Back to square one

I am back to square one with this blog — I have no readers, no expectations to live up to, no alter-ego — its only me.

Which is kinda odd because I find that I can only write with a "reader" in mind. But it doesn't matter for now. Like I said, I'm back to square one. I can write for me for now. I kinda miss the camaradarie of my virtual friends, but it's ok. I've been gone a long time. It will take a while.

Since I've been gone, Facebook has gotten really big. And I think it has changed the blogosphere in many ways.

For one, Facebook has squashed the anonymity of blogging. Suddenly people realise that it is ridiculous to be juggling so many alter-egos; suddenly I know the real names of the people whose blogs I read. Suddenly it's okay to sign off with your real name.

Facebook has made blogging easy and entertaining.

Which is good in some ways and bad in others, which is the way most things in life goes. I don't think I could ever be comfortable using Facebook other than to keep in touch with my friends. I have too many aquaintances on it. Do I really want them to know me that well?

So I've twittered, I've facebooked, I've flickred, I've twitpiced, and now I'm back. I'm really a blogger at heart.

So I start again.

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Why Bejeweled Blitz is so Addictive

The only way I can get myself to stop playing Bejeweled Blitz is to hit Ctrl-W to close the window during the game. First I tell myself, "Last game", then I say, "Last game! This is the ABSOLUTELY last game," but no matter how many times I say it to myself, I always hit the "Play again" button, sometimes even before the stats come up so that I won't feel so guilty about it.

Bejewled Blitz is a one-minute repetitive game. Why in the world is it so horridly addictive?

First, I think there is this vicious cycle thing going. If I get a lousy score in your last game, I think, "What a lousy game! This one doesn't count." If I get a really good score (but not as high as my Top Score), I think, "Only this close to getting a higher Top Score! One more time won't hurt..." And even if I get a Top Score, I think, "I'm in the groove now! Maybe I can better my Top Score in the next game!" So no matter what score I get, it is never a score fit for a "last game".

Second, the fact is that you DO get better the more you play. After say 100 games, your eyes see the four-in-a-rows better than when you first started. So there is a sense of progress and personal improvement to keep you going. You can even see this "progress" within each playing session. After the first 10 consecutive games, you naturally get better, which makes it harder to stop when you're in the groove 'cos you know that tomorrow morning, it'll take more time to get you where you are. It's perfectly logical. :)

Third, it's hard to stop because of the fantastic sound effects. It is great for the ego to hear, "Good! Excellent! Fantastic Speed!" And it is so gratifying to hear the explosions of all the gems when you line it up well. It feels like you're doing productive work and you're getting praised for it at the same time. It makes you want to keep on playing...

Finally, good 'ole competition. Seeing your friend's name above yours in the list of Top Scorers when you know that just last week you were ahead by 20,000 points makes you want to keep on playing if only to beat her score. But after you beat her, there is the next person in front of you, and the next person after that... Once, I kept playing like this until I got a score of 388,000 and I was in position number 1... for only one day!

All in all, all this thinking about Bejewled Blitz makes me want to play the game, so....

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Soweto Gospel Choir

Yewie brought me to listen to the Soweto Gospel Choir perform at the Esplanade last night. It was beautiful. They danced and sang South African songs in Zulu, old Christian hymns, rousing gospel songs and beautiful Christmas carols. Their rendition of "Silent Night" was fantastic. I also liked the soul in their song "Hosanna, Hosanna". It sent a shiver down my spine. It was very inspiring. I must post the words:

Let the weak say, "I am strong." Let the poor say, "I am rich." Let the blind say, "I can see." It's what the Lord has done in me.

Hosanna, hosanna to the Lamb that was slain. Hosanna, hosanna, Jesus Christ died and rose again.

I love it that it says "what the Lord has done IN me" rather than "what the Lord has done FOR me." It really is a miracle, the marvelous work he has done in me...

Anyway, the South Africans have a terrific sense of rhythm. They performed all their pieces a capella, accompanied occasionally on the lila drums, which they played masterfully. They did this agile little dance where they touched their heads and then kicked their legs high. It was a colourful and rhythmic visual feast.

Halfway though the concert, I had two thoughts. First, I thought about the irony of an African choir singing songs about a Christian God to white people. When white people went to Africa, they often went as conquerors and crusaders. The pioneers in America wrote in their journals about how they wanted to "save" the uncivilised and lost indigenous people they met. In Conrad's Heart of Darkness, black people were seen as savages and cannibals, the entire continent being a "god-forsaken wilderness".

Of course this "conquering" and superior point of view has been roundly criticised. African scholars and writers have striven for an African point of view, for example, Chinua Achebe in his novel Things Fall Apart. Achebe says that he would be "quite satisfied if [his] novels did no more than teach [his] readers that their past — with all its imperfections — was not one long night of savagery from which the first Europeans, acting on God’s behalf, delivered them.” In other words, Heart of Darkness right now is so not politically-correct. Yet, in spite of the unpopularity and unpleasantness of the Euro-centric point of view, here is a Christian African choir adopting the songs of faith as their own and encouraging the people who brought the faith to them, in spite of a certain academic regret? How ironic, and how amazing!

It was interesting also how the Soweto Gospel Choir would dance around for Zulu songs but stand still for European hymns, as if the culture dictates the style... but that's not the second thing I thought. The second thing I thought was that maybe I wouldn't mind being a very fat woman. I don't really know how to explain why except to say that fat women to me have heft. There were women of all shapes and sizes in the choir and frankly, I really liked the fat ones better. Maybe it was because the stage was too big? Who knows. My favourite was the fat one in pink.

So those were my two thoughts. They're singing again tonight at the Esplanade.

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Merry Christmas from Singapore!

This Christmas greeting from MCYS is so direct, it's hilarious. :)

http://www.mcys.gov.sg/mcdsfiles/download/xmas2009_1.html

Acronyms:

MCYS: Ministry of Community Development, Youth and Sports

ROM: Registry of Marriages

YOG: Youth Olympic Games

SDN: (beats me!)

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Hanwell in Hell, by Zadie Smith

In the author's note at the beginning of this collection, Zadie said that this short story "came to [her] all at once, as nothing [she has] ever written has before."

This story gives me a weird feeling that neither novel I've written ever has: I truly feel that Hanwell exists somehow. Hanwell seems real to me in a way that Archie and Alsana and Alex-Li and the rest never do; as if this story of mine has opened up a little gap in the world where Hanwell once existed and continues to exist, eternally meeting Clive Black in the back room of a bar and walking with him across that dark, wet residential square in Bristol.

In a way, I believe her 'cos Hanwell now exists for me too. The story lingers and stays with you, like this poignant line:

"We made people unhappy because we ourselves were made unhappy in irrevocable ways."

Yet, there is hope as Hanwell, the colour-blind dishwasher paints a room for his daughters, thinking that the violent red is a sunshine yellow. The book ends with this beautiful sentence:

"Not many men can hope red yellow."

Read it here.

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Singapore sinks

Irredeemable, Vol. 1, Mark Waid and Peter Krause

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My miracle-making dad

I thought my dad was just going to fry me an egg.. But he made me this!

Succulent brinjal and cherry tomatoes from the heights of Cameron Highlands, pan-fried minced meat and an almost runny egg.

He's a miracle-worker. He deserves sainthood.

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Logicomix: An Epic Search for Truth, by Apostolos Doxiadis and Christos Papadimitriou

This graphic novel is about the life and work of Bertrand Russell, a logician whose search for the foundations of Mathematics led to the formation of analytic philosophy. He is famous for the paradox he stumbled upon (known to us as Russell's paradox), which in layman terms goes something like this.

Of all the books in the world, there are those that are refer to themselves in the text (self-referential) and those that don't refer to themselves. If I were to compile a catalogue of all books that are NOT self-referential, would the catalogue contain an entry of itself?

Therein is the conundrum: if the catalogue were to list itself, then it is no longer not self-referential; but if it did not list itself, then it is not a catalogue of books that are not self-referential!

In Mathematical language, the catalogue is "the set of all the sets that are not members of themselves". Of course this seems kinda mind-boggling that a set could be a member of itself, but when you think of specific examples it is not so weird. For example, a set of all ideas is an idea and so the set would contain itself, but a set of all birds is not a bird and so it won't contain itself. (Of course the practical functions of sets in Mathematics befuddles me...)

This comic is thought-provoking. While this comic is about logic, philosophy and Mathematics, the authors are emphatic that it is not a "Dummy's guide to logic" in pictures; instead, they say that it is a story where logicians are the superheroes, or to be precise, a tragedy. This is a most interesting way of seeing itself because the book then becomes a reflection of the struggle of the protagonist — the struggle between reason and passion, logic and madness. It could be said that tragedy can only occur with paradox and conundrum, yet these are the very things that Bertrand spends his life's work trying to solve. Does he solve his own paradox? What is his personal resolution?

At the end, Russell felt like a failure. Ludwig Wittgenstein's clever sidestep of Russell's paradox in his "picture theory" (where the world is modeled by language), in addition to the Kurt Godel's devastating Incompleteness Theorems, which pretty much says that it is impossible to prove all arithmetic proofs, which was what Russell spent 20 years trying to do, meant the end of Russell's lifelong quest for the foundations.

Yet, there is transcendence. Russell doesn't succumb to his arch-enemy, madness (not for long, anyway), but he quotes his protege Ludwig Wittgenstein near the end of the comic: "All the facts of Science are not enough to understand the world's meaning". The comic ends with Athena's resolution of the dilemma in the old Greek myth "Oresteia", which is a grand way to end a paradoxical tragedy about logic.

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It has been a while

First of all, I owe everyone an apology for suddenly disappearing after that last post on 14 April 2008. Things got kinda intense on my end and I had to disappear for a while. Frankly, it felt like a part of me died when I stopped writing here in this blog. I dropped friends and relationships that I had made on this blog with nary a goodbye post, and that's most unbecoming. I'm sorry.

It may take a while for me to get used to talking to myself again, but I'm back, for better or for worse.

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-ve Priming: An e.g. of what not to do

I really shouldn't say "crap" first thing in the morning, 'cos it means that later at 12:20pm, when I realise that I have clean run out of time and I have one more stanza of the poem to go, that is the first thing out of my mouth.

Then I hear a ripple of not-so-whisper-like-whispers... "I can't believe Ms G said "crap"!"

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Internal monologue

Monday, 5:45am [Alarm rings]
Crap. Groan. No.... 9 more minutes

5:54am
I'm snoozing some more. Who needs a shower in the morning anyway?

6:03am [Visions of being late for school jolt me awake]
-blank-

6:10am
Brain kicks in and tells me I've got to shower, who am I deluding.

6:30am {Walking out to the bus-stop]
Brain kicks into second gear and alarms go off: "CRIKEY! I FORGOT THAT WE'RE NOT GIVING BACK THE TEST FOR LIT CLASS TODAY WHICH MEANS THAT I HAVE A LIT LESSON IN THE MORNING THAT I HAVEN'T PLANNED FOR!!!"

6:40am [On bus, scribbling lesson plan in exercise book]
I think I'll re-use my Sec 1 materials for my Sec 3s. Heh heh heh. *evil laughter*

6:50am {Asleep on bus]
ZZZZZzzz

6:55am [At school]
Need coffee. Cannot function without coffeee. Is the photocopier down? Oh dear. But I'll make my cup of coffee first.

7:05am {madly photocopying. madly planning. brain, infused with caffeine, in overdrive]
How many copies do I need? Why is there no paper? What's wrong with the Master Print? What do I need to scan? What is my password? Who am I?

7:35am [singing the Mahjulah]
I need to tell the kids to stay in their class. Where are they?

---- FAST FORWARD

9:00am [NOW]
STOP BLOGGING! GO TO CLASS!

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Tete-a-tete with Lee Tzu Pheng

“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.” Robert Frost

I was standing at border's flipping through local poet Lee Tzu Pheng's collection of poems "Lambada by Galilee & Other Surprises" and it struck me how revealing and intimate it is to read another person's poetry. I read her poem about teaching Tyger in a classroom and I laughed because it was all too familiar; I read her poem about the way of the cross and I thought—ah! she's a Christian; I read the one about finding Lucky Plaza on a map and I thought—she's kinda whimsical; and so, from having absolutely no idea who she apart from the role she has played as a local poet, I thought, hey, it would be nice to sit down and have tea and a chit chat with her.

I wish I could have my poems published one day too. But for now, my poems are too frivolous, too particular, too sentimental, and too unpolished. But it would be so cool to add my voice to the accumulation of local poetry in Singapore...

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My Macbook sleeps

My Macbook sleeps tonight
I left the power cable at work
And I think of Jesus
dead in the tomb
three days
drained and poured out
exhausted for the sins of men.

He lies on the cold rock, painfully still
silent
a man without a shadow
a useless God bereft of power.

Satan laughs

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My wicked soul

mumbles through the bits it doesn't like.

OurFatherwhoartinheaven
Hallowedbethyname
ThykingdomcomeThywillbedone
Onearthasitisinheaven
GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD
FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES
asweforgivethosewhotresspassagainstus
leadusnotintotemptation
BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL
forthineisthekingdom, THE POWER, andtheglory
FOREVER AND EVER.
amen.

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A poem in two parts

Everytime they take a test
she writes a poem
a sad poem a tragic poem a nothing poem
______neither here nor there
just to fill up the quiet
and drown out the scratching of pen on paper

Everytime she writes a poem
it is a test
of how much how far how deep
______she would succumb
to the stranglehold of lies
that maligns hope and whispers chaos

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