Friday, December 23, 2016

Bleak Year, Be An Animal

Got the year-end blues. It gets worse every year, even as I cook and bake and shop and giftwrap like I'm getting paid, plus overtime.

So I'm taking a cue from my dog Dmitri, known throughout the neighbourhood for being an unfriendly little bastard. I say little, but the neighbours pushing their children in strollers call him big, as in "see, big dog, careful ah, wait he bite you". He hasn't bitten anyone, although he once snapped at a little boy who snuck up behind him and grabbed his ass. The boy cried and his mum made him apologise to the dog.

It's been a rough year. I don't want to host, I don't want to cook for fifteen people, I don't want to dress up in something sparkly and smile and say "Blessed Christmas!" to relatives who hashtag things like #jesusisthereasonfortheseason or #itsthebravedudesbirthday (how can it be possible that we share DNA? How?). Like my dog, I want to stay at home on the sofa. I want to listen to angry music and eat meals out of styrofoam boxes and listen to the monsoon wind uproot thin, diseased saplings and send them flying into the windscreens of illegally parked cars.

My dog has no fear of the thunder or rain. He knows they can't hurt him, unlike men on bicycles, women with umbrellas and army boys stumping home in big black boots. When they come too close, some primal instinct raises his hackles and bares his teeth for him, and I have to drag him - howling, barking, flailing - away to a safer place. Home is safe. Sofa is safer. Bed is safest. Dogs are so easy, wanting their routine and their toys and treats. People are hard. We say we don't want to cook, and then we feel guilty, and so we volunteer to make a dish for the potluck, and then we feel resentful and sick of it all. People want too many things for their own good. They need to learn, the way Dmitri has learnt, that you can't have it all, even at Christmas. Especially at Christmas.

Friday, October 14, 2016


I don't know if I would've called it grieving.

I lost two old friends this year, one to death and the other to - well, call it suspected causes. I never got a clear explanation; he only called me some ugly names in front of our mutual circle of friends and then left in a rage.

To be honest, I couldn't quite believe something so dramatic was happening to me - it's the kind of stuff you read about on younger, prettier people's blogs, where they write in single, cryptic lines between inspirational memes, and declare themselves to be 'stronger than all the haters out there'. It was embarrassing, and unfair, I thought. To be punished for not stringing someone along? For doing the right thing, the ethical thing.

But I have behaved unethically in the distant past, in the way I left a partner. So perhaps this is a belated karmic lightning strike, and now I know how it feels like to be unceremoniously dumped, and I deserve the humiliation and hurt. Of course you can argue that a friendship is not the same as a relationship, but this was a long one: ages thirteen to thirty one, give or take a year. It was also a close one: we were in the same tight-knit circle of friends in school and beyond, we were neighbours for about a decade. Naturally the clean-up of the aftermath was difficult, more difficult than any romantic break-up - how do you erase such a quantity of historical debris? Years of photos, texts, posts, mutual friends' tags and comments? I gave up and left everything as is, frozen in time, and these days I just hope that Facebook doesn't wake me up with any unwanted anniversaries.

I am grateful that my circle doesn't blame me for the loss of our friend, except jokingly. (I think!) They came to my defense. Now we go on and pretend that things have always been like this - our number has always been the same. But I feel guilty, and in a feat of magical thinking, my guilt extends into the past - I am sorry, I should have treated people better, I should have left with more grace, more kindness, when I did leave. I feel guilty about everything except my former friend. Try as I might, I cannot recall one moment of exploitation, one time when I knowingly took advantage. My conscience is clear. Too bad it doesn't mean jackshit.

After it happened I was stunned for a few days, like I had been beaten over the head. I was angry, with an intensity I hadn't experienced in years. Adult life is comfortingly soporific, with its routines and stability, but I found myself swept back by a tidal wave of fury into my early twenties, my late teens. Often, as my students recounted yet another incident of "that basic bitch who was once my friend, but totally backstabbed me", I found myself nodding and grimacing: I get what you're saying, kid. I totally get it.

I groused about it to my friends, my brother, my husband, then kept going with life. What else can you do? Weep? In the last decade I've turned into the kind of person who cries fairly easily at lost-dog notices, stress-filled days, Pixar movies. But I have been dry-eyed about this, unable to call up the easy catharsis of tears. The only time I think about it now is when I take a bus to work that passes through the estate where we both grew up. It's a maddeningly long road, and I see our ghosts at various ages meandering through the shops and restaurants: here we are picking our way around the coffee-shop uncles, this is where we had a coupon for fancy Indian food, here is where we drank teh alia after the pasar malam. A few years before that we were children in school uniform, calling out to each other from two floors up, dialling each other's home phone numbers to say that the Simpsons Halloween marathon was on. I can't help but be sorry for those child-ghosts now, bickering over a fifty cent debt on a lazy, sunlit afternoon that felt like it would last forever. This is not an ending I wanted for them.

I used to feel that everything had been poisoned by his hate - my childhood home, my memories of school and adolescence, my favourite pop culture and books, my social media accounts. Even my self-image - I have never been called such things before, and they rankle. But I am coming to terms with the loss, and turning my face forward to the future has never felt more necessary than now. After all, I have nowhere else to go from here.

Friday, September 23, 2016

C'est Vrai

There is an old man dying in a hospital nearby.

Father Louis has had his 90th birthday. He is incontinent, bedridden, half-blind. One eyelid droops in his face, which is sunken and liver-spotted but still impressive in its bearing, perhaps because of his Gallic nose, rising whole and unbroken above long, chalky cheekbones. He has forgotten how to speak English. Now he speaks French in a soft country accent, the farmer's son swimming to the surface from seventy, eighty years ago. Who does he talk to? He talks to the church volunteers, a platoon of devout, middle-aged Filipinas who take turns tending to him. He can't remember their names anymore, but he keeps asking, and they soothe him: "Never mind, Father. We are your angels, we won't leave you. Speak English, Father. We can't understand." He gazes at them uncertainly, then resumes his low murmuring, his eyes wandering elsewhere. He is beginning to talk to people unseen, pausing politely for their replies ever so often.

The volunteer on duty sings hymns to distract him. They don't want him to fall asleep in the daytime too often, or he'll be up all night. She asks him if he's listening to her, and good-naturedly he insists he is, even when he's beginning to snore a little. She sings You are a priest forever, which is a song he knows - or used to know - and he begins to hum. At the end he pulls his chin forward, in an attempt to nod, and raises his voice: "C'est vrai." It's true.

It's true that he is alone and dying, without loved ones by his side. He is poor and suffering; the touch of the blanket makes him wince and call out in pain. He has lost his memory, his control over bodily functions. He depends on strangers twenty-four hours a day. It takes two of them to turn him over in bed, so if only one is present he must wait to have his soiled diaper cleared away.

But it is also true that he has seen years of glory in service: in France, England, Burma and Singapore. While other boys went to fight the Nazis, he travelled to the far East to become a missionary. When his parents died in faraway France, he held funeral Masses attended by his parishioners, the milk of human sympathy running freely in tropical climes. Now that he is on his deathbed, his angels gather every day to keep him company. They sing, chat, pray with him. They feed him carefully and laugh at his little remarks, like mothers fussing over a child.

I have always been a sceptic, but maybe my own mother was right - in a way. Maybe God provides, and angels exist, and to be tended so well in our last days is the best any of us can hope for amidst the pain and indignity. It's true and not true, at the same time.

Story credit goes to TK - one of the aforementioned angels.

Monday, June 13, 2016

For Sebastian

There is a photograph of all of us on the last day of school. We occupy the fourth floor staircase: Aisyah and myself demurely perched on the bottom row, and above us a packed gallery of the boys - grinning on every step, about to slide down the staircase rail, standing tall at the top, arms thrown carelessly around each other's shoulders. Too many to keep track of, too many to remain close to. Now when we show that photo to other people we will have to say, "And this is Sebastian, who died when we were 32."

We will have to tell people about him because he stood out so much, and the photograph is no exception. In it, he leans forward and meets the viewer's eye, a teenage boy's attempt at intimidation. In real life he was tall and broad-chested, with dark rings under his sunken little eyes, even at 13 years old. We called him the Crab, after the Little Mermaid's hassled sidekick, but he was more like some great, snorting beast of the field - a bull or bison, an intimidating sight to face down on the basketball court after school. 

Don't get me wrong. He wasn't a dumb jock. His intelligence manifested itself in his conversation. You couldn't take him for a fool, and very often he would corner you triumphantly and make you feel about two feet tall. We were all cruel teenagers then, and his presence in our after-school chatroom was enlivening - hilarious, sometimes hurtful, but he always stung the place awake. His love of boobs and upskirt views was only matched by his devotion to his Russian teen gymnast alter-ego, Godina, who spoke only in caps and frequently proclaimed her horniness in public channels. Godina tended to make an appearance whenever he was asked to be serious, or to focus on something.

Still, he couldn't hide his innate goodness, his generous sense of fair play. Once in Secondary 1 he had been teasing me all day long, and at recess I saw an opportunity to sneak up on him and kick him in the leg and run away. I forgot I was wearing steel-tipped boots for drill practice later. He hit the ground hard, howling and clutching his ankle. For a moment I had a fearful vision of the principal's office, his fractured bones x-rayed and on display. But he soon got back up and - typical Sebastian - said nothing about his massive bruise to our teachers or his parents. I guess he figured we were even.

We kept in touch after secondary school. I edited his appeal letters, project reports. He could always persuade you to do something he wanted. Once he got me to get up, go to the mall, search the music stores for a particular Kenny G album, bring it to the post office and mail it to his crush who was studying in Australia and was apparently a big fan of elevator jazz muzak. He didn't let a little thing like being confined in an army camp over the weekend stop him from what he had planned to do. He made a few calls, he got it done.

He was a real hustler. He wanted to make it big in business, though he was really happiest working on his grandfather's fish farm. He was willing to be temporarily tamed, to wear longsleeved shirts and sit in an office, because he was absolutely determined to achieve his goal of making a better life for his family, his girlfriend. We fell out partly because of his overwhelming drive. He called me when I was on my way to work and asked for media contacts which weren't mine to give. I told him no and in a huff, he hung up on me. 

He couldn't believe I wasn't willing to help him out with something so simple, and I was indignant that he could suspect me of holding out on him, after all I had done. I didn't invite him to my wedding. Quick to anger, quick to forgive: he congratulated me anyway and from then on he was always the one who made the effort to stay in touch, though things between us were never as easy as before. A few weeks before he died he tagged me in a comment, and then a while later he commented on something I had said. Both times I didn't reply directly. I was busy, I figured I'd talk to him later. Maybe when we were older, calmer, we could return to our childhood confidence, our mutual surety of friendship without agendas or competition. 

Now I and our other friends are the ones who are left to grow old, for now. Sebastian crossed over to eternal youth and twilight on Sunday, 5th June 2016. I am sad he is gone, but I am not sorry he is dead, because the alternative - life as a vegetable - was unthinkable for someone like him, who gloried so much in the physical, its labours and pleasures.

It was this fear I felt that night when I saw him in the Intensive Care Unit of Tan Tock Seng Hospital. The hallway at 10.30pm was lined with old schoolmates, his colleagues and relatives. The entire front of his room was glass and only immediate family were allowed in. I saw them framed within the ceiling-height glass panel around his bed, his father and mother wrapping their arms around his chest, crying to him in Chinese to wake up, please wake up, son. A large ventilator tube snaked out of his mouth, distorting it into an O, but it was still recognisably, awfully Sebastian - Sebastian with a terrible slackness in his pale, fluorescent-lit face, an emptiness that convinced me he was not coming back, could not come back. What a shit world we live in, when one moment you're walking to get your car and the next you're braindead, your mind and self knocked clean out of your body by a fucking taxi, of all the mundane things.

I choose not to remember you like this, in the years to come. I will remember Godina, and the time they put dry ice down your back, and your voice on the phone telling me I had to come down to the pub for the 2B reunion, I couldn't miss it, even though I'd told you three times already I wasn't going. So full of life, eager to try everything at least once, and drag all your friends along with you. On Monday they will hold your funeral. Now you are in the twilight world, gliding down dark waters in a boat - you always did love the sea - scanning the horizon for your next great adventure on that distant island all of us must visit eventually. You deserve Valhalla, Sebastian. But I'm sorry you had to get there so soon. Godspeed my friend, and goodnight.

Sebastian Kae, 1984 to 2016. Dearly missed by his friends and schoolmates from ioven69.

Sunday, April 10, 2016

Because It Is Bitter

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;

"But I like it
"Because it is bitter,
"And because it is my heart." 

- In the Desert, by Stephen Crane (1985)

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Chesterfield King / Return To

We don't often think of punk being sensitive, or subtle. But Jawbreaker had a future English professor slash political essayist at its helm, which ensured that its literary lyrics were fit to be tattooed on hordes of flannel-shirted, Prozac-Nation-reading, Doc-Marten-wearing 20-somethings (now in their 40s).

Chesterfield King is first of all, a story with an introductory scene - two young people in a room, feeling some very intense feelings - and a conflict: the narrator is terrified of the change in their friendship. He leaves to ponder his situation in a 7-Eleven parking lot and encounters a homeless woman, who kisses him on the cheek when he offers her a dime and a Chesterfield King (don't smoke, kids). He tells her he's "glued up on some chick". They drink a beer and smoke while he does his thinking, then it's resolution time: he drives really fast to the girl's house and kisses her on the front lawn. Afterwards they watch TV and hold hands.

So simple, and so well-told. Very catchy, too. You get a real sense of time and place (early 90s, normcore parkas, fall, suburbia) and a neat summary of the problem at the root of every friendship-turned-relationship: "I guess I'm not a gambling type/but think of what the two of us have lost". Something always has to die, for another to take its place. It's not wrong to want a little time to mourn, before turning to face the future.

We now travel - figuratively, literally - very far away in space, time and theme from Chesterfield King. #1 Dads is an Australian band comprising one man (Tom Iansek) and a revolving cast of guest performers. I first encountered them on Triple J's Youtube channel, performing an amazing take on FKA twigs' (kids these days and their names) Two Weeks. 

Tom Snowdon's voice is eerily lush on that track, but in my opinion it's better showcased on Return To, off #1 Dads' About Face album (2014). It's a piano-shaped exercise in wintry, late-night melancholy. The lyrics are initially opaque ("There's no love in the ground for me/So I kicked all this earth downstream") but they soon turn clear and heavy as glass: "I'm just having a hard time... living without you here"). The aural equivalent of drowning in your sleep.

Friday, January 22, 2016

I Want to Believe

January is such a dry, dull month - back to work, back to school (for my students), back to healthy eating and exercising both financial prudence and eye-rolling patience in the face of the approaching Chinese New Year. At least this year I can look forward to the revival of the X-Files. (Thank God I've finally reached the age when my nostalgia is tall enough to reach into my pocket and extract my wallet. Those VPN subscriptions don't pay themselves.)

The X-Files were the highlight of my secondary school years. Wednesdays, 10pm, Channel 5. My dad - in a fit of bad decision-making - had fitted out my PC with a TV card so I could watch local programming in the privacy of my own bedroom. I often fell asleep in class, on the bus home, at tuition in the evening, but by 9.55pm I'd be wide awake and preparing my X-Files watching pod - high-backed office chair with leatherette arms I could lean against, pillow to clutch during hair-raising moments (and to hide the screen from sight, if things got really gory), lights switched off so that the room was only illuminated by the glow of my PC screen and Scully's red hair. 

The best feeling in the world was at 10pm sharp: snuggled into my nest in front of the screen with the opening credits playing - that ominous duh-duh-duh-duh starting up, heralding that iconic six-note whistle (I think the correct term is "threnody", according to the A.V. Club). Anticipation is the most exquisite form of pleasure, and that's how I learnt it was so. Everything else goes necessarily downhill in comparison.

On Thursday mornings, sleepy-eyed and even paler from exhaustion, I would look around hopefully for someone, anyone, who might have seen last night's episode and wanted to talk about it. But nobody in school had heard of the X-Files - let's just say it was more of a Channel 8 audience - save for one boy, who confessed he had only watched two episodes and wasn't really into it. 

"But you don't have to follow the alien mythology at all," I pointed out earnestly (probably pushing up my glasses with one hand). "The monster-of-the-week episodes are really the show's core strength." 

No dice, not convinced. Actually, if I had been savvier at pitching TV shows, I should have guessed that boys back then would prefer the complicated, under-lit plot mess that was the alien conspiracy Mulder worked so hard to uncover. It made people feel smart to keep track of all the ends and beginnings, Mulder's sister and Scully's pregnancy and the black oil and the Syndicate and Cigarette Smoking Man. All it did was bore me and give me a sneaking suspicion that there was very little payoff in following that storyline all the way to its inevitable rabbit-hole of dead-ends, dead characters and zero resolution. I was happy to let it provide the overall propulsion of the show's arc and Mulder and Scully's relationship, but the real fun of the X-Files was always the feral, dripping-wet monster hiding in the wall, the water, the sewers, inside a human being. The shrieks of the mother-thing under the bed from Home haunted me for days and nights afterwards. (That episode was all kinds of fucked up!) 

I stopped watching once David Duchovny quit. Of the two rather underwhelming movies, I skipped Fight the Future (alien mythology) and quite enjoyed I Want To Believe (shades of homophobia aside). I've seen early reviews of the six-episode revival and they aren't great - more of the same, dated vibes, unbalanced story-telling, etc - but I don't mind. I know that what people want is not really to see the X-Files come back to life, but to see their youth alive again, with all of the same hedonistic pleasures and dreamy, anticipatory excitement for the coming years. (Surprise - stock market crashes, global inequity, pandemics, climate change, ISIS.) People want to relive who they were when the X-Files was still on TV and wide-eyed Mulder and Scully had new adventures every week, flashlights in hand, peering into the dark unknown of age and death. There's no mystery left in the long night, but still, I want to believe.