Art as a paradigm for life

Different people have different conceptions of art. This is simple - different people live different lives. And art is life.

Human beings like to compartmentalise, organise, classify, stereotype things. But the thing about things is that they often refuse to be classified. That's why art is life and life is art, but not really.

Art is how you get people to see through new windows, new viewpoints, and live different lives, or just live their own lives better. Art is how you enrich people. A well-written account of an abused child (touch wood, you weren't/aren't one), allows you to experience what it is like, see things in a different light. It allows you to experience things you may not be able to experience in your life. You ponder, and get a bigger, broader perspective.

Art is about self-expression, self-discovery for the artist.

But really, art cannot exist in an artist until the artist has a life outside (used rather loosely - no artist can really be outside art) art. From this life, the artist draws upon the basics for art. It gives him the experience and foundation for his art. However, the artist's life in his art will teach him much also. But without this outside life, there is really nothing for the artist to draw parallels to. The two lives feed off each other, the are one and separate at the same time. They cannot be classified.

So yep, life is art, and art is life, for lack of a better word than is.

Perhaps the most important thing you can learn from art is that you cannot classify things. You just have to let them be the tangled inter-connected, interwoven network of things that they are. But, (and here comes my favourite line) within that complexity, sometimes you can find a startling simplicity. And, maybe by classifiying things, you are just making things more confusing, and further and further away from simplicity.

Everyone is an artist. 

A moment of happiness

Many people around us think the secret of happiness can be found in self-help books, or on TV, or in the wise words of a friend, or teacher.

But they're not looking in the right place. If you look within yourself, you'll find that happiness come from within you. You don't need anyone or anything to help you find it, neither do you need anything to make you happy. It's just a part of you. As much a part of you as your heart beating, or breathing, but sometimes, things on the outside, like stress, and worry, and work just pile up so much you don't notice it anymore. Like when you don't pay attention, you don't notice your breathing, or your heart beating. However, if you just relax, you will notice these things. It's the same with happiness.

I found this out one day, when I was just sitting down with a book, enjoying the cool air conditioning, Haley Westenra's Pure album, apple juice and a dark chocolate mignonette. Nothing really out of the ordinary. But it was in this relaxed state of mind that I found my own real happiness, and not the transient, ephemeral kind.

Another thing about finding happiness, you have to discover it yourself. No one can really tell you how to get it. Part of hapiness is the joy in finding it. I may reveal this secret, and so may many other words of advice, but at the end of the day, as Mrs Tong might say, "it's all up to you, girls".

I'm getting back my prelim marks over these next two weeks. It may seem random, but it's not. Marks are one of those transient, ephemeral aspects of life which may bring you temporary happiness, or sadness. I've decided I'm going to enjoy the experience, relish the moments of worry, and find humour in moments of sadness, and of course, delight in the rare moments of gladness afforded to me.

怎么去拥有一道彩虹

怎么去拥抱一夏天的风

天上的星星笑地上的人

总是不能懂不能知道足够

－《知足》，五月天

Dumbstruck

If there was one ability I wouldn't mind going without, and would sometimes even rather do without, it's the ability to speak.

Why bother with speaking, when there's a superior form of communication - writing? Why choose to voice out sentences that are not even fully formed in your mind? For that is how most people get by when they make conversation - conceptualise the ideas as they communicate them, not before. Why choose such an inferior, unpredictable form of communication when you can plan out and present your idea in a clear, concise manner in the written form? Surely the half-formed garbled sentences can never do you sufficient justice.

True, even in writing, one can ramble on muddleheadedly, as I have just done, but at least, I have the satisfaction of knowing that that is exactly what I want to say at this moment, and that it's in some semblance of good English, and not the occasional broken sentence I manage to ejaculate on occasion. But forgive the digression, if you will, and allow me to continue with my tirade.

Why choose to communicate verbally when it gives you so little time to adequately ponder over your words? When writing, you have to opportunity to decide and filter and dissect your thoughts and only write what you want others to read. When you speak (unless it's a prepared speech), you scarely have time to form a proper sentence before it has escaped your mouth, never to be undone, or deleted, or canceled out with a neat rule and pen mark. Saying things like 'I go with you' instead of 'I will go with you' are slips which are only too easy to make when you speak, but which seldom occur when you write. Sometimes, you let go of a sentence before it's even formed, and your brain doesn't work quickly enough to fill in the blanks, leaving you trailing off with a helpless look in your eyes, and a 'you know what I mean' shrug. When you write however, you can form these wisps of sentences, and yet still fill in the blanks before the reader has a chance to see your weakling of a sentence.

Why choose to communicate verbally when you can actually finish an argument or an idea without someone interrupting, and breaking your flow of thought? Sometimes you never even get a chance to express a point of view, let alone and argument, over the clamour of voices. In writing, however, you can be sure that you've 'said your say', and be content in the knowledge of having made a proper case for your stand. True, you can refute the points other's bring up immediately when you speak, but you can always adress them with additions to and editng of your essay when you write.

But the worst thing about speaking is the way it's all too easy to betray your emotions. You can unintentionally let a bitter word slip that destroys relationships and ruins lives. You can betray your fear and upsetness when you speak. It's much harder to distance yourself. When you write, it's a different story altogether. You may be crying when you write, but in your writing, if you do not intend to show your emtional upheaval, it won't be detected easily by your reader. You can maintain a seemingly calm, collected, logical, unemtional stand, or discuss sensitive issues without revealing that you are het up about them. In fact, you can address more sensitive issues, because when speaking verbally, you may be so choked up with emotion that you cannot dislodge the lump in your throat to talk, but it doesn't mean that you can't think. And what you think can be written down easily enough. It's not likely you can be so choked up you can't move your hand. In no way are your tear ducts related to your hands, at least not in any way that I can see at this moment.

True enough, speaking is faster. Perhaps communicating verbally is also more spontaneous and hence, more exihilarating form of conversation. Verbal slander, if you're into slander at all, is also less "serious" than written slander. So in that sense, the temporal nature of speaking is advantageous to some.

But even though speaking may be convenient, and perhaps I might even go so far as to call is indispensable, I still cannot help but wish sometimes, that I was mute. It would make verbal communication irrelevant.

Orchard road, 10PM

Walk along Orchard Road at ten o' clock at night. Music with a heavy beat that pounds your heart plays, and the inky blackness of the night is warded off by numerous fluorescent lights from the stalls that are still set up at this time of night. One of them is a cariacature artist's booth, and even at this time of night, there are still people queueing up for his services. At the moment, a fat lady in an overly-tight red tank is being drawn. Just like in the daytime, you can smell smoke everywhere. In the night, though, it's a more powerful stench - an acrid mixture of smoke, sweat and booze. It's not hard to see why some might find it compelling though.

At ten o' clock at night, giant ang mohs roam the streets with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, and equally tall, leggy Asians wearing stilettos tower over you effortlessly. Standing at a respectable height of 1.65m, it feels strange to be the shortest one in the crowd - you feel small, and insignificant.

By ten o' clock, all the shops in all the shopping centres are closed, or closing, and everyone is forced into the streets. Mothers holding ever so tightly onto whingeing boys. Last minute shopaholics holding fast to their paper bags, bludgeoning their way through the crowd, on to their next 'last' buy. All of a sudden, over sound of the heavy music and loud talking, the honk of the rubbish-man is heard. His pedalled vehicle is empty, but somehow, he still manages to leave a trail of some glistening liquid on the road. Perhaps it's from the doubtful looking broom turned on its end. You walk past more ang mohs and try to steer clear from the ones stumbling around in a kind of drunken song and dance routine, and a couple more wannabe sexy Asians, who are short and dumpy, but wearing mini-skirts and over-large hoop earrings. In the distance you can hear the sharp sounds skateboads connecting with roads as skaterboys are still trying to perfect that last jump or turn.

As you make it to the safety of the car park, you wonder why you've never seen this side of Singapore before.

Gross anatomy

A requirement in learning O-level Biology is that candidates should be able to describe the gross structure of the eye. In the paragraphs that follow, I shall attempt to do precisely that.

The eye is a gross and slimy, albeit useful, receptor organ in man which plays a significant part in co-ordination and response.

It is enclosed by the eye socket, which looks weird without an eye, and the eye is attached to the socket by six stubby rectus muscles, which can also roll the eye around maniacally (so really, if you have a glass eye, don't pretend like it can move, because it ain't got no rectus muscles).

The rectus musles are attached to the sclera of the eye, which is the thing that keeps all the eye-goo in place. The sclera is tough, yellowish, fibrous and a little bit slimy to the touch, and the exposed part of the sclera (the part which you can see, and which people commonly call the whites of your eyes) is covered by a thin membrane, the conjunctiva, which looks a little like a GATSBY oil absorber stretched too tightly over a finger, only it's transparent and continuous with your eyelids.

There's a little bulge where the lens of your eye is, and it is highlysquishable, thanks to the aqueous humour which fills it - like a water balloon just waiting to be popped. It's where the sclera becomes the cornea, and also becomes transparent, allowing light to shine through to the retina at the back of the eye. That's also where the iris is, and the iris is what gives your eye its color. The iris is an extension of the choroid.

The choroid is the grossest part of the eye and is the second layer after the sclera. It's pigmented black, to prevent total internal reflection, and black fluidoozes out when you dissect it. It also contains a network of blood capillaries. Also connected to the choroid are the ciliary muscles and suspensory ligamets. The muscles are pretty firm and elastic, to allow the eye to focus on both near and distant objects. The suspensory ligaments, on the other hand, areteensy little buggers which probably look a lot like dental floss with plenty of plaque.

The lens may be the best bit yet. It's hard, a little squoogy, and supposedly a little stretchy as well. It can become more or less convex, depending on whether the object viewed is near or far.

Just behind the lens is what makes up the bulk of the eye - the vitreous humour (which I hear is not as funny as the aqueous humour, and decidely more morbid. It's jelly-like, and clear. Altogether disgusting, really.

Behind that, which is incidentally, the third layer of the eye, is the retina. It consists of photoreceptors called rods and cones, and if I had to hazard a guess, it's probably pretty rough, like goosebumps. I believe it's kind of shiny, like an oil spill on the sea. The retina is also connected to the optic nerve at the blind spot - smooth going there, I bet, with no photoreceptors to speak of. You can see it if you pluck out someone's eye. It's that strand still connected to the head, I think.

Q.E.D. the eye is pretty darn gross.

Tangled web of simplicity

It's a tangled web of simplicity,
those thoughts buried deep in my mind;
strand by strand I attempt to unravel,
but to no avail.
Little wisps of memories,
by longer yarns entwined;
can you tell the difference?
they end where they begin.
Peering through the confusion,
I see simplicity in those
thoughts buried deep in my mind,
although sometimes its hard to find.

Simplicity, the secret
at the heart of every complexity
Someday, perhaps, everything will be
simple.

Pitching for the tone-deaf

For people like me who are practically tone deaf, the eleven different pitches of Western music are like identical twins, except that there are eleven little buggers, not just two.

The difference between these eleven siblings is noticeable enough when all eleven are there, lined up and ready for your inspection - one has a few more freckles than the other (an allusion to Blyton's Sullivan twins), one has slightly different way of talking, and so on. But when they're separate... You can't tell who's who.

Of course, those who know the illusive eleven (yes, I'm feeling rather Enid Blyton-ish today) well enough will be able to tell the difference. In other words, those with perfect pitch can see who's who even without another note to compare with.

But the near-to-tone-deaf? They just can't.

The little girl in the secret chamber

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived in a beautiful land of great diversity. She was given lots of freedom to explore. She could go to the forest, go to the village, go anywhere she wanted. She could climb trees, hide in burrows, do anything she wanted. So, she was happy.

But slowly, the confines of her world became smaller. She didn't even notice it at first. But gradually, she started to notice how there was less forest to explore, less village to frolic in, less people to talk to. It discomfited her vaguely, but she didn't think much of it.

Then one day, she noticed she could not even unlock the door of her room, the grandest room at the top of the highest tower of that most-beautiful palace. She tried, and tried, but to no avail. She burst into tears, and fell asleep.

She slept for a long time.

She woke up to find herself in a small, dark prison. No light could enter, naught but a mere ray of weak light through a slit in the wall.

At first, she thought she was imagining it all, and pinched herself. Then, she thought her eyes were deceiving her, and rubbed them. But nothing changed.

She got up to explore the place, and fumbling, began to feel her way around. She discovered that it was furnished exactly the same as her old room, the one in the high tower.

The only difference was the Darkness. The way the thick inky blackness of It seemed to press round menacingly, waiting only for just the right chance to eat her. It was a fearsome combination of beasts. In the Darkness, of course she could not see It, but she could feel It. She could sense It.

So she felt Its velvety skin coiling around her like a black cat around at a witch's ankles. She smelt scent of want, of desire. She smelt also a deep loathing. A certain jealousy, even. She tasted fear on her tongue, and although she could not see, she felt as though Its jaws were always opened, about to sever her in two. She felt also, Its cool breath, as chilly as the drafts that occasionally entered the castle. And sometimes, she thought she could even see Its teeth glinting eerily in strange glimmers.

Yes, the little girl was very afraid. At first, She pounded against the heavy door. It felt almost like she was pounding on a wall, it was so stubborn and thick. It didn't rattle like the other doors did.

She was angry, and determined. But most of all, she was scared. So she screamed and shouted. And pounded. And again. Over and over and over, but, she couldn't get out.

She passed the days of her miserable existence in despair. Every so often, she would try to get out. Sometimes, when she pushed with all her might against the door, it seemed as if it moved a bit, once or twice she managed to get it so far ajar that she could slip her hand through, but the door was closed as quickly as she opened it.

She lives there still, deep down in each of our hearts, waiting to get out. Waiting for the iron will of Self-Control to weaken and give in to her, the child we all once were, and pure untamed - emotion.

And when you feel sheer anguish, or joy, you know it's her. For she almost managed to escape from that little room you keep her in.

Family Mah Jong

Playing Mah Jong with my parents is a hoot.

Not because their playing is bad. It really is because it's funny. Seriously.

For instance, today, my mum asked, "Has everybody poot fart (she meant bou fa or bu3 hua1) already?".

Then, I have this obsession with keeping the wall straight. I use my tile rack to straighten it while waiting my turn; a pastime my dad has also taken up.

When we play Mah Jong together, you can easily see the family resemblance. We are all really clumsy (and needless to say, really eccentric).

In our excitement to get tiles, we have: pushed over the wall, revealed our hand, shook the table, pushed over our chairs, etc etc.

In our reluctance to give our chips to the winner, we have: thrown the chips out the window, tore the bag we keep the chips in, narrowly missed injuring a fellow family member.

We also do this weird head-bobbing, finger-drumming thing while we play (to the accompaniment of Chinese New Year music).

I don't suppose anyone would care to join us for a game?

When I fall in love, it will be...with dance

Every once in a while, when I throw myself into dancing completely, what I experience reminds me why I love dance so much. It doesn't matter any more that I'm not that good a dancer.

While I am dancing, my whole conciousness is just fixed on getting the steps (not just getting the right steps, but understanding them in the deepest fibres of your being). I don't think about how I will look to other people. I don't think about anything else, except the dance. You don't actually think about it conciously while you dance, but you get the feeling that you're just a girl; just dancing.

You feel happy.

Despite what people say about happy being an over-used word, I have to say, happy is just the right word to use here. Simple, succint and powerful. I can't call it euphoria, because that gives you a sense of losing control. I feel completely in control.

It doesn't matter to me what I actually look like while I dance. I most probably look like a baboon trying to attract a mate. Somehow, though, I just don't care. Plenty of time after the dance to listen to any corrections.

My inhibitions and self-conciousness just slip away as I become the dance.

After the dance, I don't feel weary at all. True, I will feel a little exerted, but I also feel completely alert, awake, ready to try again. After a while, sure, I feel the pain of friction burns and pressure bruises, but it fades when you get into the dance again.

I won't say that there are no words to describe it, becuase I always get annoyed when other people say that. It's like, what's the point of trying if you know that there aren't (any words to descirbe it, I mean)? But it really does require you to experience it before you understand why it all becomes worthwhile.

I wanted to write about love,
But I have no one.

I wanted to write about happiness,
But I am lonely.

I wanted to write about life,
But it is empty in words.

Therefore I can only dance.

I dance for sunshine,
I dance for rain,
I dance for joy,
I dance for sadness,
when there are none of these things.

In dance you can live another life.
In dance you can live life.

---

I learned something interesting this weekend. At my singing lesson, my voice teacher remarked that the most important thing for a singer is his/her ears. It's what you use to tell whether you're singing right, or not. It's what other peole use to judge you. It's how she knows whether I'm singing right or not.

I realised that the same principle can be applied to dancing, only this time, it'd be the eyes. Without them, you wouldn't be able to learn new steps, dance in sync with the rest of the class, see if you're using the correct technique, and so much more.

It's all very well to say that, and feel blessed to have a pair of eyes and ears. But really, the thing about it is not whether you can see or hear, but whether you can discern and observe. You may be short-sighted, or long-sighted, or half-deaf, or colour-blind, but it isn't mere clarity of vision and hearing that I'm referring to. It's really the ability to pick out the nuances in what you hear and see and learn from them (although acuity of the senses is definitely helpful when it comes to this).

The moon watches a nose-digger

Moonie, if you are reading this, this entry is a response to your blog entry about how you are disdainful of nose-diggers.

You settle yourself down and prepare for the long wait. Maybe, you should take out a book to read. Nah. You decide to look out the window instead.

Suddenly, you feel this prickle in your nostril. You blow harshly through your nose, hoping to dislodge it. It only gets itchier.

And itchier.

You rummage around your bag desperately, searching for soemthing to distract yourself. 

You decide to take out that book you were thinking of reading.

Page 1. It isn't working. If anything, the itch just becomes more prominent in your mind. You know what you want to do.

You look around. Nobody's watching. Surreptitiously, you bring a finger to your face, and begin to dig.

Aaaah. That feels good. Now for the other nostril.

Suddenly the bus lurches forward (you didn't even realise you stopped). As you pitch forward, you're brought back to reality, and you accidentally catch the eye of someone watching your. Embarrassed, you look away, but it's too late.

For it's then you realise you still have your finger up your nose.

Movie Review: Phantom of the Opera

In a word, the Phantom of the Opera (poto) is sublime. Although I've never watched the musical, and some people say that the movie is just a way of bringing the musical over to the poor underprivilidged Asia (and I don't dispute that), the movie is an undoubtable, absolute sucess. Anyway, I don't think I could have sat down and watched Sarah Brightman parade around posturing like a pengiun. Poto holds the distinctiong of being one of the few shows that I (and my friends) actually watched more than once on big screen.

They say that the devil is in the details. If so, the show really is the devil incarnate. The details were amazing. They were clearly well thought-out. For instance, in the Masquerade ball, Christine wore a light pink dress that contrasted with the rest of the set (who were wearing shades of white and black), depicting how she was still under the influence of the Phantom (who was wearing crimson).

These small details contributed to the dramatic and vibrant atmosphere - some amazing directing on Schumacher's part. Particularly, the beginning sticks out in my mind. The atmosphere backstage (I mean in the film) had exactly the feel you would have backstage at a full-dress rehearsal.

Instead of plunging headlong into the story, the show begins and carries through a touching sub-plot depicting events occuring after the story (shown in black-and-white). It is a nice touch, and the ending leaves a slight cliffhanger. The show thus alternates between a black-and-white film depicting the present and the rich, technicolour depicting the main story (the past). The transitions fall into place naturally, without an unpleasant jolt, although sometimes with a fair amount of drama.

Although the plot leaves much to be desired - it is merely a love story for the hopeless romantics (like me), it can't really be helped, can it, seeing as how the original story was a love story anyway. However, the director still manages to create enough tension and action (both aurally and visually), to keep the audience on its seat.

Christine was played wonderfully by Emmy Rossum. Her singing is sweet and clear - to be cliched, the voice of an angel. The chemistry between Gerard Butler, who plays the Phantom, and Emmy Rossum really sizzles. You can taste the sexual tension. The chemistry between Emmy Rossum and Patrick Wilson, Raoul, is bland, but appropriate, given their relationship.

Of course, Andrew Lloyd Webber's score was amazing. It was Andrew Lloyd Webber, 'nuff said. The tunes are still stuck in my head days after I watched the movie.

Perhaps my one complaint would be that Butler could have been less arrogant, to help arouse the audience's sympathy.

Above all, I knew it was great, because every time I experience something beautiful or good or true, I get a tingly feeling, as if my skin is contracting into me. When I watched poto, I got that.