where the heat is soothing

it's been a while (again) since the last post. however, it's been a bittersweet, and somewhat serendipitous few months, all of which has culminated in my return to my hometown. the grass never seemed greener, and there was never much homesickness; i never envied my colleagues who took root, and i don't think i would ever trade in the burgeoning wanderlust (this has now become a hashtag trend, which i somewhat despise :s ) that besets my heart. but, home is home. i am welcome and welcomed.

there's very little that i can write to surmise the past few months, if only because it's been such a whirlwind adventure (or at least set of experiences). i'm hoping i'll be able to pick blogging back up while i'm around, and perhaps get back into the swing of drawling into poetry when i can. perhaps, even write that great american novel that eludes all writers, if only due to complacency and laziness.

i'll ease myself in with a brief recount of the things that made the trip home particularly interesting;

children crying throughout a 6 hour flight. only god can judge them the same way only he can forgive their parents for bringing them unto the fight. i'm pretty sure that a few of these parents had conspired to find out when i would be boarding and go out of their ways to all be on the same flight. there is no other explanation for having at least 15 children bawling in a choir of despair and hope belligerence. if their voices could have powered the aircraft, i'm sure that we'd have reached our destination in slightly less than an hour.

the combination of a passenger in front of me (who was the father of one of the said perpetually crying-babies) who decided that it was his religious duty to extend his seat as far back as possible (even before take-off, much to my irk, as well as the stewardess who would calmly explain that the seats are to be in their upright positions for take-off and landing - which had little to no effect, anyway), and the passenger behind me who must have thighs the length of a small elephant's trunk, because for some reason, his ability to prod me with his knees were borderline uncanny. i suppose that i should be thankful that about halfway through the flight, he decided to give in to the urge to retract his legs and leave them to their own natural resting state (lodged somewhere between my lower thoracic vertebrae). once my body began to take it as normal, i could pretty much just ignore the persistent invasion. kind of.

the chinese woman sitting next to mr. long-legs, behind me, who, i can only assume, has a megaphone dislodged in her windpipe. don't get me wrong, i have nothing against chinese persons (if anything i would not have mentioned this fact), but the ringing of whatever dialect she was speaking in remained with me all the way after the flight, into immigrations, and only left when i had hurried to the baggage reclaim area, where the soothing sound of bags plopping unto the conveyer belt would drown out the kife-like piercing it had had on my ear drums. i seriously don't think the language she was speaking in would have made any difference in its effect on me, but that vapid and somewhat venomous dribble she launched into (which started only slightly after i had managed to white-noise out the babies' screams and begun to fall asleep in the most awkward position imaginable) was only accentuated by the fact that it was a chinese dialect. i suppose, i shouldn't have made a point of this, but i think i should be forgiven for the subconscious judgements i had fallen victim to while i tried to doze off. oh, and i should also mention that it wasn't like she was trying to hold a conversation with someone in a different isle - it was with mr. long-legs. who i assume was her husband. because all he said were monosyllables and the odd interjection to reaffirm that he was, indeed, listening. on one hand, i am tempted to say that i would like to know what the conversation (one-wayed as it was) was about. on the other, eff that.

some kid who decided to listen to music the whole flight, and though having his headphones on, had decided to blare them at maximum volume so that the whole cabin could enjoy his tragic, and tasteless choice of music. let me add that he had turned on his music, cranked it up to get it all lizzle in the hizzle, then retracted his serving tray, popped his head upon it, and slept. the whole. damn. flight. i can only imagine that this is some reiterated theory of listening to classical music while you sleep to stimulate some sort of mental growth. because, if this is not the case, then i think i would have lost all faith in humanity right there. but, don't be deceived. i hate this bugger the least. because he was originally sitting next to me, and a few minutes before take-off, he'd realised that the seat beside a friend / colleague / lover would be empty throughout the flight and had relocated there. which, of course, subdued the effects of his music, somewhat, as well as allowed me to extend my legs once in a while into his original leg-room. you may ask, then, why i had not just moved into his spot and avoided the blunt-but-vengeful kneecaps of mr. long-legs? to which i answer, any spinal injury i may have acquired from the event is well worth the few centimetres i had gained farther away from his wife.

i suppose i am harping along the same point in that these (perhaps unnecessary) annoying noises in a confined space have made the experience of flying much more inconvenient than i remember it ever being. but i will raise you the fact that it was of minor consequence. i don't generally care much for it - it was only a 6 hour flight - and the social contract (which i am sure none of the above persons had signed) dictates that live and let live. perhaps one day i will have inconsolable children, or develop a need to violate others' personal spaces to affirm my own, or speak in a pitch nigh hearable only to dogs and dolphins (which wouldn't be too unimaginable if i had already lost most of my hearing capacity due to said noises in the first place). upon which, i can only hope that others will take a genial 'husnuzon' which i have tried to have (this saying nothing about my personality, which is vile and presumptuous and unforgiving, anyway).

i'm sure there were positive points to be made that made the trip memorable, too. such as. uh. pretty clouds, and stuff.

in which there is no less than dreams

i was speaking with a friend and colleague a few weeks ago, and he brought up that there is a musician, to his knowledge, who used to sit in his chair and hold a rock, or some sort of paperweight in his hand. as the musician drifted steadily into sleep, his grasp upon the rock, much as his on wakefulness and reality, would slip. the feeling of the rock being let go, or perhaps the rock hitting the floor, would wake said musician, and he would frantically write his thoughts down, quite often composing in part what music laid to linger in his head. i have yet to find out who this famous musician is, but apparently it is not mozart.

regardless, the concept of a dream journal or keeping a notepad by one's bedside is not entirely alien to me, and i decided to do it a few days ago. if one can remember to the days of my dreams regarding aliens, 'shit-rugs' and nonsensical meetings, then it is no surprise to find that whatever i penned down was only worth a facepalm in the morning, followed by a quick toss of what could have been useful paper into the dustbin.

i only pray that with time i can refine this interesting concept, but for now, let it be known that i had two 'great' ideas (they felt great when i was having my wakeful sleep); one regarding how i could harness infinite energy from a single electron by abusing entropy, and the other which was a novel way of analysing my phd data which i have been stuck with for weeks. needless to say, in the latter case, i swiftly knew that it was rubbish and dismissed it, but who knows, maybe one day i'll actually come up with boundless energy. here's to hoping.

in the mean while, let's not have me quit my day job.

also, eff that musician. he clearly has sleep underrated.

and whatever he composed was probably never as good as 'dance of the flowers'. that's tchaikovsky, and it's my favourite piece. along with blue danube, by strauss ii. any waltz, to be honest, usually gets me in good spirits.

ask

a boy meets his heart, his joy, his life, in another. to him, all cannot be possibly beyond the grasp of logic and physics, philosophy and art. all cannot be beyond that which has been set in motion by the singularity that created us all, from stardust and lifeless energy. yet here, before him, sits the evidence of miracles and anomalies, of perfection and fierce disregard for order or equilibrium. all that is beauty and ecstasy and can be pure and divine - it is here, in his heart, his joy, his life. it is beyond him.

this story is told many times. and in the past, there has always been disappointment when fondness leads to courtesy, when patience gives way to fervour, when composure is forgotten with reckless abandon... but for what? what, indeed, can substitute for the calculative and serene, that was and is this child of a man? perhaps being told often and invariably changes the outcome of this story - but that is highly unlikely.

asks, the boy that, 'i would know that your stature is beyond mine, that it is folly to ask for an eagle to walk when it can soar, or a star to dim, when its nature is to shine so intensely. and how could anyone contend that a mother of pearl, even beached by tumultuous waves upon a scarred beach, is anything less than iridescent and beauteous - that it is almost sacred and perfect?' 

'may it not that even mountains succumb to wind, to sleet, to rain and to snow; that even the moon may take precedence to the sun; that flowers of every colour and texture may still wither and die to give way to the longest winter, if only to bud and bloom again; that even stars may give eternal heat, only, in one final, blazing glory, to pass into the darkest that not only is void thereof, but takes from all light?' 

'would it not that perhaps you could find what you need before what you seek, and it is nowhere lacking?'

but, to this, the ephemeral would reply, 'mayhap you should take some time to yourself, and when aeons have passed, and even time has begun to die, come again that your beseeched be addressed.'

so went he. and thought he. and pondered he. and doubted he. and consolidated he. and refuted and considered and debated and introspected, until finally, all that the boy was left with was one, unyielding, unequivocal, unquestionable devotion - that this path of fulfilment was one of virtue, of fullness and of purity: something that is not easily said for any matter.

but asks, 'how answer you now? that i have been and come to be?'

then, riposte with silence.

'perhaps now, if i were to bear with symbolism? or write with words that shame my own?'

silence.

'which wonder, what maybe...'

'do you not see, that my not having answered is the answer you seek?'

'forgive me, then,' says this humble boy. 'do not mistake that i am foolish or naive or incompetent, that i do not understand your silence for what it is.'

'then why ask you persistently, when you claim to know of what i mean to say?'
'i ask not because i do not heed your rejection.
'i ask not because i demand an answer.
'i ask not because i am thick and blunt and coarse and stupid.
'i ask not to be bothersome or uncourteous or ungentlemanly.' 

'i ask because if i do not, then there is no chance for reconciliation. and even knowing that when i do ask, that chance is made from nil to infinitesimally small and irrelevant; yet still i ask, for this chance is all i have. all i hope for. all i deserve. which is more than i can say for you.'

dear reader, worry not for the fate of this boy. if there is any justice in destiny, in preordination, in luck, or in chance, then it will come to be that one day, there need be no asking, and answers will neither be warranted, nor necessary.

thoughts on (ideals of) love

i am watching a movie, ‘Anna Karenina’ (which i highly recommend that you watch, because not only is the storytelling rich and immersive, but the cinematography is unique in a very theatre-esque way that i cannot describe), and it dawns upon me that what you said the other day is entirely true - that love and adoration is subject to a person’s current wants and needs, susceptible to change at the slightest perturbation, and victim of our whims and malleability of being human. and though this is not something new to me - that any emotion be fluctuant with the mood of the day - it disturbs me to think that an ideal so entrenched in society as listed above is so subjective, so precarious, so sensitive, that our own perceptions of that ideal between individuals is nigh incompatible. to others, the idealisation of love is different things - a comprehensive and almost unintelligible letter written in Victorian nuance and delivered in hand, a subtlety of unspoken words like between the protagonists of a Korean drama, an accent alleviated by a favourite language, the first glimpse through a proverbial veil that Egyptian princesses hold as dear as Japanese country-folk, and in the case of Anna Karenina as i am learning to appreciate, the empathic projection of a strong but sorrowful Russian tragedy. please, do not mistake my blatantness and lack of examples as a sign of ignorance or naivety. i have always known that if i were to base my utopian postulations of love on the writings of Austen, or Dostoyevsky, or Rumi, or Marcia, or Poe; i would, but for a sliver of a chance be disappointed time and again in the search for realisation - or at least for reciprocation. and to this, i submit, that the sacrifice of perfection is a necessary (but small) price to pay for the attaining of that which i idealise itself - love. but this is a far cry from acknowledging that it does not exist. if anything, i am a person of compromise, and should any hint of such concession be available, i would embrace it whole-heartedly.


this being said, i do not think i empathise with your feeling that love is not absolute (and you must pardon the use of the term ‘absolute love’, as you have aptly pointed out, there is no such thing, and my use of it bears only from the necessity of distinguishing an absolute form of adoration from a relative one). what you have said that love will change with time and place, is true - and though my lack of personal experience dictates i cannot say with any amount of authority, i find it dreary and distraught to believe that any change in such a strong emotion can warrant disengaging from a love. i feel that it is ironic that relationships are built on a wider base than once before (no longer do we extrapolate from dainty eyes meeting from across a room, or flitting fingers from a series of waltzes through the night, or shied smiles behind a curtain when elders come in stead of a wanting and proposing young man, or curved that writing that letters delivered in person in the shroud of starless nights), the imperative to propagate it is left with so much to desire. is it not designed that the opposite should be? that if there is anything to hold with unyielding devotion, beyond religion and family and friends, it should be the preservation of (a) love? i am not sure i am convinced, but i hope it is not wrong for me to want (and hope). regardless of peoples’ motives and how they go about realising such things (or abandoning, as i would distastefully warrant), i feel that, if only by semantics and definition for my own sake, love should be held at a post higher than something that is so mercurial and fleeting, and that once it is attained, there should be no questioning what it is.

parallel to this train of though, it would be pertinent to point out that i do not pretend to comprehend any of this. wherefore i should continually ask you for opinions and advice is because of this lack of understanding; do not belittle that i should want to understand something complex, far beyond me. if anything, i hope it is admirable that i try, for even in failure, i can only hope to think of myself as having searched, if never having to find. perhaps love really is purely utopian, and any manifestation of it in this world is a meek shadow of what it should be, and not having gazed upon its splendour is only befitting for those who worship it far too much. mayhap it is in vilifying love and bringing it down from a pedestal that we can truly begin to bask in its exaltation - and as such, it is better that any semblance of love that i may have in my mind stay there, lest it be defiled by something more ‘real’ and flawed.

p/s: do watch Anna Karenina if you get the chance. i have yet to complete it myself due to other commitments, but from what i have watched, it reminds me fondly of ‘the brothers Karamazof’, and i think you will like it very much.

paradise reprieve

little land ‘pon which i stand, is barely ‘nough for one,
yet bountiful and blessed like no place under the sun;
my little isle, of humble stead, whose limits reach beyond my head,
for all i see is governed but by that which i have read.

with golden shores of sun streaked sands upon the white that is this land,
how could lush green not grow like thoughts that wished for by all God’s good men?
hark! come the mores, with ill intent, the pirates, ruffians, thieves;
who knows what have their ill intents, and what they’ve up their sleeves,
but come, too, do the merchants, politicians, priests abound,
for where there’s gold, there’s glory too, and fortune to be found;
but with a sigh, i beg their leave, despite their fore or fun,
this little land, ‘pon which i stand, is made for only one.

so take the mores, by shiploads of the gleaming gems and stone,
i bid them well, as do farewell, that they leave me alone;
here with my peace, in company of all that i deserve,
to preach, to play, to lie and lay, with fatigue or with verve.

but once upon a crescent moon, that yellow, blue or red,
a special someone comes along in lieu of a mores’ stead;
to envy some who have their isles embanked for something - someone - bold,
indeed, it is for them to choose, to wisp, to wade, to hold;
but can’t i see, beyond the bend, that straight which light should curve?
we all accept the love we think we ought, and do deserve.

from shore to shore, and back again, i’ve lived and loved this land,
even when no envy comes for whom and who could stand;
upon this island, quite contrite, like webs of fiction spun,
oh, little land ‘pon which i stand, ’tis only meant for one.

it's caturday!

today, as i was walking home from the university, i chanced upon a domestic cat. not an uncommon sight, around the residential areas of nedlands, and definitely unremarkable a cat as ever there could be one. if my recollection does not fail me, she was brown with black stripes; and she had fierce, piercing amber eyes. of what breed she could have been, ask me not - i cannot tell a tabby from a siamese (well, i probably could, but i am not versed even in the slightest of cat breeds). as i normally would, with all cats that i should meet, i becked upon this cat (let us call her latifah, after the queen of sorts).

i think, it is relevant, if not also of some import, that i point out here that i am generally quite amiable with and towards cats. that i should normally be able to approach, if not befriend, and even play with a cat at the first instance of meeting is a fair given, and one that i am severely proud of, too! however, latifah, like all good cats, and all good queens, would not have any of this.

indeed, what happened is a definition of 'cat-and-mouse', which unfortunately, makes me the mouse of sorts (also bringing new meaning to the phrase, 'of mice and men'). i would squat a fair distance from latifah, say approximately 50 meters, and beckon her with mews and by the extension of my hand, only to have her crouch in a most apprehensive stance, and shy away from me. were i to close the gap, she would, for a while remain, only to skitter off to a more comfortable distance after a dozen seconds or so. and so i would feign giving up, and walk my way home, upon which latifah would begin to follow me - eventually meowing as if asking for my attention.

this cycle of pretense, disdain and inquisitiveness would repeat for a spell. maybe lasting half an hour, and having gone through seven revolutions, as i realise that i was running late. not to be outdone, however, i did manage to sneak in a final attempt at courting latifah - with the obvious and expected result of her running away quite swiftly (only to stop when she was safely behind a house's fence [which is uncommon here, as most houses are not fenced]). of course, in this particular case, it is easy to dismiss latifah, and any loss would be on her behalf (think of all the purring that could have been had! the neck scratches and the nose twiddles!). and, of course, it is made easier that there are many cats around the neighbourhood who would happily want for a little scratch-lovin'!

later in the day, it made me think: girls are like cats.

the longest reprieve

that which we have come to know as sleep.

i have wondered for a long time: why is it that we need to sleep? though neurophysiology has taught me little of an answer, and psychology has addressed the question from many vantages, i cannot say that i truly understand why we need sleep. in fact, i do not think i can even graze at an answer. but, i have also come to realise that it is not nearly as important as to why we sleep, as whenceforth. now, bear with me, and indulge a silly fan of shakesperean nuance - these are not the same. i do not know a reason for sleep, biologically; however, i do know that without it, there is a supefluence of disasters that beck upon my soul without sleep.

when i was a person of content and substance, i did not wander far from complacency. and sleep? it was only a convenience, a gift, a wonder. nothing more than an accessory to a livelihood littered with unnecessary wants.

now that i have become a person of self, that i am of less import than what i gave myself credit for, that i sometimes am in deject and loathe - now i see sleep for what it is. and it is indeed a requirement, a necessity, a craving and a bestowment without which, i could not wake from lethargy and (hopefully) death. which is ironic, because without sleep, how can there be waking? indeed, sometimes we slumber in our wake, more than we realise. at least i know i do.

as yet, i have not answered that pivotal question - whenceforth is this need for sleep? in words, i cannot explain. ineffable and indescribable - a feeling rivalled by desire, by love, by hatred, and even complacency itself. but i know this, that if you have ever felt that after a long day, you cannot wait to dream, or sleep an ennui-less eternity, even as your body does not tire, or especially so. then you know this answer in your heart.