miracle man

I can never quite tell if Ma J is asleep or just pretending

The old lady in the bed next to Ma J's is in hospital because of a second stroke. When we were visiting Ma J this afternoon, the old lady's middle-aged son was also there. He was in his usual round-neck tee tucked into a pair of blue jeans with a belt made of buffalo hide. His limbs are slim, but his belly is round. His bald head, too, is round and abnormally large for his small frame.

Let's call him Ah Biao, or if you prefer an English name, you can think of him as Bill (after his buffalo hide belt).

When J and I walked out of the ward, Ah Biao or Bill followed us. Three of us stood around the counter by the nurses' work area. J and I were quiet, enjoying the break. Then Ah Biao wanted to show us something special.

"Eh, I show you something."

Ah Biao unzipped his black waist pouch and took out a small yellow cloth pouch. He untied the colourful string that secured the opening of the pouch. He weighed the pouch on his palm, gently bounced it - once, twice, three times - and peered into it. Nope, no genie.

"Inside there's a pearl." He began. "Centipede pearl."

We were puzzled and only half-catching what he was saying.

"Huh?"

"Centipede pearl. From giant centipede." He extended his other arm to illustrate and continued, "at least one metre long. This kind of pearl only from very big centipede, the centipede so big it is almost immortal already, it wants to be god already. [ed: i think he means that it has almost reached some stage of transfiguration and spiritual transcendance?] From a jungle in Sarawak."

He offered us a look and J and I took turns to look into the small yello pouch. Indeed there was a tiny pearl, the cheap irregularly-shaped sort of pearl you might buy from touristy Bangkok or Manila in the 80s and tinted gaudily. It was about 3mm large, maroon in colour, and was sitting in a bed of rice grains.

"Oh, how is it that the centipede will make a pearl?" We asked politely.

"The centipede spit it out. Very rare lah. Only this type of centipede, very big. It spit it out. In Sarawak, only the holy man can find. Very rare."

"Oh. What is it for? Why do you keep it?"

Ah Biao took one more look at his centipede spit pearl before tying up the pouch, returning it safely into his waist pouch.

"For business one. Usually businessman keep. Give you peace, good things."

We did not know what else to say. "Oh."

"This pearl got energy. It will eat the rice. A few days I check, some of the rice ah, they become hollow."

There was silence again. But Ah Biao needed an audience. From his jean pocket he removed a red brocade pouch, the kind that the traditional gold jewellers used.

"Wild boar tooth. From Sarawak."

He unzipped the pouch and removed an ivory-coloured hooked tusk, stained at the tip.

"What is this for?" We asked as he wished, falling into a routine.

"Peace. Safety. This one for travelling. Sometimes I go overseas. You keep it close to your body, safety."

"Ah."

"I also have this snake stone."

Yes, of course, a snake stone, everyone has one of those, I wanted to say.

"What's a snake stone? How does it look like?" J asked.

"You know from the snake, the gall inside ah. About this big. Black colour one, I sometimes wear here," he showed us his ring finger, "when I go overseas I wear."

"Ah."

"This snake stone, I take a stand of hair, tie around it and then use the lighter... but the hair won't burn."

We nodded, tired. It must be for the lack of coffee or it was the stifling atmosphere in the hospital ward beside a quiet defeated Ma J.

"You know right? Usually you take hair ah, then you use a lighter to burn, it will curl up, then it will start to burn, right? But I put the hair, like this ah, around the stone then I burn, it never burn. Haha. In Malaysia ah, very common, they want to sell me the snake stone. I say to the man, I ask him if I can test, put the human hair on it and burn. But he won't let me. Fake one! A lot of people, the sell the fake snake stones."

When J and I left the hospital that evening after Ma J had her dinner, we saw Ah Biao again at the counter outside the ward. On the counter was the yellow cloth pouch and an opened bottle of mineral water. Ah Biao was staring into his palm. When we walked by, he looked up and nodded a goodbye. In his cupped palm was the centipede pearl sitting in water - taking both a bath and a drink.

A bath and a drink. The centipede pearl could do neither on its own. It was not unlike Ah Biao's mother. A tube runs into Ah Biao's mother's nose, and to have a drink,the nurse would connect the tube to a syringe-like funnel and slowly pour in some water. And while Ma J is not completely paralysed like Ma Ah Biao, she too cannot or will not reach for her own drink. Even if the cup is placed before her and her right arm can freely move, Ma J prefers someone to lift the cup to her lips.

In the hospital both misplaced hope and hopelessness are common.

voices from the street

they were definitely not shouting "i love you" on the street - image by J

The folks behind the website Art Singapore & the Danger Museum project are putting together a series of podcasts on the Singapore Biennale.

Though us amps have lofty artistic aspirations just short of cutting off an ear, we could only pay humble tribute to the dotty Kusama at the virtual sidelines of this event. And now, J/TOHA provides his plebeian chatter about the Biennale (as one of the "Voices from the Street") to Episode 1 of the above podcast.

inheritance

images by J/TOHA - click for flickr view

I was looking at mom, while she was lying listlessly on the hospital bed. Her eyes were closed, but I was not sure if she was really asleep. Dentures laid quietly in a cup beside her. These days, she likes to pretend to sleep when she does't feel like talking to someone. Anyway, she does't really talk much after her stroke 6 months ago. Frankly, I was shocked that I could hardly recognise her face. In the past 6 months, about half of her was lost - weight lost. - J/TOHA

A rather nasty infection sent Ma J back to the hospital again some 6 months after her stroke. This time she did not panic and break down. She did not complain about sleepless nights and ghostly shapes - not even when the old lady in the bed across from her died after the first night. Her eyes did not grow red. She did not ask to go home. There is a fine line between stoicism and hopelessness. I'm not so sure that she's on the side of the former.

Several hours after the old lady in the same room died, they finally moved her body to the morgue. The sheets were quickly removed. The nurses moved in with the disinfectant and did the routine clean up. In a while, the empty bed was restored. Then a nurse removed the information chart on the wall above the bed. And because all the information was written with a marker on the chart's clear plastic covering, the nurse could easily wipe away the marks - the patient's name, her condition, the languages she spoke, her diet and other special instructions on her care. An empty chart was put back on the wall. Supposedly the hospital's not a place you leave anything behind in.



I wonder if we do inherit from our parents something that determines who we are or are these just some phantoms we think are haunting the mirror. My brother's 6 month old son is his hairless miniature. But what I mean is beyond the physical of course. J likes to observe how, like his mother, he and his 6 sublings all have a pessimistic streak, one which is further charged with a tendency to sink into helpless despondency. Yes, a taste for drama of the gloomy sort. And I, like my mom (perhaps following her mother) would rather that the dramas of life defer to dramas of the onstage and fictional kind.

But these are ultimately inheritages we choose for and from ourselves. We dredge them up as excuses for bad behavior or vanity songs for small victories. And like most narratives we write for ourselves, they quietly lay traps to enslave.

Reads: Sun Protection

I was reading one of the sites when I chanced upon an article and inspired me to make an entry on sun protection.
I must once again stress the importance of sunblock to all of you people out there. Especially to people with fair skin like me. Studies have shown that fair skin people are more likely to get sun burns as compared to dark skin friends.
However, this does not mean that dark skin people are not proned to the effects of UVA.

The sun
The sun emits three kinds of rays. UVA, UVB and UVC.

UVC is mainly blocked out by the ozone layer and we don't really need to worry about that although the depletion of the ozone layer means that technologies have to be invented to protect against UVC in the future.

UVB is the one that burns the skin and gives the red burning on the skin after exposure to it.

UVA tends to penetrate the skin deeper and although the skin damage is not apparent (usually it gives a very nice even tan), it has a long term effect. It is the long term effect that is more worrying. UVA is the main culprit for premature aging, photoaging, wrinkles, blotching, yellowing and spots.

Long term exposure to the sun without protection of any sort could also lead to skin cancer.

Sunscreens.
Sunscreens are best protection against UV rays and here is the breakdown.
Sunscreens work by either reflecting off the UV rays or by absorbing the rays through the use of physical filters or chemical filters.

Broad spectrum filters refers to the ability to protect the skin against both UVA and UVB rays. The photostability refers to whether the compound would break down when exposed to sunlight. If the active ingredients (filters) of the sunscreen are not photostable, then repeat and frequent application is recommended. Studies have shown that if the the suncreen is not photostable and frequent applications is not done, it might do even MORE harm to the skin than protect it.

Physical Filters are usually opaque minerals pigments that reflect and scatter UV rays over a broad spectrum of wavelengths that include UVB, UVA, visible light and infra red rays. These are micronised metal salts in the form of titanium and zinc oxide and are usually combined with chemical filters. Comparison between zinc oxide and titanium dioxide shows that zinc oxide is superior for UVA protection in the 340-380 nm range (UVA-I) and tends to be less pasty on the skin. It has been said that physical filters clog pores but they are gentle on sensitive skin since they are inert and photostable.

Chemical filters absorb the sun rays and convert them into heat. There are several types of chemical filters and they have varying properties. Being chemicals, they are usually light and invisible. Unfortunately, there are some which are not photostable and is sometimes associated with sensitivity issues.
There is a alot of studies in the area of chemical filters as a lot of them are not photostable and can cause skin irritations.

There are also known cases of chemical filters degrading each other when formulated together.The ones that are well known on the market for being photostable would be Mexoryl (L'oreal) , Tinosorb (Ciba), 4-Methylbenzilidene Camphor and Uvinul.

Formulations with avobenzone needs to be stabilised with
* octocrylene
* 4-methylbenzylidene camphor
* tinosorb s
* tinosorb m
* butyloctyl salicylate
* hexadecyl benzoate
* butyloctyl benzoate
* mexoryl sx
* diethyhexyl 2,6-naphthalate
European sunscreens with Mexoryl or Tinosorb
by Barbara Kwiatkowska
Manufacturers:-
TINOSORB S / TINOSORB M
- Avene
- Bioderma
- Castalia
- Caudalie
- Cosmedex
- Daylong
- Ducray
- Evaux
- Galenic
- Johnson's Suncare Baby
- Laboratories SVR
- Laviderm
- Lierac
- Mustela
- Nivea
- Oenobiol
- RoC
- Synchroline
MEXORYL SX (water soluble) / MEXORYL XL (Oil Soluble)
Patent by French company L'oreal
- Biotherm
- Garnier
- Lancome
- La Roche-Posay (Anthelios Fluid Sunscreens)
- L'Oreal
- Vichy
**L'oreal, Lancome, La Roche Posay, Biotherm and Vichy are some locally available brands that offer Mexoryl sunscreens. The more lightweight ones include Lancome UV Expert, L'oreal UV Perfect, and LRP Anthelios Fluide Extreme.

If your sunscreen contains chemical filters, be sure to apply 15-30 minutes before exposure to the sun. If it contains only physical filters, applying it just before exposure is fine.
In addition to the active ingredients, the 'vehicle' is also very important.
-Emulsions (cream or lotions):
Most acceptable photoprotectors. Creams spread easily and offer better photoprotection than lotions. Water-in-oil emulsions gives up more moisture, offers better protection and more water and sweat resist.

- Sticks are excellent sunscreens for lips.

- Gels are unstable and poorly water resistant.
Sensitivity and Comedogenicity
In addition to chemical filters causing sensitive issues, the vehicle is also a main factor. Many cream formulations are highly emollient and likely to be comedogenic when used by an acne-prone person. Lotions (laits) are somewhat less so. European and USA gels or sprays tend to be the lightest and least comedogenic, along with many Asian lotion formulations. If you are breakout-prone, look for a gel, a spray, or an Asian sunscreen.
SPF, PA, PPD and Boots Star Ratings
After understanding the make-up of a sunscreen, another problem comes up to choosing one. So what is SPF, PA and all the words on the bottles mean??

SPF: Sun Protection Factor
The SPF rating is primarily the amount of UVB protection the sunscreen provides. The rating (SPF15, SPF20, etc.) indicates how much longer a person can be in the Sun before burning than when not wearing sunscreen.

Example:
if I can stay in the sun for 8 minutes before burning starts without a sunscreen, an SPF 50 sunscreen means that I can in the sun for 400 mins (8mins*50) without getting a burn. Frequent application is encouraged to provide higher protection but it does not mean that applying more and you can stay in the sun longer.

** Although American FDA advice is SPF 15 for normal usage, many dermetologist argue that at least SPF 30 to be used. There are also some debate on SPF50++ on the capabilities of the product and consumers being misled.

PA, PPD, PFA
PA, PPD and PFA are usually used as a measure of protection against UVA. There is still no international standards to how protection is measure and neither how much is enough.

Products made for the Asian market typically include the Japanese PA rating (PA+, PA++, PA+++). You will see more of IPD and PPD ratings on european products. Apparently PA+++ corresponds to a PPD rating of at least 8, with PPD 15 being the ideal minimum. PA ratings are derived from PFA (Protection Factor A) values and below is the breakdown:-
PFA Value : PA (Protection grade of UVA)
2 or more but less than 4 : PA+
4 or more but less than 8 : PA++
8 or more : PA+++
However, the IPD, PPD and PA rating systems are based on in vivo test methods, and are not regarded to be as reliable as in vitro rating systems such as the Australian Standard (The expression of the results are carried out as a percentage of UVA radiation absorbed by the sun product) or the Boots Star Rating System (England) (latter as seen on Boots sunscreens: *, **, ***, ****).
In Vivo:-
* IDP method (Immediate Pigment Darkening)
* PPD method (Persistent Pigment Darkening)
* APF method (Erythemal UVA- Protection Factor)
* PPF method (Phototoxic Protection Factor)
In-vitro test methods:-
* Australian Standard AS,
* the Boots Star Rating system
* the Broad Spectrum Rating
* APP–Method / UVA-Protection Percentage

Examples of UVA Protection labelling:-
* Contains UVA-protection
* Broad-Spectrum protection PA+-PA+++ (Asian)
* B20A6
* SPF60-IPD 55-PPD 12 (European)

European sunscreens with high PPD ratings and multiple chemical UVA filters are far more protective than the best currently formulated Asian and USA sunscreens.They can provide:
* at least 3 times as much protection as the most protective USA formulations
* at least 3 times as much protection in UVA as a product that employs only physical UVA filters
* probably 3 times the protection of the most protective Asian formulations

The preponderance of evidence from over 140 primary medical studies suggests that using the highest UVA protection is more important for cancer prevention and minimization of photodamage than avoidance of chemical UVA filters.

Asian formulas:
Look for a formulation that has the rating PA+++. This corresponds to a PPD protective factor of at least 8. If you seek a higher PPD rating, you should consider European formulations.

After all that is said, these are some of the products that I think is suitable and available locally.

Kiss Me Sunkiller series
Biotherm White Detox UV
La Roche-Posay Anthelios Fluid series
Vichy sunscreens
Avene
L'oreal UV Perfect

Remember: It may seem a little expensive to purchase good sunscreens but think of the money that you will save later on wrinkle and uplifting creams. It is never too late to protect yourselves. And that includes the male counterparts too!!!

Sources:
http://www.dermatology.org.my/resources/res03.asp
http://forums.cozycot.com/showthread.php?t=5631
http://www.hc-sc.gc.ca/iyh-vsv/life-vie/sun_soleil_e.html
http://www.realself.com/blog

island life

Yums, I love citizens!, conference doodles.

On our small island yesterday, in a still smaller room, a group of young islanders gathered for the second day of a closed door conference "Building a Community of Citizens in the 21st century". Elsewhere, the Thais woke up to the the termination of their "constitution, the Senate, the House of Representatives, the Cabinet and the Constitutional Court".

These young islanders from the non-profit, corporate, arts, media and public sectors traded sentiments, plaints and opinions, bandying about terms like "equality", "public space", "shit-stirrers", "freedom of expression" and "dual citizenship" all within 2 hours to the ears of a Harvard professor and an island politician. Then politician picked up the mic and proceeded, with furrowed brows, to condense, stretch and contort the histories of nations and places with the rehearsed earnestness of a high school debater.

There was, however, amidst this tired series of soliloquies, one young man who lamented why it should be that us islanders must always retreat to the political when there is more outside it. I thought, of course he was right. Why only use the language of politics when alternative linguistic, literary and social strategies are more meaningful - and are certainly less predictable, less restrictive and less unimaginative. Why live on an island if you do not enjoy the sea and sky?

There was also a dinner speaker - a performing artist, educator and administrator - who spoke emotionally and movingly of religion as man's conversation with God, and art man's soliloquy of himself. The dinner speaker was also right, in some ways. But surely though art may often start as man's soliloquy of himself, it is not always so. It is also man's conversation with his fellow man/woman. Even if a soliloquy is the chosen form, it need not be about himself, but it could be about his island, sea and sky. And around these words and images, people may gather.

balancing the books

Happiness is a room lined with books, each of them an old friend and the start of a new daydream.

Being married is
- Abandoning some books in your old room so that the new shelves can also be inhabited by his toy figurines; and
- Forgoing a fancier design for boring no-nonsense shelves because she insists that books are the main thing.

Of course, the 2 (happiness and being married, I mean) need not be mutually exclusive.

a birthday visit

this drawing is meant for the previous post, but I figured it works for this one too

After our usual Saturday brunch at a Killiney Road Kopitiam, J and I was early for our next appointment so we took a walk down Killiney Road and made a turn up Dublin Road.

Dublin Road is a dead-end street.

Y and J joke about how they should pose for pictures by the street sign with a Guiness in hand, then they take a couple of photographs of a derelict peranakan shophouse, ooh at its neighbours which have been spruced up and now house fancy businesses or ladies/lads... before they come to the end of the street. Yes, the end that is dead.


old noodle shop beside the Kopitiam

There, a nondescript single storey house. Through the simple black gate you can see 2 things: the glass of its large windows covered with a reflective material and a handsome gurkha guard.

J: Wah, whose house do you think it is? Some minister's?
Y: [in a whisper] Eh eh, you know what...I think it's the MM's house! (ed: MM = Lee Kuan Yew) I vaguely remember my mom telling me that he lives in this area. And once we drove around here, maybe it was Penang Road, there were guards by the road itself.
J: Oh, do you think that...there's someone coming out.

The gurkha opens the gate and a middle-aged man in a cream shirt rides a traffic police's BMW bike drives out, giving us a casual glance. The gate is locked again.

Y: That must be his SO - (ed: SO= security officer)

Y looks around for J, but he has already walked up to the gate, his camera still around his neck. The gurkha walks towards the gate. He is smiling, an awkward smile, but a smile nonetheless. Perhaps he thinks the 2 are IMF/WB delegates...hah

Gurkha: How can I help you?
J: Oh, nothing, we just taking a walk. Is this the house of a minister? Er, is it MM's house ah?
G: [Smilingly] ... [Smiles again] Why you ask? Are you all Singaporeans or tourists?
J: Singaporeans.
G: Is something the matter?

All this time Y watches from a distance. J waves her to the gate, where the gurkha guard is still standing and smiling. Y timidly approaches and J shows her a small square patch of trees beside the house. A SUV suddenly draws up from the street to the house. Y and J step aside - the driver, an old man bearing a resemblance to the MM. The MM-lookalike glances at the 2 young gawking things, he is probably thinking: "not more gawking worshipers!". He steps out of the car and asks the guard: "Where's the SO? Ask the SO to come out, I want to pass him something." From the car, he retrieves a small hamper.


flowers by Dublin Road

Y and J walk away. J happy at having put to use some skills on "how to innocently approach authority for information" he had observed and learnt from a documentary filmmaker. And Y walks away in fear and excitement at venturing a mistaken visit to the FF - mortality, power and myth - the way one might stumble upon a hankerchief John Lennon has sneezed into or one of Mrs Marcos' abandoned shoes. Ah, who cares if it was just a backgate!

sticker graffiti outside the Somerset MRT

Today, it occurred to me that Saturday was the 16 September. Once, when I had mistaken Wheyface's birthday to be the 16th September, she had replied curtly that that was the MM's birthday. If we knew about all this yesterday, maybe we would made a Birthday card or brought him a gift ;P

Now, if the latter, perhaps it would be a book. And if it would be a book, it would be this book by Mr Narayan. Because Narayan too, created a fiction of a city or rather a township, and since Saturday evening, I've felt compelled to read this novel again.

geography is fate?

nothing to do with geography, maybe fate? #7 of "My life as a magician's rabbit"

This historian's cliche is clearly not on the mind's of the Singapore organisers for the IMF/WB meeting, who defied our tropical fate by planting a row of sunflowers along Stamford Road (across the new National Museum and by the S'pore Management University).

In the Garden-City government's over-zealous stagemanship, it has thus ridiculed its own flora and clime to fulfil this miraculous blossoming of north american beauty. Oh, how I pity you sunflowers, the common ixora, the veritable Miss Joaquim, and you my beloved tropics!


animals from the african plain dropping by Singapore for last year's Lantern festival

I am reminded of a neighbour who lives just one floor below us. She has lined the corridor outside her flat with pots of plants, survivors from many Chinese New Years passed. Life in this highrise concrete garden is not easy for these plants, and they daily struggle against dust and the mutilating fingers of playful children and equally mischievous adults. There are signs of baldness but the leaves that persist seem healthy enough.

My neighbour must be a hard woman to please. Or perhaps she is thinking back on those days when she first bought these plants. How lovely their mini-oranges and soft pink flowers must have looked. She has therefore taken it upon herself to revive their past glories. Some these plants wear riboons - dusky pink rosettes discarded from hampers. And one of the plants she has match-made with stalks of fake sunflowers that are the size of a human head. These manufactured emigres bloom all year round. But they, too, like their host, have to bear the dust and the tropical sun. The latter may not have given them life, but they still bear its name and testimony of its presence in their gently fading petals.

The Goodbye List #3

Continued from list #1 & #2

After all this time has gone, 2 o'clock -detestable, humourless hour - will be like the one lazy heir made king. It will revel in meetings conducted standing up and throats burnt by expressos gulped. It will boast that walks are brisk (the dog will have to make do) and food is fat with grease. Daytime, nghttime, 2 o'clock will reign supreme. So hurry, forget about the forty or even twenty winks and pity those lovers on their urgent sheets. Rhymes, be swift! Computers, run at triple your speed!

Yet since no king has ruled forever, whether their rule is corrupt or just, 2 o'clock will also soon depart.

So there remains the final hour: 6 o'clock solitary on the empty clocks. Alone, it bears the day's anxious beginning and its reluctant end. Here is dawn - and dusk. Friends, look up and remember what you can of this intense hue, this mingling of orange, gold and plum - quickly, it is fading fast. Quick, see there those dark patterns growing above you. The birds and the bats, they have both awakened.

The Goodbye List #2

...continued from List #1


尋夢- all images by J

Even though neither human eyes nor careful cameras caught this fact, I saw in my mind a kidnapping that was almost perfect. A band of shadowless thieves - no, wait, to call them thieves would be to say that they are like our back alley bandits and neighbourhood cheats; this would be a mistake. Stealing time is nothing if not an art. These masters roam our cities with their fingers on our clocks, and with the air of poets and painters they put to work the dreamless gaps in our sleep.

You do not believe me? Just you wait and see.

Soon you will witness the disappearance of 3 and 4 o'clocls. And how sweetly the sleepers in bedrooms or offices will consent. You will discern how the languid 11 o'clock has melted away in thoughts of lunch or the weekend soon approaching. Observe how its yawning twin will seem to drift away on its own as you think about the things that could have been: the dress you should havebought and the bet you should have placed; the rejection withheld and the agreement foregone; the voice (sweet and how, of course) of the woman at the other end of the bar that you never got to hear, her naked shoulders, her slender neck... But you do not worry, because there is still tomorrow! Quietly you will revive these hopes at 7 o'clock, in your first thought of the day or in that final phone call to ask about dinner. All this will seem possible until - at last - 7o'clock too, gently - wistfully - evaporates...



But to this subtle art there is an exception.

The theft of 12 o'clock will be a scandalous, lamentable act. How the world will protest, the loudest the noon and midnight suns. It will bring tears to your eyes to hear the helpless howls of those who change between man and wolf. Then, no more will your shadow shrink to almost nothing around your feet. No more, too, the secret thrill of standing at that curious moment of what is today-yesterday-tomorrow. 12 o'clock, you will be dearly missed!

The Goodbye List #1

J's morning sickness - image by J, click on it to view large in flickr

The first to go missing was 10 o'clock. Out went the morning cartoons, but no one noticed. The children were kept very busy at school. For them, too, bedtime arrived earlier, but that was also no surpirse. The homework had put them all to sleep.

Next to disappear was 1 o'clock. That slim hour, singular and tall - all the more easy it was to tip it over with a plastic fork and slip it away in a styrofoam luncn box. And when the teeth were being cleaned, the shirt was being buttoned, the headlines were being scanned and yesterday's dishes was still sitting in the sink, like a magician's long-suffering rabbit, 8 o'clock vanished as soon as the audience blinked.

Where had all that time gone?
Will they ever come back?
Who took them away?
And why was this so?

These were qestions I never asked until one day I realised something was defnitely amiss. It began when I felt the feverish whoosh of subway air as the train chased its station with determined pace. I next breathed the fretful dismay in the morning breath of passengers when the train, having changed its mind, stalled in a nameless place. Later I heard all the marching feet stumble, even if only for a second, as they brought themselves to work. Still later, those same feet paused for a slender moment during their exit, as if uncertain that they were finally allowed to leave. Curious, I saw the sign on the post office next door dance open, then closed, and open, before it decided closed. Though like any other day such confusion would probably pass, I knew from then on that my 9 and 5 o'clocks were forever lost.

list to be continued...

open sesame

Almost a year ago, the well-meaning HDB "upgraded" our apartment block and replaced our white (and yellowing nicely) door with a fancy fire-retardant door and a new iron gate. Tired of tolerating this aesthetic "downgrade" all this while, J and I decided to paint our door and gate over the weekend.

ampulets give you here a short 7-step guide to un-do some HDB ugliness.

Step 1: Set out to buy your painting supplies - On your way out, check out yours and your neighbours' doors, and know that you are about to "do the right thing". We found a paint shop just 15min walk away from our flat. We bought an "Undercoat" paint, sandpaper, roller and bristle brushes, and paint the colour(s) of your choice. The lady who ran the shop was amused. She did not understand why anyone would want to paint a new door, and of all colours, white. She obviously has not seen this:


our neighbour's door. ours looked like this too, but no longer. all images by J

Step 2: Have lunch - Painting's a tough job, you'll need your carbohydrates.

Step 3: A firm foundation - Line the floor around the door with newspaper. Lightly sandpaper the door, then sandpaper any rust from the iron gate. Make sure that the surfaces to be painted are dry and clean. With masking tape, cover any parts of the door (i.e. handle, hinges) that you want to remain paint-free. Apply a thin layer of "Undercoat" to the door and gate. Warning: Do not skip any part of these instructions in your eagerness to start painting...Patience, you'll definitely get your fair share of painting later. Believe me.

Step 4: Go out - Well, instead of staying home and breathing in the paint fumes from the undercoat, go out! We went to catch DramaBox's Trash.

[NB- Make sure that you've cleaned the brushes thoroughly with turpentine before you go out. Keep the used turpentine in an old jar/container because you will need it later again. Never dispose of the paint-turpentine solution down the sink unless you have a thing for your plumber.]



Step 5: The painting starts (and never seems to end) - Once home, get ready for the real painting to start. Our advice again is this: patience. Wait till the first real coat of paint is completely 100% dry before you layer on the second coat.

Step 6: Sleep - It's 4am already and the fumes will give you happy dreams.

Step 7: Confirm your neighbour's suspicions... that young couples nowadays are weird. Why would anyone want to paint a door all white during the 7th month/Hungry Ghost fest, then proceed to draw 2 kids standing behind a gate. We, too, don't quite know why. But it feels good to come home and be greeted by something you made with your own hands.

trash

images by J

This play by Dramabox is ending its run at the Esplanade Theatre Studio with the last show pm 3rd Sept, 8pm. If you have no plans this evening, take your mom/dad/kid out to this play.

J and I had watched Dramabox's A Stranger at Home earlier this year at the Arts Festival, and even earlier, their, er, Shithole. The former suffered from an over-worked script, but the latter had enough wit, inspired delivery and puppetry to cheer me up about the future of Chinese-language theatre in Singapore.



Trash supposedly follows from Shithole - but there are no direct links, except maybe the idea that the idealism of heroes is not enough. In the foreword to Trash, Director and playwright Li Xie (this must be her stagename! The Chinese translates literally as "Evil Lee"...haha) wrote:

From Meyerhold and Chaplin to these idealists, from art to the society, there exists a common yearning: live and let live. It is this simple.

In the play's concluding scene, "Superman" (which puns, with a slight variation in intonation, with "Useless People") finally gives up his 1000-year effort to convince humanity that there can be a 人人囯, a socialist utopia where equality and justice prevails. But his giving up is re-framed as "live and let live" instead. He gives up a personal pursuit to let humanity decide which way it wants to go - and in so doing, reclaims his own human-ness.

The narrative of Trash is simple, told through archetypes, but nonetheless superbly acted by the entire cast. The weakness of the script is in its half-veiled references to the social and national engineering of this island-state - and the ease with which meritocracy can be misapplied and paradoxically act as a cover for discrimination. This is a weakness only because it can and has become a familiar and predictable rant. Of course, this at times is also the script's strength. Because this is also the premise for the sort of Chaplinesque comedy and commentary - a disarming comedy that entertains and amuses, but can also rebuke, awaken and move.

I like the way Chinese theatre in Singapore has developed. With Dramabox, Theatre Practice and The Finger Players (these groups are bilingual), I see a theatre that is engages and deliberates, and thus so conscientiously in communication and collaboration with its audience - without condescension - a people's theatre.

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afternote Charles Isherwood writes "The Culture Project and Plays that Make a Difference" in NYT about the social and political potency (or rather, lack there of) of theatre, but argues that theatre must nonetheless continue to engage and not degenerate in today's "pervasive [cultural] vacuousness". Because even if art can never realistically effect political change or resolve human conflict or suffering on the scale of war/starvation/disaster, Isherwood writes "Art can inculcate empathy, and empathy directed not at a generalized humanity but a specific person or persons keeps healthy and intact our alertness to immediate evils, not general ones. It reminds us that history doesn’t happen in newspapers but to people."