In a multi-dimensional universe, where the choices we make create the space-time reality we occupy (established in respect of the deterministic laws and relationships that govern it), art tunnels a wormhole. Art ties a topographic knot into the continuum, allowing us a mediated portal to a different world. For a few brief, illusory moments in time, art sheds light and creates space for a deeper truth to emerge, one which might ruffle the fabric of space-time in strange and incongruous ways.

Love is a many-splendid thing

"I never realised that the best things in life are hidden in the most mundane things."

"Love is a feeling you can’t hide. You don’t plan it out at all. It makes your head spin. It paralyses any sense of logic with an incredible destructiveness. The ecstasy caused by love can numb your senses to an extent where you don’t even feel the pain of death. It’s incredibly dangerous."

- Eve, Ep 6 (K-drama)

It surprises me how a script that is translated from Korean to English can be so powerfully eloquent. Truth is universal.

It's funny how life works. How the things you fight so hard for can suddenly be rendered meaningless by a change of heart.

I'd always felt convinced that whatever my path, that my life's work was to do something good for the world. To make a difference. Or something cheesy like that.

A point of honesty is reached when you realise that maybe the world doesn't actually need that. It doesn't actually need me. That maybe altruism is only a form of disguised egotism (I do think egotism gets a bad rap, and that it's an essential part of the human condition, the human will to survive and thrive, but that's another blog post perhaps). 

That perhaps my life's work is simply to let the world be (good, or not), and appreciate what, or rather who, comes to me.

Transcendence

“Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy. ...Music is the one incorporeal entrance into the higher world of knowledge which comprehends mankind but which mankind cannot comprehend.” - Ludwig van Beethoven

Robin Spielberg's TEDx talk brought me to tears. She told stories about her experience of music's power to heal, to provide catharsis, to soothe anxiety and change the brain. Around 13 minutes into the talk, she describes how she went into a nursing home to play. Disappointed at the quality of the piano, the lack of applause, and lack of responsiveness of the audience, she decided she was just going to go into the lala land of her music and get through the hour. As she was leaving though, a nurse came up to her, and told her that it was amazing, all of the connections she made. The nurse described how one of the patients, hearing her play 'Moon River', had been singing along, speaking for the first time in years.

For me, vital, life-giving importance of art lies in its powerful ability to connect to our human experience. It transcends in a way the best efforts of the prefrontal logical mind cannot. It transcends the individual narratives of our lives, speaking to us as though the creator intimately understands our inner world. 

As a choreographer, I would probably wouldn't pick myself to be the performer that breathes life into the work. But I am grateful for the chance to shape and share in the numinous experience that is music and movement. In that moment, I am uplifted by that which comprehends mankind, but mankind cannot comprehend. 

the art of letting go

being a grown up
the super ego prevails
heartbreak of the id

A mac between two windows

Restored when you revisit -
refreshed the pane stares back at you.

Through the looking glass
what once felt a bittersweet torture -
the years apart -
has become
a lopsided work of art.

Saudade

I wouldn’t;
but the coincidence of dates and glimpses
dislodge the scrapbook box of
memories
scattered
seeing the pieces of you
hearing
the pieces of us
as one snap shot
topples deck after deck -

watch us listen
to the cinematic
orchestra to
build a home in
our dialogue of paired response in
laughing at who's line is it anyway, or in
watching movies
wrapped up warm in the blankets of each other arms
in the cinema
in the opera house
in the bed
I; snuggled under the tent of your yellow T-shirt of a big bird in a small cage
you; too snug in a pair of green checkered shorts

haunted now these
spaces these
places these
windows these
views these
pictures
of a startled naked man with a fat cat
of a tiny ship in a massive storm
of cleats soaked through with your dried sweat
of a broken shower head with a water fount for two
of a little red Subaru holding hands between gear shifts as we feel the engine purr
of our Field of Giggles - I giggled whilst you dribbled and we played bunnyhop football
of a pair of badminton racket covers by a Bruce Lee statue
of a backpack of apples 'cause we filled it till we spilled it.

Out of the woodwork they came; I was numb
yet surprised to find
that the pieces of a mending wall
were made to be re-broken
and sadomasochistic vindication
by their penetration.

Nothing remains of us now
but fading sepia
and the elegiac -algia of knowing
there is nothing left -
but the time I lose
as I pick up
haphazard
higgledy piggledy
the memories amassed
a mess of them
hastily - oh that I could throw them out!
as time runs on
leaving me




momentarily
scattered.

Heart

What is this strange thing that our human hearts are capable of? That we can feel it plummet to the depths of our shoes, beat faster with anticipation, flush us red with the heat of the moment, beating every beat for that which exists outside of us - another beat, another rhythm, another person. That we can feel the synchrony of our lives as it speeds up and slow down, and races after - another beating heart.

Little things make the biggest difference

Whenever I come back to Singapore, I feel a great sense of refreshment and clarity in who I am, and who I would like to be, as a result of my place in the context of the friends I have.  Birds of a feather, cut from the same cloth, and so on.  Although of the same cloth, in myself I lose sight of the garment I should make of myself from the material that it is.  That is to say, if I end up trying to fashion something else of myself, the material would end up rather the worse for wear, and poorly utilised for such a function.

I met up with a friend for a good meal today, and she was saying how she likes to make everyone happy and she doesn't really mind for herself personally.  She felt blessed with many opportunities and she was contented.  Many of my friends are like that.  These people may not waste so many words, others are 'won without words' by their conduct, showing the purity and reverence of their lives (1 Pet 3:1-2).  What she says in silence, by her attitude, demeanour and consideration speak volumes and are far more influential, in a deeper way in making people want to be peace-loving and kinder to one another.

Perhaps this is what at Christians, in brotherly love, should value most - the care they can give to others.  What it really means to have brotherly love.  The other things that seems so important - our appearance (even kindness, if it is merely to appear to be caring, or to show care - there really is a discernable difference), career, ambitions, even the wealth of art, culture and science that seems to be the pride of mankind - these are just preoccupations of the world.  Literally, they are what we do before (pre-) we are really occupied for others.  For what do they matter?  Part of the reason why these things are important, at least in the context of the constructs (such as art or science), are because they are a contribution towards enriching society.  But they are the icing on the cake, and without the cake itself, what use is icing?  If our lives lack even the basic substance of society, attempting to enrich it by blazing contributions in work or riches are just human vanities (Ecc 1:1) that fatten us rather than fill us.

There is a distinction to be drawn between the kind pride one takes - that 'I have done this work well' and 'this is a good piece of work'.  There is a place for preoccupation, a place for good work, but that is as a function for and of society, and the joy that comes of it is not the fulfillment of any personal ambition, but the work in itself.

In the grand scheme of things - perhaps there is none.  Perhaps the biggest things are really the smallest things that make a difference in people's lives - taking the time to listen and make time for people, to help out where we can.  

Your feeling eyes, my falling life

I fell for you -
because your eyes were just a little bit sad
when you smiled
it seemed like your eyes knew
something your mouth wasn't letting on.

And that glint when you were thinking
some private joke I thought you'd share
with me later,
after everyone else had left.
Those eyes seemed like the only ones
which could look into mine
and see what was going on inside,
not for what was wrong or what was right,
but with humour and empathy's ready light.

I'd feel for the promise
the hint of sensitivity
of (im)maturity
of subtlety
of the something more.

Of the one
I'd never found
before.

I felt like mine could see - for a moment(!)
that spark of an internal landscape
that painted new horizons in my own
with the light of your eyes.

And swiftly, I was felled.

Pins and needles

[SPOILER ALERT]

I watched an episode (4) of House, M.D.: Season Five today in which an adopted Chinese girl sets out in search of her birth parents, and ends up gravely ill.

In the end, it is discovered that her parents placed pins into her brain in an attempted murder, because China had a one-child policy, and the parents wanted a boy.

When her adoptive parents hear the diagnosis, they request that she not be told that her parents attempted to kill her because they didn't want her. They understand her to be emotionally fragile and fear that she may react badly, especially as she had history of alcoholism and smoking. However, the doctor explains that the pins pierce through specific areas of her brain, including her addiction centre (I'm guessing the VTA / some part of her mesolimbic system).

"She may not be as fragile as you think," the doctor says.

"We know our daughter," they respond.

He says, "It's not her fault, she's not who you think she is."

[/SPOILER ALERT]

How much of how we behave is really comprehensible to the people around us? It's so easy to look at someone who's a drug addict, or who's got problems stealing, or with violence, and to say, "I'm not like that. How can they go about ruining their life like that..." It's so easy to judge others, and delineate them as different from ourselves.

But do we really understand exactly what's going on in their lives, in their minds? How much of what they think and do is really of their own volition? If you were placed in that situation, with that brain chemistry, can you say with conviction that you would choose to not be a druggie?

In fact, when you stop and thinking about it, how much of what we think is in our conscious control? That girl had physical, metal pins in her head that affected her and caused her to behave differently than what is biologically considered to be normal. But we have pins too. Maybe they don't seem to be there in a literal sense, but our genes code for our neurocircuitry, and much of our behaviour is learnt and imprinted on us by our environments. Although it may be slippery slope to say that free will does not exist, perhaps it is a less evenly free playing field than we imagine it to be for the other person.

It seems strange to think it, but I think what Sara Crewe, a privileged heiress, says about Becky, a poor servant girl in the same boarding school, about sums it up:

"Why," she said, "we are just the same--I am only a little girl like you. It's just an accident that I am not you, and you are not me!"

- A Little Princess, Chapter 5, Frances Hodgson Burnett

It is a scary thought, perhaps. Especially when we pause to consider that we are not so very different from the people we disdain or dislike, as much as we would like to believe it. In reality, there is perhaps little besides God's grace, or "accident", that separates one person's personality or fortune from another.

But ultimately, I think these thoughts point us in quite a refreshing direction in attempting to relate to other people: understanding, respect and love. Even of the less than loveable.

More than words

Research has suggested that between 60 and 70 percent of all meaning is derived from nonverbal behavior.

- Engleberg, Isa N., p133, 2006

Oh won't you sink with me
into the possibility
of this.

Fall into magnetic gravity
and let its nascent beauty
be defined.

Let's go slow and luxuriate
in this moment, moments, moments(!)
more -- before they evanesce.

Let's go slow as we explore
how I can express
the thousand ways you warm my soul
in the eloquence of wordlessness.

So this is love

Perhaps the great mystery of love is quite simply the ability to make somebody feel happy.

Why did God create us? At the end of the day, the best that theologians - or at least, according to the theology I am familiar with - can come up with is: His pleasure.

Why do artists paint? Why do dancers dance? They might say they love to do that, or are dedicated to their work. But why love what they love? It makes them happy.

My friends inspire my love through the 'glow' of their personality - oftentimes, merely being in their presence makes me feel happy and energised.

So, at least as far as I can understand it, to be loved by someone is to have made them feel happy, and perhaps to be in love with someone is the continuous decision to keep making them happy.

I don't believe in the idea of there being one perfect person for me - the perfect fit (even enzymes don't really work that way). I'm even more skeptical of my capability of being perfect for anybody. But perhaps there are some patients whom I can better help, or friends whom I will find easier to be collectively happy with.

And I guess one day...

Watching Memorable Walks

The other day in bible study, our leader asked us why we, or other people, might write poetry. He then asked us to write an 'If' poem as part of an exercise to introduce us to the study of Psalms. Since then, these ideas have been playing on my mind.

If asked that question in a setting where I wasn't under pressure to not answer and appear an emo-kid, I would probably say that the reason why I write poetry or enjoy art of any form is because in reality, I repress my feelings. Rather than limit them to the banality of their everyday context (petty annoyances, base desires, irrational fears), I'd rather invest them in an avenue with a higher rate of return. I get to control exactly how much I reveal, how much I explore, what the listener gets out of the poem. A poem doesn't limit you to reality, either.

I used to favour dance as the way to tell the greatest truths of myself to my audience. Poetry, I suppose is a natural extension of that. It too is focused on expression through a medium (the human body/words) and the movement inherent (in dance sequences, or the formation of sentences). It may not be about me, but in creating it, I often feels as though I were baring some part of myself that I normally keep hidden.

Even if my heart says yes, my mind says no

(based on A Walk To Remember)

If

this were yesterday, I

might've said yes to you. I was

happy to bask in the love of another,

then - I would not

be so afraid to let my heart be thawed by

the heat of your pull

on my heartstrings, and your assurance not to break them, or -

ever let them go.

But because

this is today,

I am sorry,

but my answer is no.

But even if being around you arrests my senses,

makes time stop and space irrelevant,

even if it feels like more than just another EM-pty pull, it's

just a lull - a break from reality's gravity, for today.

For even if this were yesterday,

you can't change my tomorrow.

It's the heart that matters most

[Warning: as you may have discerned from the title, this will be a cliched and gushy, probably preachy post.]

Looking around at the doctors and doctors-to-be around me, I see people of all walks of life. There are the foul-mouthed swearing types, there are the jokers, there are the cold and distant types, there are the overtly caring ones, there are the ones who claim they don't give a damn.

But they do. We all do. The thing that binds us isn't that we're high academic achievers, or that we're competent, or that we've an all-consuming interest in what we do.

It's that we've got heart. Underneath our exteriors, whether hard and clam-like, or soft and welcoming, we feel for others. When we see another human being suffering, some part of us is fundamentally driven to do something, unselfish enough to care about it, and to want to make a difference.

If you're in the profession for anything else - whether it's the so-called glory or prestige, or the financial stability, or even for the intellectual gratification, you're bound to be disappointed. There's little real glory to be had - every other course from Politics to Culinary Skills, has its fair share of high-fliers. As for financial stability, there are easier ways to get that. You will spend a long time awaiting intellectual gratification, if that's what you're hoping for. Frustration is more likely, with all the loose ends and incomplete science.

The only thing that I can think of that makes us want to go on in this race is that we care. We care about our patients. We care about being good doctors. We care about each other.

It's a bittersweet symphony

It's funny how we all have preoccupations with our scars and wounds. We've all poked, picked at and scratched our scabs, or rubbed our bruises (or at least thought about it), and even though there's a kind of pain that comes with that, it's not the unpleasant kind. Even wounds that have healed completely, leaving scars or keloids, feel somehow odd to the touch.

Every one in a while a song will hit you in an odd place like that. I recently lost all my music library after taking my computer for repairs, and a friend of mine was kind enough to supplement my loss with his albums. So I found out how much I liked yet another Singaporean artist, Olivia Ong.

Olivia is only 4 years older than me, which makes me realise just how old I am!

Sweet Memories

by Seiko Matsuda, also sung by Olivia Ong, lyrics by Miss er

なつかしい痛みだわ ずっと前に忘れていた
でもあなたを見たとき 時間だけ後もどりしたの
幸福？と聞かないで うそをつくのは上手じゃない
友だちならいるけど あんなには燃えあがれなくて

失った夢だけが　美しく見えるのは何故かしら
過ぎ去った優しさも今は 甘い記憶 sweet memories

Don't kiss me baby we can never be
So don't add more pain
Please don't hurt me again
I have spent so many nights
Thinking of you longing for your touch
I have once loved you so much

あの頃は若過ぎて いたずらに傷つけあった二人
色褪せた哀しみも今は 遠い記憶 sweet memories

Translation

by Moo

natsukashii itamidawa
(it's a pain that lied in my memory)
zutto mae ni wasureteita
(that I did not remember for a long time)
demo anata wo mita toki
(But when I saw you)
jikan dake atomodori shita no
(only the time went backward)

"Shiawase?" to kikanaide
(Don't ask me, "happy?" )
usowo tsuku nowa jouzujanai
(I am not good at telling a lie)
tomodachi nara irukedo
(Although I have friends)
anna niwa moeagarenakute
(I could not have that much passion)

ushinatta yume dakega
utsukushiku mieru nowanaze kashira
(I wonder why only the lost dreams look beautiful)
sugisatta yasashisa mo ima wa
amai kioku
(sweet memories)

Sweet memories

Don't kiss me baby we can never be
So don't add more pain
Please don't hurt me again
I have spent so many nights
Thinking of you longing for your touch
I have once loved you so much

anokoro wa wakasugite
(We were too young back then)
itazura ni kizu tsukeatta futari
(Two of us hurt each other in vain)
iro aseta kanashimi mo ima wa
tooi kioku
(The faded sadness is already a memory of long time ago)
Sweet memories

I miss my piano.

Exhortation to love

The other day I saw fliers being pasted all around the suburb I frequent in Sydney.  They were for someone who had gone missing.  As much as it was sad that someone had indeed gone missing, and the circumstances behind it must be quite unfortunate, it was obvious that the person who had gone missing was loved and missed.

The same cannot be said for everyone though, and I cannot help but reflect that it is possibly the worst thing in the world to be unloved and uncared for, to be shunned by others, to feel alone and isolated.  I think I would rather be that person who had gone missing, than someone whose existence people know of and care little for.

Of course, with my exercise-induced endorphin high, I couldn't help but put a positive spin to the melancholy thought.  I realised then that love really does cover everything.  You can be in the worst situation - suffering, diseased, in dire circumstances, but if you are loved and in a supporting environment, somehow it seems more bearable.  Conversely, you can have everything, yet have not love, and the world becomes an empty and torturous place indeed.

If you believe in God, the benevolent love and wisdom of a creator, can help us through troubling times.  We might possibly comfort ourselves in the knowledge that the shit that happens to us, happens for a purpose.  Perhaps, we may be strengthened by the experience, and some good things are bound to come of the bad.  

But more than this, we creatures of such a creator have in us the capacity to love each other, in a tangible way, for a tangible physical realm.  So every opportunity we get, let us be there for one another, and love one another, so our sorrows might seem that little bit easier to bear.

As an aside, in Christianity, the foremost command after loving God is loving others.  Cognitively, this for me is what makes Christianity such a valid fundamental belief.  Jesus Christ realising God's love for us by dying for us divinely substantiates the Christian dogma.  

Why I do not believe in true love

I used to believe I was married to ballet.

Now I know better.

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.