred spirits that are the stars. I wish I could escape to the nothingness that is the ocean, miles and miles of open ocean, stars stretching never end. A place where time holds little meaning, where I can ponder again once more.

The Age of Enlightenment.

2010-01-31T21:11:00.003+08:00

I see my past self in the mistakes of others and I'm ashamed of how far I've fallen, countless excuses I have conjured up for myself. A whole new perspective really...

Yes, eyes are forward looking, we are engineered that way. All we see in the mirror is always what we want to see, because it is merely a reflection which we scrutinise and change that we do not agree with.

The eyes are hardly inward looking, we care too much about how we perceive other people perceiving us to really take that introspective inspection upon ourselves. I suppose that is the flame of life, burning in us the need for alacrity (but not clarity) with which to treasure time and live for the moment, indulge in the very spontaneity of the moment. Yet, oftentimes I succumb to my whims and fancies, my very emotional mood swings. Never once did I pause to see where I could have gone wrong.

No, the world does not revolve around me, no amount of whining, complaining and bitching is gonna get me anything more than attention seeking sycophants or that 'get a life!' sneer. In truth, yes, I do need to get a life, because I've been living a lie conjured up by my silly head. No, everything is NOT going to be fine if I just sit here and cry. Pain is weakness leaving the body. What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.

There is the initial masked self, and then there's the staged self, before we finally descend upon the true self.

We mask ourselves yes, to perform to socially acceptable standards. To conform more like, twisting something that is natural into something stilted. Why? To fade into mediocrity? Or afraid of persecution - people fear that which they do not understand, and thus they excise it. Homophobia, racism, xenophobia, gender discrimination. They cruelly categorise and label as such, like uniform inferior products in a factory line, nothing more. We are not mere goods for sale, we are humans. With every right to live and love as anyone else.

Stigma, how far can one run away from that, today? I stage myself to hide. I hide my true self less to those I know.

No, it's no longer about the me, myself and I. Wondering 'why me', 'why doesn't anybody understand me', that I hope is a thing of the past for me. And after all this while, I think I finally know why.

Out of that pit of self-pity.
Out.
NOW.

Some day I might find myself looking in your eyes
But for now, we'll go on living separate lives
Yes for now, we'll go on living separate lives
Separate lives

Peculiar Chris.

2010-01-24T05:54:00.002+08:00

I want to say Yes. But I cannot generalise. How much do I really know.. of my friends, people I trust, people I know, and ultimately myself. I feel naked, about how little I actually know. What does it take, to really open up?

I suppose, everyone has their own innate defensive mechanism, to deal with hurt, to deal with pain, to deal with tragedy. Do you try to rationalise it, without the terms of pain? Do you ignore it? Or stand as a firmament against its wrath? Or would you simply take it all for what it's worth, and come to terms with it?

What does it take for one person to drop their most basic defense mechanism, and to commune with another? A martyrdom of the soul, and put it all up to the stake. And be rewarded beyond measure? What does it feel to have those aged walls finally come crumbling down... A breath of fresh air?

What would you do, confronted with grim reality..? But then again, what is it that you are living for?

For life and happiness.

Thank you. Johann S. Lee

the awakening.

2010-01-20T23:52:00.002+08:00

I wonder why I still refuse to open my eyes to see.

Will I ever wake up one morning and not remember a single shred of this pain.

Can I truly say I'm happy because it happened instead of agonising over the end?

Fallin' Out.

Candles.

Can I pull myself from the quagmire? Saying that I'll be waiting.

While all I see is your shadow pulling away...

Slowly fallin... slowly fallin...

do i wait? do i hold it? do i lock it away? can i put it away? what of me now?

Dance in the dark.

2010-01-11T23:22:00.002+08:00

The merest thought of you.
Listening to the same music I'm listening to right this moment now.
Doing exactly what I'm doing right now.
Everything in tandem (except thinking of me)
When I close my eyes.
It's as if you were just right here next to me.
And I right there next to you (does it ever feel like this to you)

We are together again (but no)
The light shatters your vague form (do you close your eyes ever so briefly)
The light shatters your world around me(and see me in the dark)
And I'm alone again (i cry out)

I just wanna...
Dance in the dark (for a little while longer...)

It has been so long.

2010-01-10T21:47:00.002+08:00

The holidays have been a quiet one. As much as I'd like to say somethings, they seem to escape me every time I'm here. Yes, so many things have changed. And school's gonna be starting in a few hours time. I guess I haven't much time for thinking too deeply. Although the worrying is always there, the nagging feeling that keeps me chained to reality, the necessity to survive. As much as I hate it, I suppose it's good.

And I walk alone this new year. In this world of strangers and friends, of acquaintances and gnats abound, of the cacophony, of the sighs and the screams. Silence is abound. White noise. Black silence. It all fades into black and white, bland and colourless.

For without you, I am nothing.

New beginnings? I'm too stubborn and blind for that. I'd wait my chance. Impatient gnat that I am.

Chilling.

2009-12-07T04:02:00.002+08:00

One more.
One more that has been chosen to leave.
Earlier than we would have.

So much that I would question.
So much that I do not understand.
So much that I wish I could comprehend.

Yet the enormity of it all escapes me.
Yet what should I care at all.
For all the reasons that things occur anyway.

Perhaps we were never in any place to comprehend the why behind all things.
Perhaps it is only in our capacity to experience the real and the now.
Just as it is everyone's prerogative to be happy.

Think not.
Live life.

The Night.

2009-11-30T01:32:00.003+08:00

The Night it falls deeper and with it my very heart.
I may have said it were over.
I may have seen for that moment of clarity.

But I know not what plagues me now.
Fallen prey to my darker natures again?
That this cold mirthless smile belies a soul in agony.
Screaming against it all.
What is it that I really desire?

I know not.
I know nothing.
That is a scary thought.

Delusions of grandeur.

2009-11-25T14:27:00.002+08:00

So pride has become the fall of me.
Creepy thing that it is,
You never know you are taken
Until it has sunk its proverbial claws into you.
And you desperately craft illusions to dispel the fear

That fear never really disappears.
It merely sinks deeper
Twisting you apart.

My Sister's Keeper

2009-11-15T21:49:00.002+08:00

I loved the movie.
Hence I shall not attempt to write an essay extolling it's virtues.
Which sister is whose keeper then.
Love and it's myriad forms.
I cried buckets for sure.
I'm like that.
Above all I'm reminded of so many sweet things
Of you.

When the sky is dark velvet

2009-11-04T03:29:00.002+08:00

My mind is pure clarity.
Oh how i laugh...

enfin.

2009-11-03T02:22:00.002+08:00

I know not who to go to.
There are no words for this.
I have not felt such pain.
It is the first.
Nor will it be the last
Or the most hurtful.
But it hurts enough.
Hopefully I would pine for you.
No more.
No more.

I wonder how hard hearted can you get...
Wait. You didn't have to be...
For I no longer mean anything...
After all that...
Nothing at all...
No more.
No more.

You And I

2009-10-31T21:46:00.001+08:00

2NE1 Lyrics to You and I

No matter what happens
Even when the sky is falling down
I’ll promise you
That I’ll never let you go

Oh~~~Oh~~Oh~~~oh~~Oh~~~oh~~Yeah~~~

You naega sseureojilddae
Jeoldae heundeullimeopsi
Ganghan nunbicheuro
Myeotbeonigo nal ileukyeojweo

And you, na himae gyeoulddae
Seulpeumeul byeolang kkeutkkaji ddo akkimeopsi
Chajawa du son japeun geudaeyegae

[Chorus]

Nan haejoongae eopneundae
Chorahan najiman
Oneul geudae wihae i norae booleoyo
Tonight geudaeye du noonae
Geu miso dwiae nalwihae gamchweowatdeon
Apeumiboyeoyo

You and I together
It just feels so right
Ibyuliran maleulhaedo
Geu nuga mweorahaedo nan geudael jikilgae

You and I together
Nae du soneul nochijima
Annyoungiran maleun haedo
Naegae i saesangeun ojik neo hanagiae

You maneun sarangcheoreom
Oori sarang yeokshi jogeumssik byunhagaetjyo
Hajiman jaebal seulpeo malayo
Oraen chinhan chingu cheoreom
Namaneul mideulsuitgae gidaelsuitgae
I promise you that I’ll be right here, baby

[Chorus]
Nan haejoongae eopneundae
Chorahan najiman
Oneul geudae wihae i norae booleoyo
Tonight geudaeye du noonae
Geu miso dwiae nalwihae gamchweowatdeon
Apeumiboyeoyo

You and I together
Nae du soneul nochijima
Annyoungiran maleun haedo
Naegae i saesangeun ojik neo hanagiae

Waeroun bami chajaolddaen
Na salmyeosi nooneul gamayo
Geudaeye soomgyeoli nal aneulddae
Mueotdo duryeopji anjyo
E saesang geu eoddeon nugudo
Geudaereul daeshin halsueopjyo
You are the only one
And I’ll be there for you, baby

You and I together
It just feels so right
Ibyeoliran maleulhaedo
Geu nuga mweorahaedo nan geudael jikilgae

You and I together
Nae du soneul nochijima
Annyoungiran maleunhaedo
Naegae i saesangeun ojik neo hanagiae

Just you and I
Forever and ever

****Translation****
No matter what happens
Even when the sky is falling down
I’ll promise you
That I’ll never let you go

Oh~~~Oh~~Oh~~~oh~~Oh~~~oh~~Yeah~~~

You, When I fell
you held me back up with an unfaltering gaze

And You, through those sad times
held my hands till the end of the world

[Chorus]
I might be a shabby person who has never done anything for you
But today, I am singing this song just for you
Tonight, within those two eyes and a smile
I can see the pains from protecting me
You and I together. It’s just feels so right
Even though i bid you goodbye, to me this world is just you
You and I together, don’t ever let go of my hands
even though i bid you goodbye, to me this world is just you

Our love has changed a bit by bit just like others
But don’t be sad
Hopefully I will be someone who you can trust like an old friend
and someone you can lean onto
I promise you that I’m be right here baby

[Chorus]
I might be a shabby person who has never done anything for you
But today, I am singing this song just for you
Tonight, within those two eyes
and smile I can see the pains from protecting me
You and I together. It’s just feels so right
Even though i bid you goodbye, to me this world is just you
You and I together, don’t ever let go of my hands
even though i bid you goodbye, to me this world is just you

I close my eyes lightly whenever I feel lonely again
I no longer fear when your breath holds me
No one in the world can replace you
You are the only one in I’ll be there for you baby

You and I together, It’s just feels so right
Even though i bid you goodbye, to me this world is just you
You and I together, don’t ever let go my hands
even though i bid you goodbye, to me this world is just you

Just you and I
Forever and ever..

Awake at this time of the night.

2009-10-23T03:14:00.002+08:00

Once more.

I can't put my finger on the Merchant of Venice essay. Got a few points down, just can't seem to string them all together coherently. Just had a tutorial on "Paul's Case" today by Willa Cather. It's about escapism. Running away from the stifling mundane life of the middle class. In our context, the railroad track of life, preset, predestined, unchangeable. Routine. And dear Paul struggles so much. Running away, from life, from us the reader, lastly out onto the tracks of an oncoming train away from the author. He falls back into the grand design of things.

Just hit me that's all.

Very many things have gone wrong. I've become afraid. I seem to be become the thing that I most detest. Again. Always been this way. I just sink away into my own oblivion when the mind-numbing words hit me, they connect, and part of me just fizzles away, all that circuitry fucked.

I want to stop. And take a check. If I can stop my garbled thoughts from going into involuntary flashback mode. It just hits me at the worst times. And they just keep coming back. All those memories. Oh what have I done to make them so? They just haunt me, and haunt me. Where is that little prison that dark memories, secrets and pain goes? Let me in there.

My heart withered on this day.

2009-10-19T19:02:00.001+08:00

Death.
Fatality.
The End.

Sledgehammer blows.

2009-10-19T01:17:00.003+08:00

I face this unfeeling wall...
I have run out of words for all this.
I try to forget.
I drown myself with work.
In the hopes to numb myself.
It works for awhile...
Where I expend myself feverishly.
I fall back again after
Into an empty cradle.
And all the thoughts of you come
Rushing unbidden.
The sweet memories are bittersweet.
The bad ones are sledgehammer blows
The ugly ones are poignant still...
Have I not reaped enough of what I've sown?
Am I no more than an insignificant speck in your eyes.

I am at wits end.
I feel... I wonder if I feel through all this at all?

All i want this birthday

2009-10-11T16:40:00.000+08:00

Is nobody but You.

You.

2009-10-09T16:58:00.002+08:00

I freeze and lock up
I often am tongue tied
I can only look on forlornly
I have so much that i want to say
I think of you and what we did
I do that all the time
I cannot forget
I do not want to
I have said many things
I perhaps haven't said what I really felt
I promise you
I do solemnly promise you this
I will never do anything to hurt you again
I will be your protector
I will do all in my power to keep that promise
I will promise you happiness
I will be yours and no other

I have been blind
I wish for but a chance to see clearly again
I have been weak and afraid
I was selfish about myself
I treated you lightly
I never truly thought about how you felt
I only cared for how I felt
I know only now that you gave me more than enough chances
I simply failed to see them
I played hard-to-get to my folly
I must have been so blind
I never really bared my heart to you till recently
I gave to you so little of what you gave me
I wish for but a chance to return your affections

Let me please.
Let me not bleed my heart dry.
Let me not cry into my pillow
Let me once more into your broken heart.
Let me do the mending.
Let me love you.

The existentialist angst.

2009-10-03T23:14:00.003+08:00

Everything is predestined.
That is merely a euphemism for
A controlled life"style".
Every waking moment seems like a battle.
Every night we fall asleep exhausted is
A battle lost.
The battle being fought daily.
To escape the mundane drawl of life.
Some are ignorant robots.
Yet the tragedy here is we are cognizant fools.
You work not because you want to.
It's because you have to.
Because society itself creates the need to.
Ironic how we wind the chains around ourselves?
We do not want for more money for more luxuries.
Because society creates the greed for more want.
For more luxuries that are prescribed to you
By society itself.
We want high fashion not because of innate desire.
Because society grants her blessings to the presentable.
We want to travel not to explore.
Because society creates the angst for the need to travel
Society, scheming thing that it is uncannily puts
A gleaming silver platter for us the ravenous.
Our desires are no longer our desires
Not because we want something truly madly deeply
But because society creates that need for us to want it so badly.

You say friends.
You say you meet up for old times sake.
You are actually saying you meet friends to catch up on the latest gossip/information
For use on your daily battlefield
Ammunition to attain what society wants you to want.
Friends are your social tools and weapons.
What is true friendship but unadulterated desire for more?

Desire. Even that is tainted.
You say you like someone.
You are saying you like how someone looks.
You are saying you like how society crafts good looking models for you to admire.
You are saying you like society's ideals of desire.
Not your own.
How often do you say, that person has got a heart of gold?
Which sickening little part of your life now
Is really yours?
In this world that revolves around
Money
Appearances
Desire

It is no wonder that the philosophers of the past fear this monstrous word.
Society.
If they were here, right here, right now.
They would commit suicide on the spot.
For who is there really for you to trust
But masterful devils of deception?
For those that say they want to 'offer' help
Ask what are you 'offering' in exchange
In that dark underground black market.

In the dead of the night.

2009-10-01T03:44:00.002+08:00

In the dead of the night
The constant patter of the rain shatters
The silence of the night
One wonders why I am up at this hour
I often wonder that of myself too
Why can't I fall asleep
Why after all the rigors of the day
I still refuse to surrender to sweet oblivion
Beneath those velvet sheets
Because I simply can't

Isn't it pitiful
Isn't it ironic
That for all the ages that have passed
Love seems to be the one thing we still fail to master
Perhaps it is not to be mastered
Perhaps it will never be understood
Even those lucky enough merely caught a glimpse of its wonder
Silly that for all the themes of love in all literature
I thought I knew them all
I could never be more myopic
It is greater than me
It is greater than everything
It is the one core of humanity that humans have yet to grasp
It is why we are lead such pathetic and insignificant lives
Lives of quiet desperation
Yes
Thoreau got that right
A desperation that can only be fulfilled by love
Something we know so woefully little of
In this world this age this time

The patter of raindrops slow
Sporadic
Pitter patter
Drop drop drop
Silence
But silence never came

Oh but don't we all wish
We could turn back the hands of time

Can I see that warm smile again?

2009-09-28T17:42:00.002+08:00

Oh what a fool i am what a fool what a fool i've been, i wonder if it's too hard to see that warm smile again, for it's so cold here, so cold in this world of mine i could really care less for anyone but you, but now i feel how you felt at that time when i was so heartlessly saying all those hurtful things like a spoilt little brat, i heard that pain in your voice but i turned a blind eye to it, i must have been so cruel, how you must have hurt like i do now tears we both share now, but don't kill me like that, don't leave me out there in the cold.

I walk alone.

2009-09-21T21:19:00.002+08:00

In the soft streetlamp glow
Amidst the dancing rain
I walk alone my way
Shivering in the chill

Want for nothing in the world
But for your hands
I walk alone my way
Shivering in the chill

You & I, makes We.

2009-09-17T21:15:00.002+08:00

Remember?
You hold my hand tight as we shoulder through the crowd.
I fold my arms against the cold as I walk amidst the bodies.
Nous apprenons francais, in the past.
J'apprend francais, now.
You eat grapes from the bowl with me.
I eat it alone, so bitter it tastes.
You hold me close as,
I hold myself and cry.
You catch my eye that night of silent lights.
I can only search endlessly for those depths to fall into.
You blow me kisses coyly with a wink.
I only wish I could return them now.
You build that sanctuary with me.
I sit lonely in my little corner, insignificant.
You clasp me in such warmth I could not lose.
I cannot wear enough for my heart is cold with pain.
Remember?

Tu me manque...

Time.

2009-09-15T19:19:00.002+08:00

They say time would heal all wounds.
Would it get rid of my pining?

It feels like I'm being torn asunder.
I know not what to do...
Please come back and fill this void.
I dont want to forget.

Whatever walks in my heart, walks alone.

What can I say?

2009-09-11T18:20:00.002+08:00

My mind was full of you when i heard you fell ill.
Yet you would still deny me.
Leaving you to suffer alone in silence.
You would not let me near...
And I can only see you in pain,
In my minds eye I hurt as much as you do,
And you would still keep me outside the gate.

Outside. Walls.
You would really prefer not to?
I'd prefer not to see the end.

A morning and a message.

2009-09-10T12:20:00.001+08:00

"I just want to be left alone"
Don't we all?
Away from the people who misunderstand us?
Yet dont we all?
Secretly yearn for someone to understand us for what we are?
Accept us for what we are?
Love us for what we are?
And let silence do the talking?
I'd do just that and more...

In the dead of the night.

2009-09-10T02:15:00.003+08:00

I wonder why in this dead of the night I still cannot fall asleep.
And I find sleepless lost souls adrift here as i am.
Troubles? Work? Or simply insomnia?
Of course we do know insomnia isnt just insomnia in itself is it?
But I really couldnt care less to classify why I'd be up at this god forsaken hour.
I'd just be up simply because I can and I am.

I think theres really nothing much i can say here that hasnt already been exhausted by the great writers throughout the span of history.
Yeah the motif of love will be eternal, but I'm not here to ramble about literature.
Accurate as it is in exposing human nature and concealing it at the same time.
But how do I exorcise your phantom that keeps haunting me so?
Yet even if I could i wouldnt?
Desire is a double edged sword.
For it is eating me from inside out.

Why dost thou haunt me so?
And all I can snatch at are vague mists that disappear by morning's light?
Would you not return to me in flesh and blood?
In form so corporeal, that I can hold again?
The silken hands of sleep enfolds me.
I wish I could surrender to your nether touch like I do with sleep.
I wonder if I would see you?

But oh how can I really sleep but slumber fitfully in half sleep without you?
You... The one that greets me with now no more than an empty smile?

Walls of Silence.

2009-09-06T02:01:00.002+08:00

Forgive me dear friends. If I have been distant. There are some things I wish not to burden friends with, or I would start to foster some kind of dependence on that listening ear. No, I shall have to stand alone for this, or I would always be just a snivelling heap in the corner, I will have to learn things the hard way someday.

Sometimes I do reminisce wistfully at the days when I could just stare without a care into the endless starlit skies or just wait out the fleeting sunset in the middle of nowhere, that vast freedom, I would never taste again. I often wonder how I have let myself degrade to become such a weak-willed creature, this sickening cycle seems to be cruelly repeating itself, like some self propagating prophecy of mine. Endless anticipation. Fleeting joy. Only to leave me crushed at the end. Still, I must endure this torture, but sometimes I take leave of my senses, I become half of what I once was, maybe even lesser. A beggar for alms.

No, I do not have the luxury of time. No, I'm not just some attention seeker. No, I am much more than just that. And no, do not give me that knowingly condescending look because you have no idea, no idea at all, of the depth of me.

Yet, I'm to be the hand of mine own destruction, because it has always been the case. I was so blind, so blind. You had lifted the veil, but I had refused to face mine fears and so you left and shut me away into the shadows, leaving me floundering helplessly in that momentary flash.

Seems like I always take the wrong divide in the fork. Know that I would give anything for your guiding hand out of this mire.

Westlife.

2009-09-02T02:34:00.000+08:00

Something reminded me of you.
Remember Westlife?
Remember me?

Answer.

2009-09-01T23:28:00.002+08:00

Why do i write indeed? Perhaps a need for an outlet, where answers are not easily found I rant for them, in the hopes of them getting heard. Why do i write? Perhaps a need to put intangible emotions into tangible words. Why do i write still? Perhaps it is to bridge that gap that mere voices can never fully express, I have more time to craft each and every single thought, condensed into a word or splashed out in a torrent of an essay. I write to fulfill all these little curiosities of mine and of human nature, as long as our history stretches, we will always remain an enigma to ourselves.

For all of my eloquence, my ardour and my desire, intricately put together as a gift for you. I would be greeted by a wall of silence. Perhaps I was merely being facetious, desperate and cheap, that in reality I do not actually subscribe to the ideals I have painted for you. Perhaps it really is so, that I am changing into something i am not, or maybe i am finally honest and brave enough to bare myself for the worm that i really am.

I can beseech you nothing no longer.

Oh hark! Dost thou not hear the most melancholy bells of irony ringing at the back of my poor little head?

I just keep falling harder all the time.

2009-08-28T22:12:00.002+08:00

"Wait for You" Elliot Yamin comes up on my Itouch, of all times, i must admit it knows me well. Yes i dont know what else i can do, dont tell me i ran out of time.... Feels like something right out a soppy drama. But, much as you might scorn the dramas, they do reflect the realities, those heart-wrenching moments that you never thought possible. Well it happens. That much I have attested to.

You are resolute, you stand firm in your decision to put me out of your life, your mind. You are unforgiving, you do not allow me closer than an arms length now. My words were lethal indeed, a double edged sword that cut me as deeply as they seem to have plunged into you. But I'm the weaker one, I succumbed to the pain, while you merely turned away, closed your heart against the pain.

I marvel at you. I'm reduced to a sniveling heap begging your graces, I cried for you and I cried for my folly, from mine eyes where I thought barren of moisture. But with you, somehow something broke the long standing dams. Many times, I fell and I stood up again. All I felt was a dull sense of emptiness, calling to fill a gaping void within, those were the days, when crying seemed nigh impossible for all the hurt I felt. But with you, I realized that all that were before was merely no more than the tip of the iceberg, and you were the start of something wonderful for me, a whole new world of experiences.

An insurmountable task faces me. Ironic, that you wouldn't even grant me a passing glance. All that stands before me is a wall that I cannot seem to climb, and a gate that refuses to open. Is one chance for redemption too much to ask? That I must be condemned for my future mistakes? You have defeated me so utterly... I'm broken.

War within...

2009-08-19T01:06:00.004+08:00

Just lyin in bed as I pen this. Listening to some gregorian music I haven't heard in awhile... Lettin it take me away as I drown in days long gone. And questioning every superficial act of mine. Bitter laughter rings deep within full scorn, filled with such sadistic irony.

Oh I've come full circle indeed.

My world was emptied.

2009-08-17T18:25:00.001+08:00

I cried. I actually cried...

I'm breathless.

2009-08-17T18:25:00.000+08:00

I feel like I've been winded.
I can't breathe.
It feels like an iron gauntlet closed around my chest.
This. Has. Happened. Again.
The pain seems to multiply after every encounter.
I can barely think.
It's my fault.
It has always been.
This. Hurts. Worse. Than. Ever.

It has been awhile...

2009-08-13T23:56:00.000+08:00

Yes this has been a long hiatus since i last posted. A great many things have happened within the short span of these few months. I'm just a little overwhelmed. Friends, they have seen my rise and fall. My triumphs and my failures. But few have ever felt or known the frailty of my spirit. So many times, it seems like i've just brought myself back from the edge dealing with it all. Leaving me a husk that i can barely elucidate my thoughts. I just let it all fall away. There is no more want. A desire to share, to make known, to ask for help to take me out of the quagmire, i just let myself sink. Sink into oblivion. Words that i have heard from so long ago seem so far away, like i was a different me.

Yes perhaps you may say that i am emo. That i am weak. That i cannot seem to pull myself from out of this. Even that i accede. Because that flame that used to keep me going has eluded me. Now it is burning me. I know not even what i say or even what i'm referring to. Wait. Are not these sentences so disjointed? Yes. Like shattered fragments of a mirror.

I am daunted. Because your truth and your insistence in the truth of it all is all powerful. All crushing, it brooks no resistance, no 'lies', because all other truths are merely lies because we cannot see eye to eye. In fact I do want to see eye to eye. But you are too blind to see. So blinding is your light of truth. Truth does not need to be proven with facts because it is the truth, hence it is fact. Perhaps it's me. I am not trustworthy. You would sooner believe lies of my scandals than the truth of my innocence. True, that I might not be as innocent as it seems, but, liar? You would know me as a lousy one. Should i ever seek to hoodwink you, it would never rest well with me. But what does all this matter. Does my innocence matter? Does even the truth matter? Does the memories of all that happened before matter? No. Because the wall of your heart is impenetrable, behind that your mind. No words, nor actions, nor even the truths of mine would breach that. I have done all i could. If you should still turn that wall, your back, against my face. If you wouldn't allow me even the slightest chance of my redemption.

Then everything would fade into impermanence. Disappear beneath the ethereal haze. Blown away like sand in the wind. And all that remains is a towering fortress of hatred, pain and darkness. All because you shunned the light of forgiveness.

One that will never be further than the fringes of memory.

2009-07-19T00:13:00.002+08:00

The language of skin on skin
A million words, a thousand images
A single near-telepathic sensation
A tangle of limbs
An entity of warmth
An iron brand seared into mind's eye
Gently caressing the roughness of said scar
Every touch a tingle. Every tingle a flash.

Until then I ride the endless meandering river.
A waterfall or the open sea i know not.

Stories of Hagen Daz Ice Cream

2009-06-10T23:27:00.003+08:00

What does a tub of Hagen Daz say?
Anticipation?
What does a tub of Hagen Daz left in the freezer for far too long say?
Forgotten?
Or reminiscence?

A long hiatus.

2009-06-07T13:56:00.002+08:00

It's been a long hiatus I admit. A little longer than I myself had anticipated or wanted. Suffice to say not everything can be made public, or rather me, comfortable enough for it to be made known.

Many things have of course occurred in this short period. Things and people come and go. I had risen high and sunk low. But things have come to the end of their journey. I need to come to a stop. Time has given me new perspectives. Hopefully Time can heal the hurts that only Time alone can.

Many things change. But friendship to me is a constant that never will.

All good things come to an end.

2009-05-11T02:30:00.002+08:00

Alan probably just took off from Changi Airport's Terminal 3 as I pen this. Indeed it is not the length of time that measures the depth of a friendship. It is the memories we share that matter.

He has been our coach, a persistent coach to one of the noobest teams around. Yes, he could have chosen other teams with his skills but he chose us. He pushed us to new heights where we wouldnt have dreamed of. In return, we gave him friendship and trust in a place where he could only find selfishness.

Words are inadequate. Tears are held back. With a stolid wave and a firm hug and pat on the back. A few strangled words. For words come choked with emotion waiting to breach the dams. He turned and took a long look of us, poignant for him, melancholy for us. A step, across the threshold, our worlds separated.

It is time to end the chapter with Alan, and pen our experiences in a new chapter. Life goes on. Albeit without that little bit of joy and laughter and silly things we all so fondly miss. All we have are but shadows.

I've been such an air head.

2009-04-07T01:11:00.002+08:00

I'm so sorry for such a blatant breach of trust. I know it's gonna take sometime to get it back. I have no illusions but yes, folly on my part. No excuses. I still feel terrible about it. And will be for a time. I can't apologize enough. I'm not taking this lightly just so you know. I don't wanna risk losing a friendship like yours.

Curses!

Bittersweet

2009-03-30T21:54:00.002+08:00

If I tell you
Will you listen?
Will you stay?
Will you be here forever?
Never go away?
Never thought things would change, hold me tight
Please don't say again that you have to go

A bitter thought
I had it all
But I just let it go
Hold your silence
It's so violence since you're gone

All my thoughts are with you forever
'Till the day we'll be back together
I will be waiting for you

If I had told you
You would've listened
You had stayed
You would be here forever
Never went away

It would never have been all the same
All our time what have been in vain
Cause you had to go

The sweetest thought
Had it all
Cause I did let you go
All our moments keep me warm
When you're gone

All my thoughts are with you forever
'Till the day we'll be back together
I will be waiting for you.

How very foolish of me. Dare I blame myself for lettin my heart rule my head? I ride on the crest of every new emotion, but never a captain of my vessel. Merely a willing passenger, waiting to see where this storm or the fair winds would bring me in my voyage.

So i'm unexpectedly mired in a maelstrom. It just seems all too familiar sometimes. I've seen it. I've heard it. I've even come close enough to feel it. And it eludes me again all the same.

"There isn't as much pain in life if you don't let yourself get entangled with others"

"But is that really living?"

I have to make a resolution with myself.

2009-03-23T22:10:00.002+08:00

I have been hiding from the truth all along. So pathetically lying to myself about the reality of things. Wallowing in the pit of self pity. Attention seeker. Making my issues everyone else's problem. And just not doing anything to deal with it. Waiting for someone to pick me up. To give myself the illusion that someone actually gives a damn. So weak. So weak. Yes, i'm a self centered little bitch. No the world does not revolve around me. I refused to pick myself up. To open my eyes to see the truth. To acknowledge certain things. I am disgusted with myself. That's why i need to change. I can't have that elevated image of myself. I can't run. I have to deal with it.

The Medal.

2009-03-21T00:39:00.002+08:00

It's been awhile. Yes i suppose i'm proud of the medal. After all not many nsfs can say they have one. Albeit some may say it's just a medal, and they just want to get on with their two years and get out, some even resort to anything to escape the inevitable. Yeah, we all chao geng time to time when things get a little over the top. But...

I'm not ashamed to say that i rather enjoyed my 2 years and 9 months in the service, yes there was alot of shit flying around, things i didn't like, people i didn't like, management i didn't like. But life doesn't always agree with you. What some people doesn't realise is that life does not revolve around them, yet they try ways and means to twist everything to their will. Whether they achieve their goals or not, they are the ultimate losers.

This deployment took the most out of me, but it also made the most out of me. It's been awhile since the crew disembarked from the ship at mission's end each walking their own way. But today it was great having everyone back again, familiar faces i used to see all around the ship. Every face has a memory. Each face brings a flash of memory.

Did i deserve this?

2009-03-08T10:27:00.001+08:00

Hurt.

Rainy days.

2009-03-04T00:28:00.003+08:00

Maybe its the weather. It's so damp and dreary and I can't seem to find that snugness i so often find in my bed in this weather in the past. There's this restlessness i can't quite quell. I can't put my finger to it. Not quite, no. I hate this jobless limbo. Because of it i can't enjoy my time, spendin my money. It's like a leash on my neck. I just want to get out and do something, not wastin my time away at home. Feelin so useless.

Ah another dear friend of mine is leaving again, its barely 2 months since we first met. But fate is as cruel as it is generous. Or perhaps simply above petty human emotions, weaving its intricacies into our lives. Perhaps life is just a grand game of chess, you'll never know, but i digress.

So... where do i go from here? In life and in love.

Changeling.

2009-02-27T23:57:00.002+08:00

Just caught Marley and Me on thursday. Yes, its the story of the dog. Actually I saw it more as a story of life. The lives of very ordinary people, with hopes and fears just like we do. I connected with it. Changes come from every direction, some by choice, others unexpected, of course not all favourable. Some of these changes may strike you so quickly in life, that you are just left shell-shocked and numb. But what makes Marley so incredible and heartening is because he is the anchor of the family. Marley is the one and only constant in their whirlwind of change, and many a times when we are left floundering in the wake of change, we only want a pillar of support to hold on to. Marley is just that.

And it was just the 4 of us friends from different walks of life. All sharing the same burning passion for life. Sitting down on the steps, watching the world go by, little stories unfolding in every little corner. Talking about every little thing, joblessness, further studies, the mile high job, sex, job experiences, life stories, fortune telling, the invisible hand of fate, the grand design, life as a whole. And I will have to move on eventually. We talked about goals and what we want in life. Different peoples with different dreams, all taking a different path in life, further studies, moving away to another country, taking a retail job - retail hours, me - bumming my way around.

Once again, i'm struck by the inevitable hands of time. And i gotta pick my ass up and move. And i leave a little bit of me behind.

Why?

2009-02-18T14:11:00.002+08:00

Why do i refuse to heed my inner voice all the time?
All the time I've been lying to myself.
Letting all these romantic notions get to my head.
I wont stop until i get myself hurt in the end why?
Because i refuse to see the light.
I cant even believe the speed at which all this is coming back to me.
Why? Because it's always been there just waiting for this time to spring.
I hate myself.
For all of this.
But yes i need this closure.
It's just that i'm too much of a coward to do it myself.
I have been such a fool.
A love fool.

Is there anything new?

2009-02-16T21:49:00.002+08:00

Screw the damned fucking recession. You know I never really gave much damn to the whole economy thing but I need a job, badly. Yes, for the money to fund my lifestyle. For the money to fund my uni. And for the job to take me away from this endless monotony of bumming at home with nothing to do, no one to go out with, much less money to spend on going out with. I swear I'm going to lose my mind.

Worse, something that I should have long given up, keeps coming back to my mind, why oh why do you haunt me so? I wish I had the courage to end it for myself. This is merely a hallucination. So real yet incorporeal.

Cynicism and Pain.

2009-02-02T00:11:00.002+08:00

It is saddening to see so many people fencing off themselves. Gettin to know someone is like having to climb a wall, a mental barrier. Yet some people hole themselves in mighty fortresses, that none but themselves may enter. I cannot blame them, its simply nature's way of protecting yourself from further harm. Once bitten twice shy eh, how sad. They refuse to trust and love all because they are afraid of being bitten again, hurting again. I just think that if life goes on like that, its just gonna be so bland, always hiding, always shying, always running away, why? Fear.

Life is all too short to be spent hiding away. It's about taking the plunge and discovering, be it good or bad, its something to learn. You might come away scarred, but that should serve as a reminder, not an inhibition to living life.

In this sad reality, we all pay homage to Janus, the two-faced god. One for yourself and one for the world.

I'm high now.

2009-01-25T03:32:00.002+08:00

Okay... im still in a woozy kinda mood right now. Just got home from clubbing. You have no idea how tough it is to write these few sentences. Ah well its fun, but thats not the point really.

I wanted to give a review about Changeling, thought it was good to share lest i forget ever so easily.

Changeling the movie starring Angelina Jolie playing a single mother Christine Collins of a 9 year old son, finds him missing after work. Jolie's portrayal of the woeful mother was terribly evocative and raw. We cannot help but empathize with her plight. Visceral and poignant it reminds us of the many things we take for granted, Christine battles overwhelming odds as she faces a corrupt LAPD bent on closing the case by giving her a fake son to generate good media, the LAPD, threatened, locked her up in a psychopathic ward. The story then delves deeper as a serial killer was found to have abducted boys for murder, of which Christine's son Walter could have been killed in. Christine, devastated searched evermore vigorously for the truth, of which she managed to turn the tables to convict the LAPD of shirking their responsibilities.

The story ends when she receives a call about a boy who was found, but it was yet another disappointment as it wasn't her son. That was a powerfully poignant scene that moved the audience to tears. I wouldnt call it a tear-jerker per se. But for those who wish to follow the story, its definitely worth your while.

I'm not a terribly good reviewer, but i'm learning the ropes. I give it 3.5 stars =)

If only you had eyes to see....

2009-01-18T14:14:00.003+08:00

Life snaps right back to reality when the magic of booze fades. For a moment under the yoke of alcohol, we all felt vibrant and alive. Different. Elevated. Free. With the chains trailing behind you not wanting to let go.

Love is such a many splendoured thing indeed. Because we all covet it. The unattainable impossible. I'm beginning to wonder if we could really sate our hearts desire after pursuing such an arduous path to love? Would the transaction be as promised? The stuff of magic?

Roses. How apt.

Taken ahold of.

2009-01-16T18:58:00.002+08:00

I have rather quaint revelations of life sometimes, as i walk by the streets, watching the life of others go by. Like a muse they grant their inspirational wisdom and depart, silent as they came. Indeed, in my time of dire need for a pillar to hold on to, i'm graced with wonderful friends that appear at my doorstep, much to my surprise. Amazing how uncertainty may not always be a bad thing, a silver lining indeed.

A saying goes, "Live everyday like it is your last", but how many ever truly follow it, much less believe in it. After listening in on a friend's past few years, i cannot but thank the stars for my good fortune. Count your blessings indeed. Yes, life IS unpredictable. I cannot imagine what would become of me if such events occurred on myself. It sparked a quiet fear, a fear that would drive me to explore my life to its limits. Nobody wants to live a life of regrets. Do you?

>.< I read back and i find it preachy don't you? You of all people should know that, too bad i'm not in the writing kinda mood to put it with my usual sardonic flair. Yes, i need that spark to write. So now, i just need sometime to think and reflect. Take some well deserved rest before plunging headlong into the hectic workforce.

Forever Yours.

2009-01-11T18:32:00.003+08:00

Fare thee well, little broken heart
Downcast eyes, lifetime loneliness

Whatever walks in my heart will walk alone

Constant longing for the perfect soul
Unwashed scenery forever gone

Whatever walks in my heart will walk alone

No love left in me
No eyes to see the heaven beside me
My time is yet to come
So I'll be forever yours

Whatever walks in my heart will walk alone

No love left in me
No eyes to see the heaven beside me
My time is yet to come
So I'll be forever yours

No love left in me
No eyes to see the heaven beside me
My time is yet to come
So I'll be forever yours

Whatever walks in my heart will walk alone

Whatever walks in my heart

Tarja Turunen - Nightwish.

I wonder why i'm so affected by this lilting melody. Love is like a pheonix, dying and rekindling from its ashes. It is beautiful, and yet painful to bear witness to. How many of such unending cycles must i endure? One too many, too soon.

Everything is moving so quickly.

2008-12-30T22:17:00.002+08:00

I guess i'm still feeling a little disoriented. At such a vast change in lifestyle. Not that i'm detesting it, it has its pros and cons. I'm so glad i managed to meet up with most of my close friends, certainly made coming back worth it. But i'm just a little burned out now.

I need to get a job, learn to drive, go to the gym. Seems all rather insignificant yes, but life's little hitches always get in the way somehow. Hence the burnout. I've been wanting to write, but everything comes and goes so quickly i can barely hold on to it. I'm lacking the luxury of time, again. I suppose thats the challenge life presents, finding the right balance of everything.

Damn, the grass is always greener on the other side. As much as i hated waking up early in the morning, pulling my ass off the bed and off to work, seeing everyone there again made my day. Familiar and smiling faces. There's just so much more to it i can't express.

Suddenly it's just 1 more day to the new year of 2009, 2008 seemed to have zoomed by, but it definitely wasn't wasted. I never believed in new year resolutions, only in resolutions made with myself. Somehow the new year ones get forgotten when the festive season is over. Yes, a new year, a new chapter, life never really slows down for you isn't it. Makes you run for it. Like i always believe, there's a duality to all things, yet they are but 2 sides of the same coin. All you have to do is take a closer look, and take a peek on the brighter side.

I wonder what the future has in store?

Jaded.

2008-12-16T16:31:00.002+08:00

There is no other word for it. Jaded. The long deployment has done it's job, i'm pretty much close to wasted nearing the end. The wave of tiredness seems to have been anticipating the end to descend on me. Slowly, inexorably we are counting down, but i'm not, i just can't help knowing it's 4 days now, everytime i look at my watch.

4 days. I almost can't believe it. From a deployment that's a hundred over days long, i never once expected it to drop to a single digit. Few people probably even know the multitude of reasons why i chose to come here. Or rather more accurately chosen to extricate myself from my family for awhile. A long while at that.

Now the days are counting themselves down, the 5 hrs cut down to 1. It's like a creeping dread crawling over me. I can't shake off that feeling. I hate it. Everyone's anticipating my return, i appreciate it, but for some reason, i can't bring myself to be enthusiastic about it. It's not that i dont want to come home. I just dont like it. There's just so much, so much bordering on that.

For 4 mths i have been cut off from my closest people, whether by blood or by friendship. I doubt anyone would come close to empathising with me, my angst, my pain, my melancholy. Everything that i have experienced all along. I have been happy, but those were all bittersweet. I'm simply unable to put a word to that ocean of emotions, a potent brew.

I have been thinking alot, just random thoughts, sometimes resolutions i try to fulfil, sometimes of the things i must do. There is a thing i would tell all of you. You will just have to wait till i defeat my inner demons.

A stream of thought.

2008-12-12T14:24:00.002+08:00

Loud techno's blasting in my ears, taking that part of me away, dancin to the music, oblivious to all, sadly reality usually isn't the case. I wish i could sometimes cast myself away along. Not exactly thinking about anything in particular, which is weird because usually i have an agenda to talk about here.

Now I'm just taking a break after doing some domestic which has recently just become my primary job here. Takin the time off to blog before lunch at least with a touch of privacy.

Somehow i lack the words to fully elucidate my thoughts and feelings (usually i'm more verbose, but the military does certain things to you which you can never really fully recover from). Sad is just too vague. Melancholy is a little too poetic. Nostalgia is a little too early. I do suppose it's a mix of all that with a little pinch of Aaron, do tell me if they ever come up with a word for that kinda feelin.

So many things were racing through my mind during the graveyard shift last night. Even though i was thoroughly zombified with not sleeping the whole day. So many things i wanted to say, to tell someone, about this little thing and that little whim, and all the little bits of small talk between friends would. But somehow, i was choked. Nothing came forth, as much as i would have loved to. I wonder why myself. Afraid to take the step of uncertainty? Or just taking the safe alternative to extricate myself from further pain, the pain of inevitable separation. Yes, you and i both know that i hate that.

Have you ever had the damned feeling of wanting so much to tell someone something, but having a wall of caution barring your way all of a sudden? That for some reason , you just cannot push past that inner barrier of crossing that threshold. I am stuck somewhere there, neither here nor there. Lost in transit. Caught, held fast. Have you ever had it?

The loud techno is still blaring away on my new sleek Bose earphones, i enjoy the deep and smooth bass tones, i silently sing away to it's ideals, it's fantasies, the other world we go into sometimes to escape. I let myself get carried away for awhile.