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.

Locus of agency

So tired of fighting;
don't know what it is I'm fighting for -
ours is but to do and die,
ours is not to reason why,
but even soldiers pretend
that they know enemy from friend.
Do the job at hand -
it's worth two in the bush.

Why second guess?
Why doubt?
Keep convictions strong.
Keep grit stronger.

Keep telling myself I've so much left to offer - 

Davy says that I look stronger.

But trying is trying; the silent wait for sweet release keeps getting longer,
and I wait with onerous hunger.

Perhaps impatience will be the final winner;
I drink my final draught and wait to pull the trigger.

On Relationships

The key to a healthy, adult relationship is being able to accept each other. To see someone for who they are. To understand the strength and reason behind what appears to be weakness in the eyes of many others. This is foundation of selflessly respecting and loving someone.

Ironically, one of the keys to being selfless is to recognise your own needs, so you can work out how they fit in the context of the partnership. It involves learning your own boundaries, personal space, and limitations.

It seems like a paradox that in order for healthy attachment and dependence on each other, one must first learn independence. But in the words of Antoine de Saint-Exupery, "Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction."

Perhaps it is for this reason that I am so mistrustful of praise in courtship. In a subtle way, flattery is holding a mirror to someone else and saying, you are amazing, and I noticed it, therefore I am amazing. Being absorbed by the admiration of the chosen other can amount to narcissistic navel gazing.

Although it feels good, this ends up being very damaging, because you then expect that person to live up to a perfection that does not exist. At the end of the day, this is mere infatuation.

Put in other words, it is easy to see a loved one as an extension of self. The person who completes you. Praise and flattery is the stepping stone to developing an idealised perception of how someone ought to be. But it is simply not right to project that perception on that person. If you do, you end up feeling frustrated by their weaknesses and inequities, because you see them as a reflection on yourself, and resent it.

But in the right context, it can also be encouraging, confidence-building and inspiring. The Pygmalion effect, as it were, to live up to someone else's belief in you. Alain de Botton puts it beautifully in his book, Essays on Love:

"Everyone returns us to a different sense of ourselves, for we become a little of who they think we are. Our selves could be compared to an amoeba, whose outer walls are elastic, and therefore adapt to the environment. It is not that the amoeba has no dimensions, simply that it has no self-defined shape. It is my absurdist side that an absurdist person will draw out of me, and my seriousness that a serious person will evoke. If someone thinks I am shy, I will probably end up shy, if someone thinks me funny, I am likely to keep cracking jokes."

In this modern age, marriage often ends in divorce. But divorce is a paradox. Marriage is simply a lifelong agreement to prioritise each others' needs, and do our best to fulfil them above all other personal agendas in life. Divorce says, I put my own agenda first. My agenda to have another love interest, or to prioritise my career. Simply put, it is self-defeating selfishness. It denigrates the sanctity and trust which everyone should accord to their word. It denotes a lack of self-respect, as self-respect gives way to self-interest. For it is admitting that I break my vow. I contradict myself. My words are meaningless.

We will likely fail miserably many times during a lifelong commitment to be patient, to be kind, to be understanding. Marriage will not always be happy. For better or for worse, after all. But it is through the imperfect process of attachment, and learning, and constantly recommitting to loving one person for your entire life, that you truly, madly, deeply learn to love, and learn to love everyone else better for it.

The courage to connect

Sometimes the fear of rejection is so powerful that rather than risk being rejected, one would rather reject, or give up on opportunity.

Perhaps part of the appeal of becoming a doctor is the idea of implicit acceptance. You are let into the life of another, someone who sees the doctor as a confidant. You are someone who is needed. You are accepted. As a doctor, you see people who, at their most vulnerable, act or speak in pain, or grief or anger, and you endeavour to dissociate yourself and remain objective and impartial. Beyond maintaining a demeanour of professionalism, I am coming to realise that an essential part of being a doctor is the offering of acceptance. Acceptance of who they are, and what they are going through, and being willing to see them through their suffering, regardless of the way they treat you or others. This comprises a large part of the therapeutic rapport of a doctor.

Acceptance of who people are, and what they are going through, and being willing to see them through their suffering, regardless of the way they treat you or others. This also comprises a large part of being a parent. A spouse. A friend. Perhaps if more people could offer this to each other there would be less need for doctors.

One of the scariest things about being an artist is the tremendous vulnerability of knowing that you are putting yourself out there to be judged. It is the fear of rejection - a critical audience. Or perhaps of an even harsher critic - the self.

A question I keep returning to is why leave what I have to face such potential for rejection. I once came across a phrase -- courage is not the absence of fear, but the judgement that there is something more important than fear.

Still waters run deep my dear

A friend of mine and I were chatting about the tension between wanting and being happy, and my tongue stumbled upon the sentence - happiness is not found by doing something in order to be happy, but in being happy doing something. I realise this marked a culmination of a 12 year reflection on happiness, which can be found here: 1 2 3

It's surreal to realise that is the fabric of reality - the things you realise come full circle in the never-ending cycles of being.

Happiness is not found by doing something in order to be happy, but in being happy doing something. But doing what? Whilst there is happiness in simply being in the moment, there is more to happiness and joy - fundamentally, it comes from connectedness and being of value to others. A sense of usefulness and purpose.

Sometimes that purpose seems to come the pursuit of something; a place of wanting. Perfection, for example (arguably a human construct that does not really exist, but don't get me started on that). For me at least, being drawn to all-consuming pursuits like dance or medicine perhaps stems from an unfulfilled sense of human connection. In a way, it is a form of escape from that sadness - that sense of disconnection or isolation. But no matter how good you are, it never feels good enough, or like you've worked hard enough. The very escape and reward becomes a kind of punishment as you feel inadequacy - no matter how hard you try, it is never good enough for you, and you realise that you haven't actually resolved the underlying sense of disconnection, but that it has come out as inadequacy of another sort.

The pursuit of a relationship as a means to that end doesn't work either. Whilst a seemingly straightforward solution to the problem of human disconnect, this pursuit is actually damaging to the relationship in question if the entirety of the weight of your need for connection now rests on a single person. It generally ends up in neuroticism like 'Oh my God, why hasn't s/he texted back when it says s/he is 'online' or has 'read' the text', and a sense of disappointment when you realise that the relationship or person has not lived up to your expectation of what connectedness should be. Relationships are not a solution, or a 'magic bullet' cure to loneliness. If you think they are, then in the words of Sia, all your bullets ricochet. To love isn't about fulfilling your own need.

Happiness cannot be pursued. In a related vein of philosophical musings, you can't always get what you want, and getting what you think you want is often an exercise in realising that what you think you want isn't actually what you are really lacking. To paraphrase the words of Anna Pavlova, happiness cannot be chased, but like a butterfly, will come to rest gently on your shoulder.

There is happiness and satisfaction in being fully present in the moment that you are in, not being distracted from it by the past, or the future, or your own wants and desires. Whilst for some people that amounts to the New Age mindfulness of simply being, meditation and the like, for me it finds its best absolution in connection and belief in God. The belief that He loves us, and that He has made it this way, and is working in our lives. That the situations we are in, however they look to our human eyes, have value. Weak or strong, rich or poor. The sick inspire us with their fighting spirit, and the well take joy in caring for those in need. For it is through our individual circumstances that we are uniquely positioned to connect to others, and to mean something to other people. There can be many dancers, or waitresses, or admin officers. But no one else is truly in the same position, and no one else can replace us. It is out of this that we find purpose. And it is through the ongoing fulfilment of that purpose that joy arises. Joy is that sense of purpose that is fulfilled by an other-person centeredness in human connection. Joy looks outwards and runs deeper than a feeling of happiness.

Love, happiness, joy. All inextricably intertwined and culminating in moments of bliss, through a very good conversation with a friend.

Responsible consumerism

Something that has been weighing on my mind lately is how we can be mindful of day to day choices that we make, so that what we invest in will empower what will be most rewarding to society. In the wake of the Trump presidency, John Oliver brought this up as well. He urges us to put our money where our mouths are and to support organisations which will need help under a Trump administration. Instead of simply sharing videos on social media and clicking like, he suggests that we exercise our social responsibility to affect change, something which aligns much more with the ideal of democracy than our current tendency to stand back and complain about the government whilst simultaneously depending on it to fail to make changes that will benefit us.

The comeback

The last time I watched Federer vs Nadal was back in 2009. It was also when I fell in love with Roger Federer's impeccable footwork and placement on the court. Over the years, I developed a deep respect for his values - his sportsmanship, the fact that he carries himself like a gentleman both on and off the court, and the fact that he's also a family man. Whether he wins or loses, Federer will always be a winner in my eyes. That man is singlehandedly responsible for my appreciation of tennis, and sports and athletes in general.

This match is proof that intelligence trumps athleticism. Younger, fitter, faster and more aggressive on the court, by conventional wisdom, Nadal had every reason to win. Yet even with the time out and the delays in turning and breaking as a result of the left knee meniscal tear, Federer compensated with incredible leaps and strides in mental agility, stamina and focus. The time that he spent watching, visualising, and judiciously giving himself less time on the court, and more time to rest paid off.

He was able to hone in for the opportunity to deliver incredible volleys and angled shots with all the mastery of a chess grandmaster about to execute a checkmate. Watching the relish in his face as he delivered these shots with deft precision brought a smile to my own. Watching his incredible economy of movement was an aesthetic delight.

This match reminded me that you don't need to have youth and perfect facility to triumph. Injuries and setbacks can hold you back, but sometimes they are exactly what you need most to become stronger and better.

People like Alessandra Ferri and Roger Federer remind me that what you need to succeed is not found in merely the physical, but in the mind and spirit - drive, focus, and patience. Intelligent practise. Impeccable technique and timing. An incredible support team and life partner helps as well.

The Challenge of Being Close

In the words of the Rolling Stones, you can't always get what you want. So the way to be happy? You can't want what you want. If you want something enough, you won't get it. It's when you don't want it, that you'll get it.

I think I sense some skepticism in the crowds.

Whenever I wanted something a lot, I placed expectations on myself and on getting that thing. If, and when, things got in the way of my ambitions, I would get really disappointed and frustrated. By contrast, when I just went along with what I was supposed to, I often found myself rather pleasantly surprised by the unexpected results.

Achieving goals, in itself, does not bring lasting satisfaction or happiness. I believe it when rich people tell you that they can have all the money in the world, but it can't buy happiness. I believe it when ambitious people who have achieved great things tell you they climbed to the top and find themselves dissatisfied and wondering what they do next. Achieving goals can bring you transient gratification, but not lasting happiness.

Happiness is being satisfied with how you spend your time. People sometimes like to ask 'what would you do if you knew you only had months to live?' The happiest people tend to reply 'I probably wouldn't change anything.' If you spend your time doing what is worthwhile, what brings good to others, what is enjoyable, no matter the outcome, you will have spent the time wisely, and you can be happy about having done what you can, having done your best.

Reading the Wind

My local library has no books. I stopped by the other day, with suitably low expectations, perchance to pick up a travel book for my upcoming leave.

But that day, something was different. Maybe as I walked through the glass doors leading into the library, I had walked through a glass wall of an alternate universe, like a sheep man in an elevator, walking through the walls of the Dauphin. The foyer looked similar to how it always did, but jarringly different, as foyers are wont to do in surrealist fiction. For one thing, the walls were lined with decorated bras. The archway of books that framed the library gantry looked slightly tilted to the left.

The walls were lined with bras. This is not me.

It was in such a parallel universe, that my library, the one with no conceivable books of interest, happened to contain the latest Murakami publication. Wind/Pinball was there, lined up in the new collection/recommended reading section of the library, even while it was still being sold in the front part of bookstores where all the new stock and best sellers are. Within a month of the New York Times review of the book. I had no choice but to pick it up.

The latest in Murakami's English repertoire is also his first. And second. At the time of writing, I have only read Wind. In it, he unabashedly breaks the fourth wall. He discusses writing about novels whilst he writes a novel (or more accurately, a novella). He discusses his writing influences directly. He deconstructs the act of writing a novel.

It is quite possibly the finest example of meta-fiction I have ever come across. It is also clearly an etude. A study in writing, of writing, whilst attempting to write a novel. But he does not really complete it, as far as a novel goes in what we recognise by it. The plot is sketchy. The character development is sketchy. Even the characters themselves are sketchy, in a dodgy sense of the word. Is this really a novel? Are these ideas by which we define a novel really what defines a good novel?

People looking for a satisfying read in a traditional sense of the word, or first-time readers of Murakami, may not find it up to expectations. But those with an interest in reading writing for the sake of writing, or those who already love and know Murakami might just find it satisfyingly unstatisfying.

He writes in first person. But his best friend and foil, the Rat, is the one who picks up reading, who eventually decides to write a novel, and then novels, and sends photocopies to the protagonist every Christmas. Who is the truer representation of the author? Is it the first-person narrative? Or is it a narration within a narrative created by the foil?

Girls have no names in this book. Instead, they are identified by part of their bodies, or by the chronology of his sexual encounters. The first girl he slept with, the second girl he slept with. He talks about four, I think. But then again, because there are no names, I am not completely certain. They have been objectified. A safe distance from him. From us. A mystery.

Even so, one of the best parts of the book is where he describes a brief conversation with one of the girls in a series of exchanges culminating in the girl calling him a liar. She was wrong, he writes (and rights). He only lied about one thing. As you read the series of exchanges again, you feel force of feeling behind the minimalist prose. In the brevity, even the paucity, of interaction leading up to this exchange between the girl who has no name and the author, I found it hard to be convinced of the authenticity of this level of emotion coming from the character. But even so, I could not fail to be convinced of the power of his writing:

We curled up together and watched an old movie on TV as we munched on the sandwiches.
It was The Bridge on the River Kwai.
She was moved by the scene at the end, where they blow up the bridge.
"Then why did they work so hard to build it?" she sighed, pointing at Alec Guinness, who was standing transfixed by the sight.
"Out of pride."
"Mmph," she responded, her cheeks stuffed with bread, as she contemplated the nature of human pride. Then, as always, I had no idea at all what was going on inside her head.
"Do you love me?"
"Sure I do."
"Enough to marry me?"
"Right away?"
"Someday. In the future."
"Sure I want to marry you."
"But you never said anything until I asked."
"It slipped my mind."
"How many kids do you want?"
"Three."
"Boys? Girls?"
"Two girls and a boy".
She took a swallow of coffee to wash down the rest of the bread, and looked me square in the eye.
"LIAR!" she said.
But she was wrong. I had lied only once.

He tentatively tries his hand at writing about hearing voices (if I were writing up medical documentation, that would be query schizophrenia). The attempt does not last longer than a page. In another chapter, a girl kills herself. In another chapter, a letter is read about a girl with a neurological disease that keeps her from getting out of bed. In this first attempt at dealing with these kinds of events, he fails to capture the immensity of such events the way he does in later works. But these references will gratify fans who would appreciate a retrospective to his beginnings and who have read similar events fleshed out in his other works.

Emotive writing is kept to a minimum, and the focus is on symbols. An American reviewer reading the work of a Japanese author, will invariably comment in an almost racist way, on the use of Western culture - music by the Beach Boys, Mickey Mouse, quotes from Kennedy, and Americanised vernacular. There is an almost insinuation there that he is not being true to the American perception of who a Japanese person should be. But as an Asian trans-continental, I am less surprised or bemused by this, or by his use of 'blew my mind'. That's just how I've grown up myself.

He closes the books with the objects in his room, each possible sources of inspiration for plot and character- a California Girls LP, the cud from a cow's stomach, referenced earlier in the book as something that had originally belonged to another character, is now admitted to be something which he, the first person narrator, took from the cow's stomach himself. A now-lost photograph of the French literature major who died. He closes the book as if he, the narrator, is admitting to weaving the fiction, but in doing so, blurs the lines between fiction and reality.