Fall

-ahem-

(This is the clearing of throat that says, I am nervous because I am going to write about my experience of turning 18, and I am, even more than usual, immobilised by the road of adulthood stretching into two parallel lines which meet. I am nervous because I fear that as I type, I will fix and set, and that is what I fear most in adulthood. To be something so definite that everything else is excluded. As I age I will lose the potential to become infinite.)

This year, I managed to put up very little resistance and let the guys take me out for LAN and drinks. As the night wore on, I mused about how my birthday experiences changed throughout the years.

In the heydays of my band days, it was effeminate childish antics involving giggling friends who gave gimmicky sex-related or gender-bending presents, like condoms and underwear and one year, the last year when we were on talking terms, I received a (probably hand-stitched) dress. I gave most of them back. But what I can never give back, what I remember the most (and therefore what hurts me the most) is how much mindless fun we had, how non-judgmental I was, and how deeply we felt like we understood each other. You were the family which I was satisfied to have.

When I realised I had no family, and that at the tender age of 16 I had burnt all my bridges, I spent my next two birthdays crying my eyes out in a park, mourning the anniversary of my existence. Desolation that deep consumes you. It becomes the thought you automatically slip into, instead of aspiration or boredom or sex or kindness or love. I saw the desert in the garden, the music went from my head, every second is night.

During my 17th birthday I was especially anxious, mainly because I knew many songs which sung of the ephemeral 17. 17 is the cusp between youth and age, the last frontier where you can exert the full force of anarchy, the mad dance before fixture. I felt like I was going to waste it, and I think I probably did. I participated in small adventures, maybe, but I was much quicker to withdraw than I was to explore. My world was a very small oyster.

This 18th birthday was spent with drinks and cards and video games and a cigarette. Although I did enjoy myself, in some way, I also felt like I was living a stereotype, that I was assuming false identities of maturity. The taste of metholated smoke and raspberry vodka in my mouth was not right, I felt like my every action was postured, and I didn't want to be like that, but my head was already unclear.

I think the sad fact is: nothing would satisfy me. I would find it hard to breathe in clubs. I would skim skin after skin with tired disinterest. The flavours of cocktails will dissolve into the same sweet blandness in my tongue. I will stumble away from sexual propositions. But I would also grow restless as my lover sleeps on my shoulder. I would be frustrated at his lack of bravery, her conditioned conservativeness, his obsession with order, her compulsion with connection, his domestication, her solicitude. All these people - lover, lovers, dancers, sleepers - all want me to become them. But my shapeshifter's instincts tell me the first rule: never stay for too long, lest you lose the ability to change.

My mother's birthday is one day before mine. Usually, we share a cake. Since I grew into an individual, I felt unfair, not only for myself, but also for her. Why should her identity and mine converge into a single piece of pastry? But if I mentioned that to her, her feelings would be hurt. The sharp knife of my individualism that tries to surgically delineate, this is me, this is mother, will mutilate her. I love her enough to want to make her whole, even if this means she holds part of me hostage, that my self will never be completely mine. And if I choose to leave, it inevitably means abandonment. Right now, I'm not willing to trade. I can only wish that in time to come, there need not be a trade. But I doubt so. Motherland is older than migration.

The traveller knows that his right to roam is always tangential to the claim of home. Some nights, he wakes and is filled with a terrible sense of mistake, being so far away from origin. But home is but one dream. My wish is let there be many.

Susurrus

"She would have liked to tell him that behind Communism, Fascism, behind all occupations and invasions lurks a more basic, pervasive evil and that the image of that evil was a parade of people marching by with raised fists and shouting identical syllables in unison." (3.5)

"kitsch is the absolute denial of shit, in both the literal and the figurative sense of the word; kitsch excludes everything from its purview which is essentially unacceptable in human existence." (6.5)

"kitsch is a folding screen set up to curtain off death." (6.10)

"As soon as kitsch is recognised for the lie it is, it moves into the context of non-kitsch. thus losing its authoritarian power and becomes as touching as any other human weakness. For none among us is superhuman enough to escape kitsch completely. No matter how we scorn it, kitsch is an integral part of the human condition." (6.12)

"Kitsch is the stopover between being and oblivion." (6.29)

From The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

***

So it is after everything that I decide to write. Before, the media circus made every word unbearable, and now, the silence bids me again. The cell is drowsily hot in the afternoon, which makes it impossible to read without sweating on my books (I have to make them last, it is only by the kindness of others that I can read now). I have pen and paper (they said I could study if I wanted to, and I will, to pass the time). Even after my confession, no one is quite sure why I did it. So again my writing is revelatory.

Some people think I am a monster. I feel the same way sometimes. But not other times. Especially not when I did it: just before I did it, rush of pure horror rising at the sight of him; when I did it, the giddy confirmation of acceleration; and when he fell, the absolute exhilaration of the exorcist. Even as he was falling I saw his face change, from a Dorian gray to human pink, before he hit the ground. When they found the body it was completely human - shattered, exposed and gaping, nothing to hide. I saved him, really. And damned myself. With the echoing thud the demons quietly left, their work done, and I slumped to the fourth-storey floor, absolved, tired, surrendered. You know the rest. The arrest, the trial, the confusion, the mournful eyes of everyone who ever thought they knew me.

I don't resent prison life. It articulates so plainly what I have always suspected: the blankness of existence, the vanity of purpose, the dissolution of all that is soluble under time. You see, within these walls, I am safe and free. No urgent pull and push and shove, no deadlines, no angels or demons. And when night turns the darkness is welcoming.

Shhhhh they said. I am a child again. The crowd is murmuring, I am in a circus. The acrobats swing so wildly. I clutch my small piece of bread. One of them whooshes past me, his or her eye a familiar glint. I hold up my arm and he/she grabs it, and off I go, up against the tent, darting from the spotlight, then there is no tent and I am in the night sky, two incinerator towers glowing in the distance...

Falling. Terminal velocity. The wind says, Shhhh, a lullaby. I say okay. I fall slowly asleep, it is a long fall. Blink, it is hot afternoon. I am in a marching band, I am in a marching band. Left right left right aching legs lockstep spin spider-sweat crawling down forehead I am in a marching band. Thread mill. Breathless nausea brown skin skinny leg think of something else five more minutes. Imagine sweet taste of cold water drip drop stop check bang. Warm brass on my arm, impossibly heavier. I close my eyes, tropical sun behind the lids, womb light, I think of something else.

By the gods, she is beautiful. Sweet Atalanta, perfect balance, Greek sun on olive skin, glistening oil running down her thigh. I am a nameless youth running in her footrace, sure to die before his time. Even now I hear her steps behind me, tap tap tap with an echo of sand. I am out of breath, lungs pulsating painfully, the horizon a blur, blood expanding in my skull, don't stop, don't stop. But I am too slow. She gracefully sidesteps me, delivering my death sentence with an arrogant arch of brow. Too much. I collapse, my battered legs a useless dead weight, my breath haggard, the ants will eat me. Formic acid. Lactic acid. The ants will carry me off, bit by bit. My vision clears, focusing on a roadside daisy. Oh how beautiful you are, sweet daisy, now that I am to die. How beautiful I have never seen you before -

Red sea. Night sky again. I have sung all your songs, this is home, where I belong, stand up for sing- I have sung all your songs. Sudden alarming colours exploding again and again, the roar of the crowd, the false thunder, the false lightning, smoke in the air, choke. I want a real thunderstorm. We are Singaporeans? The kitsch of inelegance. Soviet Kitsch? You are my sweetest downfall. Sex lib kitsch? I don't recognise you with your clothes on. Hipster kitsch? Redundant. You kitsch me not. I swing again,

into her kitchen. Crawling into her oven, there is space for two. I kiss her wrist. I whisper, This is the only way. I cannot save you. I can only accompany you into where you want to go. Together the gas slows our blood...

Castle. Overlooking a Scandinavian forest, full of dark creatures with myths attached. Always dusk. I wander the ruins, wet dew and damp floor underneath my ghost feet, the night is coming, I must return. Stone protects me. I shower in the wide white room, tracing flower arabesque. I read in the library, large fireplace, tall winsome shelves, old wood holding up old fibre, my own garden. At night the candle, the four poster bed, the cliff winds combing my hair. This night is eternal. When I realise this I run away, into the waiting forest, and new and beautiful dangers.

My father's finger bones, foul flesh still clinging, twisted away by me. What is this dagger I see before me? It is already in my hand. It is already in my chest. O psychopomp Muses, I'm not yet 27. Take away the pain. It hurts. It hurts very much. Hush, child, shhh. I am bleeding. No, you are only dreaming. Hush now. Sleep. Dream again.

The slow rocking of the boat wakes me. I am blind, such is the weight of coins on my eyes. I cannot tell who ferries me, his name escapes my memory. Still I must try. The bump of the boat against the cold shore. He lifts the coins off, and I stare into his blue-gray eyes. This is my chance. I jump into them - the last sound I hear is the clink of coins on deck, his surprised breath -

"So. You are back again," she says.

"Yes. I am back. Again?" I say.

She is not smiling but it is as though she smiled. Then she turns to the window and her lips move, but I cannot tell what she is saying because the winds outside are very strong, and the sand brushes against the glass, with the sound of the sea. The land here never changes, always changes, and like the forest, always dusk. Why do I remember everything now? Now I understand what she is saying. She is saying exactly the same thing when I first left:

"There is a quest. There is a story to be told. So although us children of oblivion do not care to live, I must do a terrible thing unto you. You will go into the land of the living, and live, and lie, and feel pain. And when you return we will welcome you, the proverbial son, the mad bard, the zero fool, your suffering having no consequence here. Will you stay or will you go? There is a story to be told."

I consider her words. Are they an invitation to stay, an order to go, a prophecy, or a memory? Will I wake up in my cell, reeling from a bizarre dream, or will the winds here exfoliate my memories of falling boy, white walls, prison food, mother's eye, sweat-stained books? Will my guards wake to find me missing, leaving behind only a trail of sand, and my small piece of bread?She turns back to look at me expectantly. I listen to the winds for a while and then I answer her.

Induction

(School) life is cruel and ironic in the respect that it follows everybody's schedule, but never follow anyone's schedule. It's too fast when you need to eat, sleep, read, and do nothing, and when it's too slow you crave something to happen which will dissolve these timetable grids. Every child has wished for a disaster. A fire rushing everyone to the fields, to watch the books burn. Floods to swim in. Wild beasts on loose, forcing a fearful, exhilarating game of hide and seek.

The season of post-examinations was interspersed with dread and wretched acceptance. I expected the worst, and received only slightly better than the worst. Strangely, the school also thought it encouraging to hold scholarship fairs and summon seniors to share their adventures. So it was always with a sense of absurdity that I listen to people regale their success stories, my eyes sinking so far away from the sun. What the hell am I doing? Nothing. What do I see? Only the past, and its eternal return. Why am I not trying? Because death is so easy, and gets progressively easier.

Of course, I am also being deliberately misleading. Not being successful is not death. Just because I have no socially significant achievement to my name in these two years, doesn't mean I have to be dead. It's a convenient metaphor, though. It excuses my stasis.

The KI seniors who came back offered the same advice I've heard from countless motivational speakers, leaders-of-leaders, men of power and position, well-meaning teachers and relatives. "Go out there. Try. Don't be afraid."

I'm not afraid of what's out there. I'm afraid of what's inside - me and other people.

It seems to me that the most important epistemic concept I've learnt from KI, and absorbed most readily into my system, is Hume's problem of induction. People like to look at the good trends, and be optimistic. I'm not even obsessing about the bad trends. I'm just convinced that there are no trends, and anyone who wants to follow anything will find themselves lost, as I have.

There are two ways of dealing with Hume's POI. One is what I do, or rather, not do. I don't warm to acquaintances. I don't confess my life to any one person. I don't participate in any activities which, however remotely, will ask of me more than I can give. I stumble at "hel-", don't know whether to say help or hello, so I don't say anything. I patrol the borders of friends, family, studies, love, feud, gratitude, freedom, reason, grief, faith and need, making sure they mix only to the extent that I can handle, and making sure I am always in position to amputate any part which betrays me.

The other is what seniors have come back to say: Go out there. Try. Don't be afraid.

I've always wondered which is the better choice. Mine is the safest, of course - but because I distrust any drink, I will live dry, never knowing the sweet taste of cordial and wine and rose water. I stare at the opposite people with thirsty eyes. What have they done that I have not? Why is it that they do not die, they who daringly lick arsenic and dance away gleefully with their full strength, while I who has sealed my lips waste away?

In this respect I empathise with the Jewish people. How do you know if a prophet is false or true? Who can give up their soul so unquestioningly, and so completely? I wouldn't have believed. But it seems like I would never believe in anything. A skeptic is not superior. He's the saddest person who wonders why other people are so happy.

Last night, I had a dream about my most urgent confession, and an old crush promising love. Ridiculous. But I wished I never woke. Dreams like these are infrequent but disrupting. They make the borders entangle, and I spend silent mornings rearranging the lines.

University seems like a prospect foggier and further away. I am starting to seriously consider a life without university. For some people the line to higher education is a rope bridge, sturdy enough if you don't swing too hard, but for me it's a fine loose thread. It scares me how easy it is to snap it, and how tedious it can be to wind it back. My body is a spool and the thread is tight on my skin and I am getting dizzy.

Besides, I'm not sure what good I am to anybody. The only subjects which interest me are literature, linguistics, and philosophy - which are pretty much useless, economically speaking. Of course, I could read law and politics/public policy. But they carry an emotional sunk cost, in addition to the economic one. I can't afford anything.

And beyond these teenage musings, delusions or otherwise, I wonder if I will complete this bildungsroman, and return to society. Scholarship. Law school. Private practice. Five dollar words. Return home tired, have sex with the girlfriend, and fall asleep, dreaming of an old confession. And forgetting about it the next day.

Jetlag

"There are many forms of love and affection, some people can spend their whole lives together without knowing each other's names... But on the wild nights who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name." - Oranges are Not the Only Fruit, by Jeanette Winterson

"They say you're not somebody,
Until somebody else loves you.
Well I am waiting to make somebody somebody soon." - Are We There Yet, by Ingrid Michaelson

***

When I was in Hawaii, my name was Travis. When I introduced myself to an Asian girl from California, she said, "Travis?" and I hesitated. Then I said uncertainly, "Travis." I liked the idea of the name, that it means "to cross over", but it felt wrong in my mouth, so I never used it again.

When I was in Brussels another girl, frustrated with the Chinese syllables, called me Dave. She said I looked like one. I was okay with that, so I introduced myself as Dave in Sweden. Still I never felt comfortable being Dave. Most of the time, my host didn't call me by any name, which I was grateful for.

Not having a name means no one but myself can tell stories about me. I enjoy this kind of sovereignty. Yet telling my own story also means I can continue to evade using my own name, sufficing with "I". In this way I reject fixed ways of thinking about myself. Truth be told I never liked nor disliked my name, didn't treasure or refuse it. It is just there. It is certainly useful sometimes, for people to call or categorize me, but it is not necessary for existence. The truest names are not words to be written or said.

My real given name is Jiasheng. In Chinese, this is made of two syllables, meaning "home" and "life" respectively. (Incidentally, there is a John Mayer song called "Home Life". I don't like it particularly.) I share the "home" syllable with my siblings - my sister is Jiamin and my brother is Jiayi. When my mother was pregnant with me, she pondered over which last syllable to complete my name. She told me the options she considered: grand words, typically Chinese-mercenary, imbued with promises of prosperity and success. And then I was born, and I had jaundice, and required massive blood transfusion.

Thus my poor mother, scared and emotional, lowered her expectations dramatically - no riches and no ambition, just for him to live. And so I became Jiasheng. Home and life. Yet for most of my intellectual life I was deeply convinced I was either homeless or dead. Trapped in a three-room flat with familial demons, I made it a habit to cycle away, or hop on a random bus, or travel to town and watch strangers, returning to the flat at night to trawl the dark corners of the Internet. On the road, I do my best thinking - that is, I live the most fulfilling life. But that is also when I feel the loneliest, and desire the most.

When I was in Europe, I sometimes dreamt of Singapore, and I was always confused which was the dream and where I would wake up in. In Inception, the characters wake up when they experience a sense of falling. In Europe, that was how I felt - the sense of falling all the time. As I watched the fields slide past the coach window, I drank in each flower hungrily, so certain I was that I would wake up two seconds later in the heat of the Singapore night. Of course I didn't. But it didn't stop me from such pseudo-lucid dreaming vigilance. I tried so hard to be awake during my perceived dreaming.

I would always remember the homestay in Sweden, even though it was the most uneventful part of the itinerary, compared to the city tours and seminars. My host's house had unfixed tiles on the door step, and as I looked quizzically at him, he said sheepishly, "Renovation." Throughout the house, though it was pleasantly furnished, I spotted bits of unfinished planks and odd angles of doors and rooms, which made me suspect it was a self-built house. That only impressed me. I was supposed to take a nap, but I slept through my alarm, and I woke up at around 3am.

At this time of the year, it was already light. I gazed unthinkingly at the soft square of light above my makeshift bed. Then I entered my host's room without knocking, thinking he was asleep, but he was awake on his bed, probably napping a short while before continuing working on his essay. The vestiges of dream had left me, but it was claiming him, so 15 minutes later he was asleep and I was sitting on the carpet, aware, staring at the window, the morning light at 4am off the coins on the sill, liberated by how far away I was from all I escaped from. Shantih.

When 7am came, his alarm rang, we went down for breakfast. His father was frying eggs. As I ate, the sound of toast reverberated loudly in my head, reminding me: This is not home. Yet I could not help myself stealing my host's life - being driven between the suburbs and a city school; the middle-class smell of ham and eggs and expensive men's fragrances; a sense that there is peace to be had, and a place to rest my head and heart. These are simple things made luxurious in my head. Then it seemed to me perverse to desire these things, and immediately I felt out of place.

When his mother asked me kind questions, I answered as quickly as I could without seeming rude. For the endless minutes of eating breakfast quietly with my host family I could mimic home life. This is how I wake, untroubled, and this is how I eat breakfast. This is my usual seat in my dad's car. This is school, and I study the natural sciences. I draw food webs. My questions are answered. My handwriting is knobby, but it is okay. Far away, in another land, in the literature texts, tragedy, instability, betrayal and other things register dimly. They do not touch me.

Yet how can I reject the life I own, or which owns me? On the plane bound for Singapore, I listen to my songs and watch the aisle through blurry eyes.

Now I am back in Singapore, feeling the familiar pull of misery, but at least it is familiar. Still, I have not reset the time on my phone. I rather add six hours to get the local time. It is stupid, sentimental and inconvenient, and I would probably have to reset it sooner or later, but never mind. Anyway, my body still thinks it is 18:55, when it is really 12:55. I will allow myself this little illusion, fragile as it is, for as long as it lasts.

Bathroom in Brussels

Waking up, it is dark and cold and I am confused, feeling the heat leak out of my blanket into the room. Then I remember I am in Brussels and not a bright flat in Toa Payoh, the heat of the Singapore night and the glow of my sister's face fading into the vague outlines of hotel furniture.

I had fallen asleep while I was waiting for my roommate to come out of the bathroom. Now I see him bunched up in his blanket, and I sit up absentmindedly in my bed. Should I take a bath now? It is 3.23am. I get up.

Gathering my clothes beside my bed, I stumble into the bathroom. Click. The light is not working. Click. Click. Click. I pause. Click. Why isn't it working. Click.

I gaze furtively at my roommate. He is asleep. Guiltily, I try all the other switches. Softly. Click. Nothing works. Blackout? I don't know. Whatever. I'm going to take a bath anyway. I bring my phone into the bathroom. Only two bars of battery left, so I am frugal with the flash light. I use the screen light, but it doesn't last long, so I have to refresh it with a random key. Sink. Darkness. Tap. Darkness. Toilet. Darkness. Only the sound of water gushing into the tub now.

Then the handle turns. But the door is locked, so I watch the handle slowly return to its old position. I am naked now. Slightly annoyed, I wrap a towel around my waist, and open the door. There's no one there. I turn the corner to see my roommate sleeping. I don't think he moved. I don't know what to think. But I can't possibly just stare at my sleeping roommate, with a towel wrapped around my waist. If he wakes up, it would be difficult to explain. I return to the bathroom, and lock the door again.

I turn off the tap, and slide slowly into the tub of hot water. Ah. My phone is in the soap dish. Every minute, I press a random button with a wet hand to summon the light again, half expecting to see a ghost on the ceiling, long hair tickling my nose. Or a tub full of blood. Or a face next to mine, inhaling my breath. After a while, I stop pressing for light.

I stare into the nothingness. I don't know about ghosts. All I know is this body soaking in the warm water, muffled sloshes in my ears, the smell of water, this soft skin, this tired frame, this sorry heart. Into this utter darkness I release the recent memories: the foreign twist of names here; the dramatic angles of every Gothic architecture; the sudden beauty of roadside daisies; a dandelion wisp in shallow focus; the taste of my lip balm in hot chocolate. And others - older, sadder, lonelier. I think at this point I stopped being afraid. In some ways I am indignant, even confrontational - how possibly can you scare me? What tragedy can you offer that is greater than mine? What pitiful death of yours can match up to that which is my life? In other ways, I am glad you are here with me, you imaginary spirit sitting on the toilet or beside my tub or in the mirror only, listening as I tell my story silently, blindly, breathing air so close to water. Us common comrades in a world so unseeing, so wordless. Thank you. Dank u. Merci. In a foreign land this is the first word you learn.

I don't know how long I laid in the tub. But at some point I get up, get dressed, brush my teeth and go to bed. The next day, when I wake again, my roommate is already up. The lights work. I ask my roommate, Did you wake up last night. He said No. Breakfast, I tell the story to my travel mates, the adventurous version. Handle moved by itself. No lights. My teachers are slightly amused, slightly horrified. One of them gives me some salt wrapped in a tissue, tells me to put it in a cup in the bathroom. I left the tissue in the room. Room service throws it away the next day. Nothing weird happens for the rest of my stay, but on the last night before I check out, I write, pardon, on the misted mirror. In a foreign land this is also the first word you learn. A constant apology for your presence. Maybe someday when I die, I too will haunt a hotel bathroom, pranking people with a lesser life.

Critique: Rumours

8 Reasons to Watch Rumours

1) The script will make you laugh (in a good way, not the cringe-laughing you do when the announcers screw up during morning assembly), unless you suffer from some kind of disorder which prevents you from laughing.

2) (Most of) the acting was baby-butt smooth, consistently funny, exhilaratingly memorable, and most of all largely believable. I loved everyone. Ken Bevans (Luk Yean) risked being shouty at the start, but Luk Yean proved to be flexible and convincing enough that I stopped wondering why they cast such a skinny guy. Jennifer Yip (who plays Chris Bevans) managed her character's panicky frazziness proficiently, making the opening scene (which she helms) highly effective. Claire Cummings (Jesslyn Chee) was hysterical fun. Cookie Cusack (Felicia Choo) was deliciously weird-ass and meaningfully awkward, which is a lot harder to achieve than it sounds. Ernest Cusack (Look Woon Wei) was a bit too shouty for my liking, especially during the parts when he was angry (contrary to popular belief, raising one's voice is only one of the many way to express emotion) and aggrieved and sarcastic. I enjoyed Natalee Ho's rendition of Cassie Cooper (the red dress and BDSM shoes help) but was slightly disappointed that she didn't exploit the crystal rubbing scene more. Sadly, PC Conklin (Andre Lee) could have done better with more gravitas and authority, something which PC Casey (Tricia Teo) achieved very well. Glenn Cooper was played by Kenneth Loh, who is easy on the eyes but has a voice that sounds like he has something stuck in his throat. Hence the flighty lines he delivered were weighted down by the (inappropriate) slow deadpan tone, which was unfortunate. Loh also had the dubious honour of breaking character the most often, smiling every two seconds at the dialogue (although to be fair, the dialogue is comedy gold, and I caught Choo smiling at times as well). But maybe he was obvious because the rest of the cast was solidly stellar. Such wonderful chemistry too.

3) A special mention goes to Greg Alva Ng, who plays Leonard Cummings. Kinetic, momentous and orally talented as usual, Ng performed dialogue with expert familiarity. Look out for his highly dramatic and rectal-prolapse-hilarious monologue near the end of the play and maybe do a standing ovation if your rectum still remains inside you.

4) I will attribute the splendid blocking, pace and development to the directors: Nick Perry (Director), Janne Hu and Ariel Navas (Assistant Directors). Although the climax at the end of the first act was rather lacklustre, the rest of the play was deeply satisfying for a comedy of that complexity and length I am also glad the directors did not insist on a more sophisticated interpretation of the comedy, which would have dampened some audience response. Which is why I didn't mind the fist-bumping and blatantly juvenile behaviour unlikely for members of the upper class.

5) The set is adequately designed (Lew Bing Quan), complete with art and plants and lighted hallways. I wouldn't have minded a teeny bit more lavishness, but it worked and didn't distract, which is enough for a fixed set.

6) Costumes (I'm crediting Ephraim Tan, who is listed bizarrely under Fashion Director, as well as Celine Tan Sue-Wen, and Celeste Yeo) were not bad for the women and okay for the men. Not surprisingly, my favourite is Leonard's bathrobe, followed closely by Cookie's 60 year-old Russian mermaid-moss crazy ladysuit.

7) The publicity (Andrea Quek, Charlotte Hong) this time round was comprehensive and cool. I liked the brightly-coloured posters with snappy captions, and the one mimicking the poker card, both which were cute and relevant. The other posters with the actors' faces were less appealing (and also misleading! They looked way better on stage. And probably in person). See here for the posters.

8) There is tacky dancing involved. This is a good reason for anything, tacky dancing.

If you only watch one HCI ELDDFS production a year, or like ever, this is the one to go. It is the most polished, engaging and entertaining show I've seen staged so far. Don't regret not going and listening to all your cool friends gush about it. Tickets for the last run (tomorrow night!) are limited and selling fast, as I hear. For those who are going, have fun! For those who want tickets, they're available at front of house. But I suggest you text the Ticketing I/C, whose number can be found also here.

Rumours, written by Neil Simon, directed by Nick Perry and produced by HCI ELDDFS, continues its last run on 21st May 2011, 7.30pm, HCI Drama Centre. Tickets are $8 each.

Muller

There was this one time in Art & Craft class in primary 5 (4? 6?) when we were making stuff with plasticine (or some other doughy material?) and somehow along the way I got into a quarrel with my partner, Cheryl (Sheryl?). We were both struggling for the plasticine, four hands wrestling in a mass of white dough, and in my idiocy and frustration, I headbutted her head. Hard. My head hurt, so it must have been painful for her too. She looked at me with bug eyes and then she surrendered the plasticine, walked away, starting to cry. I don't think I ever apologized for that. Cheryl, if you ever read this, I'm sorry, it was incredibly stupid and violent and unchivalrous of me. I see you around in Hwa Chong but I don't dare to say hi, not because I'm afraid you'll headbutt me back, but because I don't have the guts to go up to you, asking you if you ever remember me, and if you don't, bringing up things when we were eleven and I was a jerk, and saying I'm sorry.

In another art-and-craft session, during Sec2 when I stupidly attended a sabbatical which gave AEP ACE points (and I didn't take AEP), I was working with this guy called Bryan. We were working on this really cool sculpture which I am proud to say was my brainchild. (Okay, on hindsight, it's a really amateurish work and the teacher probably indulged me.) If you go to the Science Research Centre Level 1, you can see a photograph of Bryan and I looking really excited about our sculpture, on a pillar. (I look really ugly in that pillar-photo.) I didn't headbutt anyone this time, it went well, we left the sculpture for the teachers to bake it. On a few occasions I sneaked into the art studio storeroom to admire the baked sculpture, and I would show it my friend who sneaked me in - "Eh look see I did this." After the sabbatical, Bryan and I would say hi to each other when we see each other. But because we don't share anything else (e.g. classes, CCA, sports), and because I tend to go into periods of anti-social withdrawal, we stopped saying hi somewhere along the way, which is what happens with most of my acquaintances. Now I see him at the gym occasionally and sometimes I do the "look of recognition", sometimes I don't. Granted, I usually ignore people in the gym, but one can always make more effort. To Bryan, and to all my other unfortunate acquaintances: there is nothing wrong with you, it has always been me, I know you don't care, and you'll probably never read this, but I'm sorry that sometimes I saw too much into myself and edged you out of my peripheral.

To the Hainan guy who sent me emails, of which I only replied two of them, then ignored your third email, I know you'll never read this, but I'm sorry that to this day I still haven't read your email, and I'm not sure if I ever will.

To Yu Quan, I've dissed your music before, most of the time because it was kinda uncool to like you. But truth be told there are nights when I'm burning midnight electricity and I loop your covers. You're not as arrogant as people tell me, and you're good at what you do, so keep doing it. I'm sorry for not saying this earlier. I'm not good at appreciating people.

To Zhi Hao, like I've said before, I'm sorry for blaming you for the whole haystack when you were only the last straw. Two artists meet to remind each other of their monstrosity, which is why artists don't usually like to meet each other. I have no more goodness than you do. I just promote the good side better.

To Jie Han, I don't know if you ever read this blog, but last week I went through my old blogs and our email correspondence, and I couldn't stop crying. I'm sorry that when you called my name in the canteen, I turned, stared, and walked away. During that 2 seconds of staring I only thought that you called me too late, that I didn't want to revisit the pain, that you had nothing to offer which would make me happy again, all of which is true, but you did no wrong, you were just the hero who left and made me the replacement martyr. While I had things to burn I was happy. But now that so much of me is charred, I am afraid of fire, and perhaps my rejection is a reflex. That day you called my name, I deleted you from my Facebook friends, like I did with most band members. I had originally kept you, hoping against absurd hope that you would notice, but I guess not. I also deleted our mutual friends. Secretly, I googled you and found your blog and Twitter with the infrequent posts and boring subject matters and uninteresting language, and I devoured each word like first-time parents. I'm sorry for being drama; I'm sorry for being not drama enough. But somehow I think that, like most people who disappoint me, I had an ideal of you when you were gone, but people are not gods or kings, they are too small to fill the beauty I have carved out in their absence. Maybe I made things up about you when you were gone, and believed those things. When you came back you disrupted my mourning. But who cares? Don't call my name again. You have a life somewhere outside my mind, somewhere you are not dead and forever glorious and saintly. Live that life, and if someday I manage to break out of my psychosis, I may join you in the ranks of sanity and plain words and social company. We will meet for lunch and carefully sidestep the landmines of memory, and talk exclusively about the present and future. When we run out of conversation, we will resist against reminiscing, both of us reaching for water to fill our mouths.