Category: Snippet of My Life

When I told other men¹ that I drive an extra 34 km² a day through the rush hour traffic and tolls to drop off and pick up Cynthia in town every working day, a common reaction would be: Why don’t you drop her at a train station near your home and she can make her way to work from there?  To be frank, it does not come across to me as an option at all.  So day in, day out, we have earned at least an hour – depending on traffic condition – of quality time, of us-time inside our car.  We crack jokes, talk about the music scene, talk about our investments, our nieces and nephew, sometimes talk about more intelligent topics like the stuffs we read from the Internet or the books, or something geek-ish like the gaming mechanism of World of Warcraft.  I could spend the entire journey talking about Formula One; and her on make-up.  Or she could spend the initial part of the journey trying to tell me the fairy tale of Princess and the Pea, of which upon hearing her version, I retold the story in a more cohesive manner during the remaining part of the journey.  I often think that between the two of us, I am the better storyteller.  And she is not buying into my suggestion that she needs to start blogging in order to improve her storytelling technique.

Picking up Cynthia in the evening at times involves I going round and round in circle.  Because it is quite impossible to find a temporary parking space in town, legally speaking.  And because I hate to illegally park my car and inconvenienced other people.  I am neutral towards this method of pick-up and I am always happy – unless I am really hungry – to see Cynthia appears from nowhere.  I often joke with her that she is – like in the game World of Warcraft – a rare spawn, or a mineral node that I would go round and round to wait for a respawn.  To those who can relate, I am unsure if playing that online game makes me a more patience person.  Or because I am a patience man, I have no qualm going round and round in circle mining and herbing.  I think it is a bit of both.

But surely, you may say, that is not a good way to spend my time, going round and round in circle.  If you stop and think about it, most of us do the same thing at work: going round and round in circle waiting for that tiny and most of the time, insignificant breakthrough.  In my organization and in any large organization I have worked with, heroism is bad.  To be perceived as indispensable is quite possible the fastest way to be dispensed.  How so?  Teamwork, it has always been valued more than heroism.  There are systems, processes, and culture in place to ensure just that.  When I was young, my dad often came home and said how he acted dump at work.  At that age, I could not comprehend why one would want to do that.  Now that I have more grey hairs, I think I do.  I do not act dump at work.  Rather, I prefer to stay low, put my head down, and do my work.  I have learned to stay within my role and to respect the roles of others.  Is lack of ambition necessarily bad?

Politics, on the other hand, is quite the opposite.  Recently, Cynthia and I had breakfast with our good old buddy who is running for the opposition party in Singapore.  Tipping point was one of the topics I have initiated.  Wouldn’t I be concerned as a Singaporean if the opposition takes over the government today, he asked?  Or should it be a more graduate approach for the politicians coming not from the ruling party today to first learn the rope?  He, I think, prefers a more gentle approach, a safer approach.  I am not into politics.  I do not know what works, what does not.  In my mind, leaders can also be created by the opportunity that calls for at the most unexpected hour.  Not every leader is to be groomed from young.  A safer approach, no doubt, but by no means the only way.  Towards the end of our breakfast session, I made a casual remark that perhaps all we need is someone charismatic to take the social network by storm.  True enough, weeks later, we have our youngest politician, a 24 years old running for opposition party contesting one of the strongholds of the ruling party.  In the morning when the news was out, her Facebook page has only 500 like’s.  In the span of merely a few days, her page has hit close to 20,000 like’s.  I agree with my buddy that Obama did not win the election by means of the social network.  But I argued that coupling the online channel with substance translates to rapid dissemination of ideals directly to the people on the ground, with little or no censorship.  I still have no idea which party to vote for this coming general election.  I do not watch local TV, or read the local papers.  My news feed comes mostly from the online channel³.  At present, I have received more messages from the opposition than from the ruling party.  And there is this highway issue that makes me start to question certain beliefs I have with our government.

Tonight, I am delighted to learn that Lauren Froderman has won season 7’s So You Think You Can Dance⁴.  I am so rooted for that 19 years old dancer who was the last woman standing against a season dominated by male dancers.  The same level of delight when I learned that Whitney Miller has won the MasterChef.  It is good to see talented people get to perform at their peak, with no holding back.  In some situations, heroism pays off.

Footnote 1: Women seem to have no problem understand the need to be picked up everyday. Footnote 2: Singapore is tiny so 34 km is relatively long. Footnote 3: The online version of our local newspaper only gives out truncated news bites with the message that the remaining can be found in the printed version. Footnote 4: Yes, we are very slow in broadcasting overseas TV programs.

1. Making Potions

Lily Allen once wrote in her MySpace, “Most people don’t know how to make love.”  I chuckled at her observation.  What if she is right?  What if most people simply mess things up in bed?  Is it profound or is it stupid?  My guitarist once told me that talents are innate in nature.  You either have it, or you don’t.  Combine the two, greatness in bed would only be for the special few.

If I could create a potion, I would make one that erases our knowledge of how to make love.  Better still, make us forget how to kiss too.  So every few months or so, we have to relearn and rediscover the joy of getting to know the how.  Now, think about it.  Really, think about it.  This forget-how-to-make-love (FH2ML) potion, you have got to admit, is a quite a jolly good idea.  I can’t think of any undesirable side effects.  Unless one is making a career out of …

OK, next topic.

2. Putting on Make-up

Every morning, there is a jam on part of the highway.  To kill time, besides chatting with Cynthia sitting next to me, I observe the things around me.   The debris on the highway resulting from previous crashes, the flowers and the plants on my right, the scratch marks and the dents on the railing that prevents us from banging onto the cars traveling from the opposition direction, and the access areas that I didn’t know they exist.   When you are moving at such snail speed, the time-space continuum seems to get punctured.  You tend to see the world around you in a whole new perspective.

One morning, stuck at a traffic jam, through the rear mirror, I saw a young girl putting on make-up while her partner was playing stop-and-go with me.   She has a face that resembles the seed of a melon (it is a Chinese compliment, trust me), a mouth that resembles the blossom of Sakura (again, a compliment).  Her hair is long and luscious, wavy and carefree.   Our cars were heading south so naturally, the morning sun shone through the passenger side of the windows perfectly lit up the subject of my observation.   So, that morning, in between the stop’s and the go’s, instead of the debris and the flowers, the plants and the scratch marks, I watched the girl inside a car behind my car powdering her face, coloring her cheeks.  I might have hallucinated on the application of her outer-V.  But for sure, I saw her curling her eyelashes.   Left first, and then right, checking the mirror in between with subtle smiles of satisfaction.   That transformation – of which women putting on make-up (almost) daily – a transformation from which a natural form of raw beauty turns into an art of color and vibrancy that blends into the clothing they wear, into the four seasons, and sometimes, into the festive occasions.  I do the little I can in return.  I stop, and admire.

Of the many forgettable morning rides (memorable rides often involves some terrible road accidents or massive jams due to fallen trees or some drivers doing something very stupid on the road), I enjoy watching the girl putting on make-up through my rear mirror that one morning.

3. Business Class versus Economy Class

My company forbids me to share pictures of my workplace online.   But it does not seem to forbid me writing about it, so long as I make it clear that my view does not represent the view of my company.  So here we go.

Some friends tease me that I now work in a factory, which may not be far from the truth.  Consider that all skill sets get commoditized over time, I could well be a modern day farmer, or a modern day meat packer.   I believe that so long as we keep ourselves productive – in return – our society takes care of our daily needs.  And if I am properly clothed and fed, I am happy.  How my friends’ perceive I making a living does not affect me.   I work on the third floor.  Our canteen is on the sixth floor at the rooftop partially exposed to the sun and the rain.  From six o’clock onwards, our main lobby is transformed into a mini-bus terminal.   Private buses from a public bus company, school buses from an university, and shiny buses from a casino – all eager to earn some extra cash by fetching our staffs home.  Paid by my company.

I cannot say in certainty how many people we have in our department versus how many desks that are allocated to our department.   I suspect we have lesser desks than we would like (collective wisdom somewhere in my company observes that not everyone works in office everyday).  We – as corporate citizens – are given a mechanism to book seats online.  And we – as human beings – tend to be territorial when it comes to workspace.  Some of my colleagues prefer to sit at the allocated hot desk area.  I am a peace lover.  And I hate to bump people out of their seats, or get bumped for that matter.   So I prefer to sit at the landing area that contains rows and rows of long wooden benches with movie director type of seats up for grab on a first-come-first-serve basis.   Not many like the landing area, especially the full time staffs.   It is an area for our vendors who do not have a designated sitting area.  It is cramp with seats that cannot be adjusted.  It is next to the pantry.   One time, over the phone, a friend of mine overheard the clinking sound from the mugs and kitchen utensils and he asked, “Are you working in a restaurant?”  In any case, I love the vibe in the landing area.   People are friendly.  The best things I love are the windows.  I enjoy natural daylight and I enjoy watching the planes fly by.   In a good day, through the windows, I can see many planes in different shapes, silently coming down in different speed.  FedEx planes, Singapore Airline planes, planes with logos that I don’t recognize, private planes.   The only type of plane I do not see is warplane.   You should try to catch a glimpse of a plane landing under a heavy raining condition.  What a majestic sight!  A modern day giant bird coming down from the heaven, a rainy heaven.

Whenever my good friend at work and I part from our meal breaks, at the lift lobby, I often joke with her, “Now you go back to your business class while I return to my economy class!”   She prefers to work at the department’s designated area if she can.  And I, by the windows.

4. I Feel for You Man

Our Spanish teacher has been expecting a baby, for five months.  I got shocked out of my socks, figuratively.   I mean, if she did not announce, I would not have noticed.  OK, she looks – how shall I say – fuller overall.   But I guess I was not paying attention to the right area – her tummy.   I mean, most women have a bit of tummy here and there and that is OK.   Yes?

Onto the ninth lesson of this season, we are taught the difference between ‘para’ and ‘por’ in Spanish.  I suppose many students find that confusing.  I often pick the wrong one.  It turns out that for aim and purpose such as “I did it for love”, we use para.   To address someone such as “Guns are not for kids”, we use para.   To indicate a deadline or a specific location, we use para.  So, when do we use por?   One lollipop for each bull eye shot, that is por.   One lollipop per kid, that is por.   To indicate an unspecified location – be it as time or space – we use por.   The expression of “through which” and “because of”, it is por (I did it for [para] love, I did it because of [por] love … so now you get the drift?)

To help us to internalize ‘para’ and ‘por’, our teacher asked each of us to take on a sentence with a missing word.  To guess if the missing word should be a para or a por.  It is 50-50 really.  One girl got a sentence with three missing words and she got it all correct.  Respect!  Girls are better at languages.  That is an indisputable fact.  When it came to my turn, Cynthia on my right helped me out.  Next, when it came to my good buddy’s turn, he struggled.  I too struggled.  Out of nowhere, Spanish words poured out of my mouth, “Lo siento para ti, tío” that literally means “I feel for you man”.  OK, I used por instead of para.  Even Google Translate gets it wrong, I found out today.   But I am surprised on what I randomly made up in class makes Spanish sense (‘lo siento’ also means ‘I am sorry’).

In Spanish, mañana means morning.  And it also means tomorrow.  So how to say ‘tomorrow morning’ in Spanish then?  Mañana por la mañana.

A list of random thoughts and observations that bombard me lately begins with a comment made by my good buddy whom I met for lunch at Changi, somewhere so far away that colleagues aside, I have only got two lunch buddies to hassle with and naturally, they have become – again, colleagues aside – the second and third person I see most often, first being Cynthia of course.  Fortunately, both are guys.  Otherwise, Cynthia would be very suspicious of my activities in this faraway land.

My buddy asked, “What do you write in your website?  It is not a diary.  And I can’t find any moment of intimacy* inside!”

* Note: Censored for PG rating.

I guess I am not that good in sequencing my daily thoughts and actions into one neat post.  And besides, something are better left to the readers’ imagination.  Do you consider posts like this one some kind of diary?

*     *     Best Friend At Work *     *

Every year, we have to complete a corporate survey.  Every year, I am amused by some of the questions I have to answer openly and honestly.  The most intriguing question, philosophically speaking, is: Do you have a best friend at work?

Think.  How long does it take for me to acquire a best friend outside work?  One year?  Two years?  Many years?  After working in this company for more than three years, I am still perplexed by this same question.

So I have done some soul searching.  And I have come up with a list of what it takes to be my best friend.

1. My best friend accepts me for what and who I am and still thinks that I am the coolest person on Earth despite all my shortcomings.
2. That includes the fact that I am often late for my appointments and I enjoy playing video games a lot.
3. My best friend is ever so supportive to all my ideas, always keen to listen to my ideas, even though my ideas suck at times.
4. My best friend and I trust each other with our lives.  When I say “Jump?”, I know I am not the only one who will dive in.
5. My best friend fixes all my problems and make me the coolest person on Earth.

Tell me.  Do you have a best friend at work?  If you do, I am truly happy for you.

*     *     Who Cares?     *     *

I find the following question equally mind-boggling: Does your supervisor, or someone at work, care for you as a person?

Who cares if someone at work care for me as a person if my boss doesn’t?

Inspired by a question on whether or not my good work has been recognised and praised upon in the past 6 months, I turned to Cynthia for an answer.  She gave me a definite yes.  Her colleagues at work are the supportive kind.  I was in tears.  Happy for her.  When I gave her my answer, she too was in tears.  But not the same kind of tears.

All of a sudden, at a macro level, I think I have unlocked the mystery of why some people spend so much more time at work than at home, thinking about work all the time, and messing with their business phones all the time.  Take me as an example.  My direct competitors are Cynthia’s colleagues, who are showering her with praises and recognition during working hours.  If I am not giving her as much, if not more at home to balance that out, she would prefer to spend more time at work.  Make sense?  Here is a list of I-mean-what-I-say-when-I-say-to-Cynthia for sharing.

1. You are the best!
2. You smell great (any time of the day).
3. You look great (even when her sensitive skin acts up).
4. I love your hair (even when her hair flies everywhere).
5. You are the best!

As for Cynthia, she is the lucky one.  She does not need to do much for I am getting none at work.

*     *     Where Are The Aliens *     *     *

We have not found any aliens.  Are we looking at the wrong places?  Or we are looking at the wrong thing?  Recently, scientists suggest that aliens may have evolved into sentient machines.  The pinnacle of evolution.  That, my friends, sound very much like one of my favorite video games Mass Effect.

Are video games art?  Don’t some qualify as the expression or application of creative skill and imagination, typically in visual form, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power – as defined by the Oxford dictionary?

Video games transcend the meaning of art.  Video games foretell our future.

Back to the aliens, if you were to ask me, in my wildest imagination, I think aliens have the following attributes.

1. Female only species evolved to physical perfection.
2. After the age of 24, physical appearance stays that way for as long as they live (note: I wanted to write 18 but some of you may think that I am a pervert).
3. Able to read our minds – when we want it, how we want it.
4. Long hair, long legs.
5. …*

* Note: Censored for PG rating.

*     *     Daily Surprises     *     *

Here are something about me that some of you may have observed.

1. Very easily excitable.
2. Attack all things with passion.
3. Appears to have all the time in the world to do different things in life.
4. Does not appear to run out of things to do …
5. … even though some of these things that I write and do make me looks like an idiot – retrospectively speaking.

Recently, I have made my first attempt to order Japanese music albums from the Amazon Japan website.  It was an exhilarating experience as I do not read Japanese.  I had no idea I could do it but I did it nonetheless.  Talking about Japanese efficiency, there is only one shipment option: express.  The moment my order was received, the shipment arrived at my doorstep within 24 hours.  I am impressed.  Very impressed.  I was so happy to see the DHL delivery man.  Being a DHL delivery man must be one of the most rewarding jobs on Earth.  I would love to see the smile of people every time I make a delivery.  Talking about recognition and praises at work.

One of the few things that keep the trapped Chilean miners from getting depressed – according to the news – is to give them daily surprises.  Daily surprises destroy monotony and boredom.  Perhaps that is why I keep on creating opportunities to give myself daily surprises.

*     *     Drowning In The Stream Of Consciousness *     *

… and yes, driving away from town – after dropping off Cynthia at her office – away from the traffic congestion, the rudeness and ruthlessness of the drivers, especially the taxi drivers, and away from some of the unpleasant memories of working in town for a decade or so, I feel such freedom when I am propelled to the highway, heading towards the east, towards the blinding morning sun, the smooth traffic, a future yet to be written, and on my way to an office that is less than half a year old, a place dotted scarcely with commercial buildings, a place covered with green turf and palm trees and in the middle of the business park, a man-made lake with a man-made tiny fountain, and yes, even that short palm tree in the middle of the road, which I often have my face poked by its sharp and hard leaves while I am not paying attention – I cannot stop but to think of the many things I have grown to love about Changi: the butterflies, the fresh air, the tranquility, the sun, and the morning dew that wets my shoes when I walk across a long green field as part of my daily walking ritual after lunch for there are nothing else to do in Changi Business Park except to work on the 3rd floor, and eat on the 6th floor, and work, and eat, and yes, it is possible to make the daily routine more interesting by introducing other routines such as the daily lunch time walk, such as staring at the blue sky through the window by my desk and admiring the aeroplanes of different shapes and sizes and airlines take off by the minutes – such are the scenes that will stay the same tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and many years to come, eating up my life one day at a time initially, and when I am not paying attention, one month at a time, one year at a time, one decade at a time …

PS. An experimental piece on the “drowning in the stream of consciousness” writing style as inspired by Thomas Foster’s book on reading novels.

In this episode, I have five stories to share.  All are work inspired, somewhat.

*     *     Screw Bloggers At Your Own Risk     *     *

Recently, a friend of mine forwarded me a link to a juicy gossip that finds its way propagating through the social networks.  The subject of this gossip?  A man who works in the same bank as me, shares the same office building with me – in the past and in the not so distant future.  The body of the gossip, I must say, is nicely crafted and it is titled ‘Are You Dating a Cheater?’.  Real life episodes are used based on the blogger’s personal experience with this man and there is no mentioning of the banker’s identity.  Only with a hint.  An entertaining read while staying away from the possibility of getting sued for defamation.  The comment section of this gossip, however, takes on a life of its own.  Anonymous readers have stepped up to expose his identity, painted a picture of him not only as a cheater who promises the girls – quite a few of them – a relationship and delivers none, but also someone who is knowingly spreading sexual transmitted diseases.  Some readers speculated that this Westerner is under treatment for herpes.  At least one confessed that she has contracted chlamydia from him.

Another friend of mine at work asked if I would give my 2-cent here in my website with a friendly warning that the girls are ready to rip any man apart for those who dare to trespass.  My personal thought given the gravity of the situation with a disease spreading cheater on one side and a group of sexually active girls who may or may not practice safe sex on the other side?  Try not to screw the bloggers, literally and figuratively.  Or you could be more famous than you think, for the wrong reason.

PS. I do not intend to post the link here because curious as I may be, I have no means to verify the gossip except the banker’s name exists in our corporate global address book.

*     *     Are We Seeing The Same Work Life Balance?     *     *

I have this theory.  For some, long hours follow you wherever you go.  Here is what I observe.  Time and time again, I have seen friends and colleagues who constantly put in long hours at work.  Most of the time, they seem OK with the arrangement.  I hardly get to see them, for obvious reason.  Some may complain about it and continue doing the same long hours, for months, for years, for decades.  Then one day, they have come to their realization that not having a life is not OK.  So they found another job and guess what?  The long hours follow them.  And the cycle repeats itself.  If you are stuck in such cycle, time to rethink your priorities in life.

Recently, I have a conversation with a colleague on this very topic.  She told me that she loves a good work life balance and is having one.  Jolly good, I said.  What about that 6 to 7 pm meeting she was asked to arrange?  A request from someone who corrected me that 6 to 7 pm is in the afternoon, not evening?  She seems cool with it because she enjoys the flexible working hours.  And then it struck me.  Perhaps we are not seeing the same work life balance.  Perhaps all of us think that we are having some level of work life balance.  And it is OK.  Life goes on.

*     *     It Is Not Just A Desk     *     *

You know what my dream work day would be like?  Start with desk that I am entitled at work.  One that I could decorate with my personal items.  Such as my mug.  And if that desk comes with four walls, some windows, and a door, that would be ideal.  While some may have their career followed by a long hours monster, mine is haunted by a no desk ghost.  Looking at my colleagues who are doing more or less the same type of work as me and are entitled to a desk of their own while I am camping at one corner feeling thankful that I have a place to do my work for another month, it makes me wonder.

And no, hot desk is not a desk.  Although in my current predicament, it may well be a better option.  Changi here I come!

*     *     What Do You Want To Do?     *     *

One fine afternoon, by the Singapore river, I was having lunch with one of my mentors at work.  And she asked, “What do you want to do [with your career]?”.  Point-blank.  I was speechless.  The humor of it, if at all, is that I often ask this question to my friends whom seek advice or inspiration for their next career move.  Rarely do I get asked on that.

What do I want to do?

To be honest, I do not think what I want to do matters in an organization.  Not even what I can do.  People are put onto different roles guided by the process and so long as you can read, write, speak, and ask questions, you can do almost anything – in a generalist flavored environment that is.

What do I want to do?  Doing the same thing I am doing.  Not doing the same thing I am doing.  Gosh, life can be complicated.  Time to plan for my summer holiday instead.

*     *     What Did I Want To Be When I Was Young?     *     *

Finally, our teacher taught us pretérito imperfecto during yesterday’s Spanish class.  It is a tense used to describe some past events that no longer happen.  Naturally, the question of ‘what did you want to be when you were young’ popped up.  What did I want to be?  Believe it or not, when I was a very young boy, I wanted to be a bus driver.  And I ponder: why is it so hard to answer ‘what do you want to do’ as a grown-up?

Life is simple.  Most of the time, you are waiting for something to happen.  And you spend a good portion of your life doing cut and paste activities.  Or pure repetitive, routine type of work.  Even the pleasure that we seek comes mostly in a variation of cookie cutter recipes.  Or the same old thing that pleasures us time and time again.

The purpose of a job, to me, is to keep us productive.  Whenever I hear the comment “my job is mundane / routine / boring”, I cannot help but to think that most of what we do are routines.  And routines can get mundane over time.  You may imagine otherwise.  But the underlying remains.  Routine execution perfects processes that in turn increases productivity.  Increased productivity supposed to bring forth better rewards.  That is true until everybody’s productivity level is increased to the same level as yours, on the similar things that you do or produce.  You may get lucky and manage to bake the best cake in the world.  Make it big.  But still, the baking process remains the same.

*     *     *     *     *

Jesus once said, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give you”.  Every religion claims to be a religion of peace, teaching us to be just that.  Yet, we humans seem to be constantly in a collision course, with someone we know, with someone we do not know, do not wish to know.  It could be an email your colleague has sent to you, maybe copied to the whole world; it could be your neighbor next door playing Mahjong throughout the night and the noise only subsides in the break of dawn; it could be that driver who cuts three lanes of traffic endangering the lives of others because he or she does not want to miss the exit or the car park’s entrance.  Conflicts are surrounding us, as it appears.  So, what shall we do?

Deal with it.  The inevitable in life.  Don’t sweat over it.  Don’t swear over it.

*     *     *     *     *

These days, I am finding it hard to tap onto my pool of inspiration, when it comes to writing.  At first, I wonder if it is because I have spent too much time playing computer games.  But my life has been full of obsessions of some sorts.  If it was not computer gaming, it could have been something else.

Today, I had a meeting in town.  And hence, I got a chance to get out of my home and smell the air of the city.  Everything I saw stimulated my mind.  The cars, the faces, the little routines like the change of traffic lights for the pedestrians, the beautiful girls, the not so beautiful men, and soon, obscure observations began to surface.  That girl in my office sticking her entire hand into her skirt from the back to scratch, I suppose, her butt; those lion dancers inside an office lift not holding the door for me; faces that recognized me, smiled at me, on the street and I have no idea who they were; the tall blonde from across the street took off her high heels and slipped into a more comfortable pair of sandals.

And then, my writing engine starts to work again.  That little lubricant called anywhere but home.

*     *     *     *     *

We are thieves at heart.  And money is not the root of all evil.

Deep inside, I think, none of us wants to work for something we want and need.  If we know for sure that we would not get caught, and if we observe that the majority is doing it, most of us would steal.  We may even condition ourselves that what we do is not stealing (think piracy).  Because?

Because stealing is meant to be punished and if no one is punished (yet), it is not stealing?

The commercial world is smart.  They know we love to take without giving.  Money is a currency used to keep track of our productivity and to exchange products and services with others.  Maybe some love money more than they should, they would rather have the things that they want or do not want, free.  And so, some companies give out freebies.  Soon, more and more products and services are bundled as ‘free’.  But we are smart (I hope we are).  Nothing is free.  Someone, somewhere, somehow is paying for it.  It could well be you.

Money, is not the root of all evil.  The love of it, is.

*     *     *     *     *

Is it me or is it true that the festive celebration of Chinese New Year is not as festive as the good old days.  What gives?

Learning Chinese is no easy feat.  Yet, Cynthia has been working hard using all that she can to communicate with my mother in town.  This evening, over the dinning table, she asked, “What is the difference between Yoga, now, and cloth hanger?”

My mother and I were laughing in tears.  Indeed, the words of these three distinct concepts do sound similar when spoken in Cantonese.  Especially in the ears of a non-Chinese speaker.

*     *     *     *     *

When I wrote in Facebook that life is full of copy and paste, one friend commented: how about undo?

That is hilarious.  Yes, we spend much time undoing things that others have done, and things that we have done.

What triggered the longer than usual conversation between my hairdresser and I, covering topics that we have not ventured into, even after more than 10 years of my regular visit, I do not know.  Maybe it was the closing hours.  An empty salon with me wanting a haircut, her working with the shaver and scissors with such dexterity, and the rest of the staffs idled, waiting for the clock to strike eight-thirty.  All of a sudden, she pondered out loud on how long we have known each other.  More than 10 years I reckon.  She nodded, I nodded, and we smiled.  More than 10 years we reckon.  “We are both getting old,” she giggled.  “No, you look the same.  I am the one who is getting older.  Look at my white hairs!” I gasped.

My hairdresser is the quiet type, seldom talks.  And she understands my Cantonese.  She never complains about my straw-like hairs that are harder to style, take much longer to cut.  Unlike what some hairdressers did in the past.  Most amazingly, she is always there.  I know which day of the week she is off.  She lets me know her holiday schedule in advance.  She even called me once to let me know that she has moved to a different branch, in a different mall.  Every three weeks, I turn up at the salon.  And she is always there.  We always stick to the same hairstyle, for many years.  Then one day, she wanted to do something different.  That didn’t bother me.  Variety always does people good.  Whatever that makes her happy.  That new style didn’t last.  And she morphed that into something else, during one of my subsequent visits, while I was napping.  That too, didn’t bother me.

No, I wouldn’t have known that she is older than me.  Shocking, indeed.  Yes, I guessed right that she is still single, which too is shocking.  She looks decent, and sweet, charming, and attractive.  But I reckon even Cupid can have some hits and misses.  Coincidentally, on the same day, I had another conversation with a friend of mine, on her relationship that doesn’t seem to work out.  She too looks decent, and sweet, charming, and attractive.  This world is strange, in a melancholy way.  If I could champion one new idea for this coming new decade of 2010, I would encourage everyone to set a target to get married and have kids by the age of 22, not later than 24.  Start the high key dating process when you turn 16, not later than 18.  This world would be a much happier place, in so many ways.  Think about it.

I had my fear prior to moving to my newly relocated workplace, away from the central business district.  Now that I am three months into the move, in a strange way, I begin to like where I am.  I guess if you are the type that often see the good in the things around you – though some may argue that the good and bad in life is nothing but illusion – it doesn’t quite matter where you stay.  Next to my workplace there is a museum.  Opposite is a university.  Just a stone’s throw away is a Cathedral.  At about five every evening, I hear the chiming of the church bell.  Within a five minutes walking distance, there is a mosque, a state-of-an-art cinema, restaurants of low end to mid to high end.  There are expensive hotels, service apartments, private condos, and there are a good numbers of cheap motels.  There is a KTV next to Hotel 81.  Down the road, there are dubious health centers and night clubs and more KTV joints dotted along the main road that leads all the way into Little India.

I often leave office on time (if there is another idea to champion for this coming new decade of 2010, that would be: It is OK to leave your workplace on time).  But on one particular evening, I had to stay till seven, which is late for my standard.  As I dragged my tired body out of the office and into the condo where my car was packed, I saw a group of young girls in very tight, dark, and sexy outfits, by the taxi stop in front of the motel and the KTV.  As I walked towards them, more taxis pulled up at the stop and more girls with similar outfits stepped out of the vehicles and joined the group.  What a scene!  Seven o’clock, the magic hour of the assembly.  Surprise, it was not.  As I often see groups of girls with such outfit, pacing along this stretch of the street, at times on the phone.  Some would wrap their arms onto some Westerners.  Maybe they are legitimate couples, I wouldn’t have known.  Some days at around nine in the morning, I would spot some girls dressed in sexy party outfits, san make-up, walking out of the motels looking for a taxi.

But if I am to instead take the pedestrian walkway on the opposite side of the road, away from the stretch of motels and lounges, I would inevitably bump onto what I presume as students of art and fashion design.  The school is just right there.  Some look like models, with short skirts and long boots.  With fashionable hairstyle, very fashionable or rather unique outfits.  Some carry a huge portfolio of what I presume as drawing of their designs.  Most hang out with their friends.  Cigarettes in their hands.  Oh happy student’s life.

Either walkway I choose, I often bump onto tourists trying to haul a taxi, get frustrated that the taxis don’t stop for them.  And I would direct them to the nearest taxi stand, where there is often a queue of taxis waiting for passengers.  And no, please don’t jaywalk like that.  There is a traffic light down the road.

Between my office building and the university opposite, there is a pedestrian traffic light that is only in operation during non-rush hours.  During rush hours, it is perpetually lit up in red.  Initially, like many pedestrians I observed, myself included, did not know of this strange traffic light behavior.  Then one day I spotted a little signboard (that has always been there I suppose), next to the traffic light, stating the operation hours.  I suspect many don’t notice the signboard.  Everyday, I used to see someone standing there, getting frustrated, and has decided to cross the road in red regardless, causing the left-turning traffic to stop.  It affects me, as a driver, because the traffic light timing does not take into account of the crossing pedestrians, during rush hours, on that particular crossing.

Then, the land transport authority did something smart.  They printed the traffic light operation hours onto the road, which cannot be missed.  Whoever thought of that deserves a medal.  That idea simply works.

One morning, I saw a pedestrian traffic light next to the condo where I park my car partially vanished, only left with the main shaft bent in an unnatural way.  What knocked the entire traffic light off, I have no clue.  Did something knocked the traffic light off, I have no clue.  The next day, it was replaced by a brand new shinny traffic light.  And on that day, across the junction on my right, a van stopped at the traffic light, with a missing wheel.  20 or so meters away from the van, a wheel lied motionless on the road.  In around that few blocks of buildings, near my workplace, I often see the same girl, for a few consecutive days, or a few consecutive times within the day.  Then all of a sudden, I don’t see her walking on the street anymore.  And that is replaced by another girl, on another day, in the same area.  In around that few blocks of buildings, there is an old man, with a crumpled face, slowing pacing around the blocks on a walking stick, every morning.  I can almost tell the time by where I meet him.

Maybe all these strange encounters are simply illusions.  Maybe time itself is an illusion.  May all these flashbacks are simply frames that will fill up yet another 10 years of my life.  What triggered this longer than usual blog entry, I do not know.