and so the cycle repeats--

Augusttime brings august clouds;
hawkers loud that pour water down
shallow drains, lingering like the August air
that wraps its shroud of august rains
around our callow locks of hair.

I cannot help gazing out the windowblinds.

in the Daily Nurture
I cut out five little Stars and a Crescent
painstakingly traced, though never cut perfectly;
my fingers are stuck together from glue.
"you are Singaporean."
she tells us with knowing eyes
and the stature of high-heeled shoes

and this — I kept in my heart.

Decembertime brings tempered skies—
jumper suits and winter boots
that clamour into teeming hallways, never dry;
with coffee-coloured hair, and hazel eyes
she told me: “Why don’t you go back to China?”

and this – I kept in my heart.

but even the land of nationality
no longer feels completely like home
when you retain elements
which distinguish you from your own
who cry, with black-coloured hair
and heightened, irritated airs:
"hey Slanger. why do you slang?"
"can you stop speaking in your fake accent?"

and this – I kept in my heart.

Augusttime brings august crowds;
blond-hairs loud that pour into trains downtown
their august voices pouring like rain upon shallow drains;
ignorant of our stares.

August brings nationally-themed singing
to music class— and talk of keys and registers
and I mocked, “and our flag was still there,” with irreverence
to a classmate with combed blond hair;
but to my surprise, with fell complexion
and crying blue eyes
he ran away with the sob:
"you are so racist!"



and it was a sob that I could not quell
because it was true.

and this: I keep the most in my heart.

I dislike this new populistic opposition

I definitely still support all opposition parties, but the rise in populism and xenophobia on opposition forums now start to scare me. Parliament -- if you investigate videos and transcripts -- intriguingly, isn't quite a rubber stamp. Or maybe it is. Fine arguments are still made. (Although Harry sometimes shuts things down out of "omg getreal" anti-idealism).

Lee Hsien Loong says proportional representation isn't "the right system for Singapore" because it leads to fractured, polemicised, racialised politics. And I agree -- Singapore's legislature has largely avoided the problems of many western legislatures where these issues dominate needlessly. Yet at the same time he does not seem to address the issue of why religious conservatives are allowed to dominate policy!

If the PAP respected individual liberty and freedom of speech and repealed 377A, among implementing other various reforms, I would be content, rather than side with the strengthening opposition that increasingly shows its growing power. But it doesn't. So Opp I go.

a tale of a child

my first chinese post. yay.
---

孩子长大的时候， 不再孩子， 可能 思考自己， 青他的爸爸 可以不可以 做这些给他幸福的事？

爸爸 说： “什么?! 文艺？艺术? 调查 我们世界 有神么意思？ 你为什么 要这些 不带 国泰民安的事？ 癫狂！” 他把 孩子 达到 到 涕泣 为止。

可是 孩子长大了， 不再孩子， 可能 以为自己， 所以 想想很多。 叛乱 很严重， 可是 他只有这个选。

爸爸说： “没感恩！你带混乱！”

可是 他看不懂 他的 孩子长大了。孩子现在是 成人， 可以 找到自己 幸福，国泰民安。 怎么有感恩？ 爸爸不让他有感恩， 只要监管。

two groups

they talk past each other
unaware
they really have the same goals
unaware
of friendship

everything's not lost

nothing pleases me anymore

well that's an exaggeration isn't it? It's not quite nothing, just the routine humdrum of everyday life. I mean if you took me skydiving right now I would probably be grinning ear to ear and my face would look like I just had an orgasm.

And I wonder that no matter where you go in life, what job you have or what you have accomplished, it all won't fucking matter because you know what? we're human. we have amygdalas. no matter how progressive we are, the basic pattern of our circuits was laid out thousands and millions of years ago.

miles to go before I sleep
miles to go before I sleep

when life is a drag

make instant noodles. with stir fried black mushrooms and ginger.

Secrecy cannot love Forever

your cunning Tongue! and impassioned Hands—
rub into my soul like no others can.
well, hyperbole. if others tried
would anyone rival you in Luxury ?
“No .” comes my tender whisper. a Lie—
for which my conscience lingers. you would be—
the perfect one for Me
if not for social—mores;
Acceptability—

Secrecy cannot love
Forever.
Romeo and Juliet was
Tragedy—

hello. it is good to see your sunny face.

five years later it is 10:05 am and oh dear blogging, I have fallen back into your arms. I didn't realise how much I missed this. I mean I guess I thought it was childish and that I had outgrown you... but really you were waiting for me all along. I'm a different person now, yet still the same. The same themes still remain.

-- I really shouldn't be making out with you at this moment in time stuck between six donuts I bought at 4:30 am and 11 am zhongwen class, but I love you. I love you like demonstrators love paving stones that sit on urban beaches. (sous les pavés le plage. je t'aime je t'aime je t'aime)

I guess I snubbed you for that snotty girl facebook, whose face I must still see daily, but you my dear, you have soul. here there are no false appearances, no fronts, no careful cultivation of an image, untaggings and careful considerations. freedom. ziyou. I mean I remember 2003 and 2004 where blogging was like the hip thing to do and my sister did it.

:: checking what remains of my blogroll, which I have no time to fix

oh hey she's still blogging. and Fabriz. and John Foo but he moved and everyone else is gone. but I'm excited. youuu make me happy. do you realise? I did not realise that it was in front of me.

see, I wrote, but I wrote for others, and was constrained. I wrote for me, sometimes. but here I write to you. it's a little different. I mean I'm going to use the little things I've learnt over physics lab this past year to put an analogy: facebook notes are like zero impedance. writing to yourself is like infinite impedance. here making love to you has characteristic impedance and some essence seems to drift forever, timelessly.

I must redress you of course. you look a little shabby. a little worn. a little retro. you have charm. I shall love you again. In semi-public. If we are discovered that is part of the excitement. If we are not, we have us.

--

I remembered you when I discovered the internet archive of the blog of Singapore's new favourite Opposition minister, Nicole Seah. An ironically it was through a comment of a PAP supporter who for some reason thought that such strong, emotional writing did not portray a strong-willed, talented human being who as a student had many endeavours and conflicts that would surely lay a strong foundation for thinking critically and empathising with her constituency. Well I do. And that makes Ms. Nicole more endearing. Seeing her love of writing, made me remember you.

hello. my name is john riemann soong, aka Evariste, avec l'aspiration d'etre d'une unique sorte de fille. if you remember. I don't think I told you before, but now I don't hold back. I am preparing to write a forceful argument in zhongwen for my 8-minute presentation that will sweep everyone away. just you watch. I have to study for a likely biochemistry quiz though. and do shamefully abysmally late lab reports. new subjects, old tricks, my love.

NQR-7-ACE Clementi

it snows above the A-train express
but it was always
. winter below
she smiles to me a bygone street
that once led from the Apollo;
remember once—
she was that bygone kid of that bygone suite
waving from the ninth floor of Toa Payoh
June rains upon a soul aboard the A-train express
from 125 St to Ang Mo Kio
and
; maybe
. there might be
. a stop for your door.


oh the piano is playing its faraways—
and the elevator streams with those
on their way to places they will be sure
of what they are looking for
but this schoolkid
. always hesitates.
maybe
; one day
. he might find once more
. your floor.


it’s a warm midsummer night, strolling
down this street, with all its crowds
tabled. standing. loitering. smoking.
and walking
down to the bus stop
it ambushes with wafting breeze
a ten-year-old heart
that sits amidst lungs that make
twenty-year-old sighs;
the cab driver on Rector St picks me out
and honks to say,
“Where would you like to go tonight?”
and if only I could reply
“Do you know the way
to Telok Blangah Heights?”
where I cried those last goodbyes
before I took that fateful flight
how was I supposed to know?
they never told
of how I would be forever haunted by every set of lights
from Fairfax Metro to Chicago
hoping your face might appear in the windows.


it snows above the A-train express
and past the rattan door the candles glow;
the jacket and suit is probably telling
the evening dress and pearls
his latest exploits in the Orient
ordering those childhood memories from long ago
to go with red wine in polished glasses
while squandering hor fun from Ipoh
oh it’s a strange and familiar feeling
to be on the outside looking in
to know the thing they call exotic
is a place known as
home.

my old Dover Road Estate

autumn changes

the old man sits in his studio
sunlight pouring in from that high window
singing of Yellow Submarines and Yesterdays
sometimes turning to his piano
to play chords of faraways
occasionally remembering me.

and when he does, I creak out
that half-hopeful
half-fearful
smile.

the engineer works in his laboratory
"Please don't touch; please don't disturb."
But it's OK -- all men must be busy sometime
so I and my sister build our own in the room across
out of legos, blankets, books and barbie dolls.
and once in a while, he remembers his apprentice
and he teaches me his secret alchemies.

but apprentices -- ambitious ones especially --
err occasionally, you see
by discovering too far.
it's still /his/ house,
even if mom did build it;
so the sheriff stares the suspect down
and sends the intruder off
to a prison of a cellar.

the furious bartender serves himself another
amidst the broken glass and plates;
and when he leaves, the old man looks at me
as if to ask, "Why did you betray me?"

but this ten-year-old never betrayed his father
for you see, he never had one.

He looks away; and climbs into a Ford Windstar
riding off into the fall sunset.

une personne, qu'est-ce qu'elle est?

My new roommate is Iraqi, who has pretty good listening comprehension for 2 years of immersion. He's in a native-level writing class, but I've discovered that ESL classes often do a pretty poor job at reinforcing spoken language foundations (pretty important as the spoken language IS the language). One thing that wasn't emphasised in class was the pretty important phenomenon of English stress.... in fact it's not covered in non-ESL classrooms either, excepting linguistic classrooms.

Sometimes I feel that the pedagogy of English language classes are still stuck in the era before the Great Vowel Shift of the 17th century ... in the high school classroom there's no discussion of diphthongs, vowel quality versus historic vowel length. I bet the long/short vowel distinction confuses the hell out of native speaker children too. HEY look guys -- English doesn't have five vowels. It has at least thirteen vowel phonemes (some dialects have as many as seventeen). It has five vowel LETTERS to represent the vowel phonemes with. If you analyse the "long vowels" as combinations of two vowels or a vowel + semivowel, then you could theoretically reduce the English phonetic vowel inventory to eight vowels. (And then only if you make a lot of mergers ... like if you think "plus" and "the" have the same vowel quality, after ignoring stress.)

So anyway .... there's an Iraqi refugee community here in Charlottesville, but they're pretty invisible to the public. One thing I've found to be potentially quite useful for both teaching English writing and having something of mutual interest to talk about is Riverbend's blog on the war ... as a very good (and sometimes biting) English writer and an Iraqi refugee, she makes useful talking points, even though she hasn't written a new post in almost two years.

Yesterday was a somewhat good day. After a curious day out, and enjoying someone else's good cooking, it struck me as I lay down on the couch, looking at my absurdly long legs, how much I've changed. Well okay, duh right?? I mean haven't I written like 20 posts on the idea already? But visiting the homes of some other members of the refugee community I was suddenly reminded of HDB flats and the ambitions and mindset I had when I was 14 and in Singapore. And now I've almost abandoned and given up hope on Singapore, even defending the merits of living in America compared to living in Europe. I've grown up into exactly what I thought I wouldn't be.

du train et de l'enfance

il court, il s'écoule; les wagons, ils roulent.
le ciel pleure – à quelle heure sera-t-il trop tard?
de revenir, de se souvenir;
quelque part, un coeur coule et déboule;
quelque part, un cerveau s’écarte.

les gares s’envolent. mais tu restes immobile
de Bishan à King's Cross
les minutes s’envolent, comme de l’huile
dans un sablier – et on savait que
l’huile et l’eau ne se mélangent jamais.

tu te souviens? tu te souviens d’elle?
je me souviens. je me souviendrai
des choses belles. des souvenirs mauvais.

tu y reviens? où vas-tu?
je ne sais pas. qui saura?
si la vie est comme le train, la vie continue
mais on se demande: sera-t-elle revenue
en passant devant ces gares de noms familiers.