Confession time: I'm a terrible storyteller, lacking in both experience at the telling and experience to tell of. On the rare occasions I'm called upon to do so, it's usually to people close enough to me that they don't need much explaining, and don't mind the artless back and forth before I finish or get to the point, either.
The difference between the story in my head and the story as I am able to get it out into the world is simply too big. It helps to select a receptive, similarly-tuned audience who can fill in many of the gaps themselves, but that feels too much like cheating, and besides, I can only impose on friends' patiences so much, and even they would appreciate better-wrought anecdotes.
Of course, that doesn't preclude me from appreciating a well-told tale (and in fact, admiration can easily turn into envy and frustration, as every would-be writer knows all too well). The most recently encountered example for me would be Gemmell's Troy trilogy1, which strikes me as a more earnest and straightforward relative of the A Song of Ice and Fire series2.
(Digression: the compellingness (for lack of a better term) of a narrative seems to lie along its own axis, quite orthogonal from its literariness or originality or even overall likability, giving rise to so many guilty pleasures.)
There's nothing to be done except to continue reading and writing and perhaps begin telling more stories about myself. While I do have the introvert's aversion to even remotely approach oversharing it's up to me to develop the skill to be able to artfully mask my own self-absorption, or at least make it seem less blatant and offensive, isn't it?
The hope is to get the snowball in motion (says the guy who's never seen snow in his life), and then to just roll with it as it gathers material and momentum and turns eventually into a natural phenomenon I never knew I had in me to make real.
[1] A retelling of the fall of Troy in an ancient Greece where the warriors are doughty, the heroes magnificently mortal, and the gods exist only in men's minds.
[2] Are we friends? Have you not heard of or read this series? Consider this a firm recommendation to do so. Though technically an epic or high fantasy series, it has more of a historical, medieval atmosphere to it, and the focus is more on the characters struggling variously for power, love, or just to survive, rather than an overarching good versus evil confrontation (although that exists as well). Each book in the series is a hefty doorstop, but you'll find yourself blowing through them in no time and joining the rest of us in the impatient wait for the next.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
On television series.
It’s been a while since I last let myself be drawn into a television series. I never really developed the TV watching habit, probably due to never having had cable in my room. In fact, I believe I only had a TV in my room for a short period before it was reclaimed by my parents for their own room. Our internet connection wasn’t the fastest, either, and I never had the patience to either stream or download shows.
Here in SG our television gets even less use. It’s too close to the office area, and the sound would be too distracting for the others at work. I don’t usually find much to watch even when I give it a chance and turn it on, some weekends. We don’t have Food Network available which would usually be a reliable channel-surfing choice, and I never seem to chance upon good movies or documentaries being shown, either.
In any case, I really just wanted to talk about enjoying watching Gilmore Girls. There, with that statement I announce my gayness to the world. (Well, to the rest of the world that doesn’t already know it. Some people have most likely already suspected as much.)
I can’t help it, Rory’s too cute, her mom’s such a little kid (though more than a little pleasing to look at, and man, isn’t that conjunction just unfortunate), and there’s something almost hypnotic about the fast talk peppered with pop culture references, half of which (okay, maybe more than half of which) just flies right over my head. The cheerful quirky small-town vibe is also undeniably attractive. So, I think, despite it on the surface being a mother-daughter drama series (he says defensively), there’s more to it, okay, and I’m not just being an effeminate stereotype.
And, of course, just the usual perverse, voyeuristic, escapist pleasure of it all, of for a while inhabiting a world that’s infinitely more eventful and, ultimately, more perfect than the one filled with all of our mundane worries. On the flipside, when the episode or season or series ends, a terrible feeling of inadequacy almost always gets to me as I return to my own rather pedestrian, disappointing life.
But I don’t want to end on such a depressing note. Fiction does have the capacity to uplift and inspire instead of simply proffering hollow, temporary escape. As with everything else, it’s all in how one chooses to look at it. Though unfortunately I seem to naturally tend towards melancholy, I believe I can grow out of that indulgence. There are many more episodes of the show and in my life remaining to be experienced. Eventually perhaps I’ll learn my lesson.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Typical workday at 25A
I open my eyes. It’s already light outside, but the blinds do a pretty good job of keeping our room dark enough for sleep. My back begins its usual waking-up complaints, but they barely register anymore and are usually taken care of by a few glorious twisting stretches. I slide the blanket off my body, take a deep breath, close my eyes for a moment, and, resisting the mighty “just a few more minutes” urge, get up and out of my single bed.
I walk out the bedroom door, through our small, narrow kitchen, past the dining table, and on to my desk at the far end of the office area. I either make myself a cup of coffee or have our office assistant (I’m not sure what her actual job title is, but she takes care of all the ancillary household and office chores) do it, if she happens to already be in the kitchen anyway. I open a notebook and write for about forty-five minutes to nearly an hour, filling up my six allotted morning pages.
By the end of the session, I’ll usually be feeling more than a little guilty about not checking on and catching up with work yet, but I’ll still hold out for around thirty minutes of checking my own personal news feeds and other online sources, letting the caffeine circulate and wake me up fully. (Here’s a part of my daily routine that could use tightening.)
The office and our entire unit in general is a very quiet place, which is just how we like it. All day long it’s just the low hum of the airconditioning, people typing and clicking, and, sometimes but more often lately, work-related conversation. The television in the living room slash guest room behind me is rarely turned on, even in the weekends, and I can’t even remember the last time anyone touched the Xbox! We don’t often have visitors, and when we do, they’re usually here just to crash on the couch, and are out touristing or taking care of business in the day.
In the afternoon after finishing a few pieces of work, I usually find myself in need of a short break to refresh myself for some more hours of work in the evening. So I’d take my Kindle out to the nearby kopitiam for some coffee (kopi o kosong - black, no sugar), toast, and sometimes two soft-boiled eggs and an hour or so of leisure reading. Most of the people there have little English, but being a regular (he says with a weird sort of pride), I’ve picked up their accents, they’ve probably picked up mine, and we understand each other well enough.
Then it’s back to my desk with (ideally) renewed energy to knock off some more to-do items and build or fix more parts of the Insync client. Productivity usually comes in bursts that sometimes (have to) continue on until late in the night. That’s one thing that’s awesome about working from home -- no need to worry about pesky things like it getting too late to commute back home easily. (Although I suspect it’d still be quite easy to get home here, even late at night, but I digress.)
The day ends whenever I run out of energy and find myself needing to get some sleep. Sometimes I take a second break and have tea or coffee (or occasionally a beer or two and peanuts or satay) at the kopitiam, unwinding a bit before going to bed. I close my eyes, and the cycle repeats in eight hours or so.
***
This has been my routine for the past few weeks, and as far as daily routines go, it’s not a bad one, although there is one glaring omission that’s been bugging me to no end: gym time. Perhaps a month or two previously, I would usually make sure to take about an hour and a half off in the afternoon to work out, either spending about an hour on the treadmill or elliptical while listening to a Pimsleur Japanese lesson, or doing a mixed dumbbell-machine routine with ChannelNews Asia in the background.
(Apart from exercise, I also intend to add an afternoon writing session for working on essays, blog entries like this one, among other creative-writerly items. Thirty minutes or so should be enough, if I prepare materials and draft ideas sufficiently beforehand.)
Friday, November 18, 2011
Just to even begin.
I find myself in a rare thoughtful mood, sparked by listening to St. Vincent on a cigarette break just now. Perhaps this is still an after-effect of last night’s long-overdue personal time; I’m beginning to feel as if I’m filling myself out properly again, bit by bit regaining comfort in being inside my own skin, in being in this situation and living this life.
“Marry Me” begins to play, and I’m suddenly walking down that familiar Cubao street, on the way to the MRT station from where the jeepney lets me off. I’ve nothing on my mind but a commuter’s quotidian worries and what to do with the rest of my evening upon getting home. My much-too-bulky bag that I stubbornly still haven’t gotten around to replacing bounces familiarly against my hip with every brisk stride. I briefly consider dropping by the 7-11 on the way home for a couple cans of beer, a pack of spicy cracker nuts, a bag of chips. Then the song ends and I’m at home. I shrug off my bag, take off and put away my shoes, head into the kitchen for the obligatory drink of water, go upstairs to my room and change.
“Marry Me” begins to play, and I’m suddenly walking down that familiar Cubao street, on the way to the MRT station from where the jeepney lets me off. I’ve nothing on my mind but a commuter’s quotidian worries and what to do with the rest of my evening upon getting home. My much-too-bulky bag that I stubbornly still haven’t gotten around to replacing bounces familiarly against my hip with every brisk stride. I briefly consider dropping by the 7-11 on the way home for a couple cans of beer, a pack of spicy cracker nuts, a bag of chips. Then the song ends and I’m at home. I shrug off my bag, take off and put away my shoes, head into the kitchen for the obligatory drink of water, go upstairs to my room and change.
Here the vision ends and I’m back in Singapore, sitting with my legs up on my chair, listening to the rest of the album and enjoying a slight buzz from the strong black coffee I bought from the nearby cafe on the way back from my break. Stretching my fingers and facility of description, trying not to let my disappointment get too much in the way. The important thing is to keep moving, keep practicing. In fact, just to even begin.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Touch
I
Your fingers might have sought
mine but they didn’t
quite make it, couldn’t bear
to traverse the distance between
barely knowing each other’s names
and knowing all too well the unease
of slipping through hair
without getting entangled.
II
Let things unfold, and don’t complain
too much. Be still and listen
to the breathing of this heart,
sitting next to this other one.
You say, enfold; do not contain.
III
I remember nothing
I haven’t already forgotten
at least in part:
Your hand taking my hand,
slipping away.
Your fingers might have sought
mine but they didn’t
quite make it, couldn’t bear
to traverse the distance between
barely knowing each other’s names
and knowing all too well the unease
of slipping through hair
without getting entangled.
II
Let things unfold, and don’t complain
too much. Be still and listen
to the breathing of this heart,
sitting next to this other one.
You say, enfold; do not contain.
III
I remember nothing
I haven’t already forgotten
at least in part:
Your hand taking my hand,
slipping away.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Unstable equilibria
Not for us the languid falling
into place of pieces
that have lain comfortably
in wait, no, not for us
the rolling down a gentle hill.
No, the pendulum will not slow
or stop for us, nor the wheel
lie quietly on its side.
No, the waves will not cease
grinding our beaches into sand
or washing away
our footprints, our castles.
But no, though the bridge will sway
and not stay still, and though
the drop beneath will only deepen,
not for us the torpid sinking
into the oblivious river.
No, our feet will stop
only for that nervous peak,
that brush of lips and fingers
before a gasp and a misstep
send us hurtling back
to once more start again.
into place of pieces
that have lain comfortably
in wait, no, not for us
the rolling down a gentle hill.
No, the pendulum will not slow
or stop for us, nor the wheel
lie quietly on its side.
No, the waves will not cease
grinding our beaches into sand
or washing away
our footprints, our castles.
But no, though the bridge will sway
and not stay still, and though
the drop beneath will only deepen,
not for us the torpid sinking
into the oblivious river.
No, our feet will stop
only for that nervous peak,
that brush of lips and fingers
before a gasp and a misstep
send us hurtling back
to once more start again.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
On Haruki Murakami
Hello, let me tell you how I fell in love with the work of Haruki Murakami. Well, you see, Haruki Murakami is this Japanese writer, translator,
erstwhile jazz bar owner, and long-distance runner. I could go on to
tell you that his novels have been translated into more than forty
languages, or that he was given the controversial 2009 Jerusalem Prize
on top of many other awards. But none of that would tell you why I
have become obsessed with his work. It wouldn’t help you understand why I have never before or since felt
so keenly the desire to read everything someone else has written.
Inside Someone Else's Head In most of his novels and stories Murakami puts us inside the head of
a pensive, solitary guy with a knack for peculiar observations,
strangely apt figures of speech, and attracting metaphysical trouble.
I first met him in Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World,
where he proceeded to win me over with a thorough, humorous
consideration of elevators, of all things. Now, I like to think of myself as a pensive, solitary guy with a knack
for peculiar observations, so perhaps it was inevitable for me to form
a strong, even wishful, identification with this protagonist. This
willing immersion is helped immensely by Murakami's deft story-telling
and unmistakable ear for rhythm. I am an introvert, and so spend a lot of time – some would say too
much time – inside my head. I have to tell you, it was a wonderful,
pleasant surprise to find out that I am just as comfortable nestled
inside this fictional head as I am inside mine! Largely passive, this main character often finds himself listening to
the stories of other people, proving himself an intelligent,
sympathetic listener, seeming to naturally ask the right questions at
the right time. All that time spent listening to his own thoughts, I
suppose, must have attuned him to the rhythms of narrative and
thought, even those not his own.
Music and the Rhythm Rhythm is just as important in writing and storytelling as it is in
music. I know, from unfortunate experience, how even the funniest joke
or most interesting anecdote can fall flat if told without regard for
properly timed delivery. This quality of being “in rhythm”, while
being difficult to describe, is unmistakable. And Murakami, an avowed
lover of music having run a jazz bar for some years, has unmistakably
got it. Murakami’s language is deceptively simple, avoiding complicated
sentence structures and scholarly diction in favor of being frank and
straightforward. He works his pared-down language skillfully; the
ceaseless interior monologue of his protagonist feels natural and
uncontrived. Once meeting his main character had hooked me, getting me
to stay was no problem at all. I didn’t even want to leave. Reading him is in fact like listening to a favorite record:
engrossing, familiar, rewarding. It matters little whether he is
describing the most mundane of activities or discussing loss – of
life, love, innocence, or any one of those essential things curled up
inside us.
Escape and Exploration Murakami’s protagonists more often than not live lives that seem just
as pared-down and inevitable as his language. They lead isolated existences, with barely any contact with or
attachment to society. Reserved and self-sufficient, they touch other
people’s lives only incidentally, or more relevantly, by accident.
They remain inside their own heads, either lost in contemplation or
fully absorbed in the current moment. For an introvert like me, not much seems to be more satisfying than
living alone, cooking and doing housework for myself, spending my time
reading, downing the occasional beer, and, of course, thinking. It is
much too easy for me to fantasize about leaving everything behind and
living such a peaceful, carefree life. However, everything is not always as it seems, and I eventually get a
nagging, gradually strengthening feeling that something isn’t quite
right. In the external narrative, strange events and people filter
through and widen the cracks. Then, I experience, along with the
protagonist, a certain internal current, an ominous movement in the
darkness. And thus I come to recognize that, if I want to escape into Murakami’s
world, I must also be prepared to explore the mysterious darknesses
within myself. The characters I meet in Murakami’s world are troubled
souls, carrying burdens deep within themselves. Just like me and you.
Haruki Murakami and me, and you As I near the end of this, my communication with you, I begin to feel
with greater intensity the desire to do right by Haruki Murakami. He
has, through his writing, managed to reach out and touch my mind, to
share a part of himself with me in a deep, significant way. I can only hope that some small echo of my experience has come
through. As our brief acquaintance ends, I hope that you will listen
closely for a soft, resonant note sounding within yourself, and pay
attention. In Murakami’s world, as perhaps in our own, the music that grows from
such tiny beginnings may very well transport us to places we never
thought we’d be.
erstwhile jazz bar owner, and long-distance runner. I could go on to
tell you that his novels have been translated into more than forty
languages, or that he was given the controversial 2009 Jerusalem Prize
on top of many other awards. But none of that would tell you why I
have become obsessed with his work. It wouldn’t help you understand why I have never before or since felt
so keenly the desire to read everything someone else has written.
Inside Someone Else's Head In most of his novels and stories Murakami puts us inside the head of
a pensive, solitary guy with a knack for peculiar observations,
strangely apt figures of speech, and attracting metaphysical trouble.
I first met him in Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World,
where he proceeded to win me over with a thorough, humorous
consideration of elevators, of all things. Now, I like to think of myself as a pensive, solitary guy with a knack
for peculiar observations, so perhaps it was inevitable for me to form
a strong, even wishful, identification with this protagonist. This
willing immersion is helped immensely by Murakami's deft story-telling
and unmistakable ear for rhythm. I am an introvert, and so spend a lot of time – some would say too
much time – inside my head. I have to tell you, it was a wonderful,
pleasant surprise to find out that I am just as comfortable nestled
inside this fictional head as I am inside mine! Largely passive, this main character often finds himself listening to
the stories of other people, proving himself an intelligent,
sympathetic listener, seeming to naturally ask the right questions at
the right time. All that time spent listening to his own thoughts, I
suppose, must have attuned him to the rhythms of narrative and
thought, even those not his own.
Music and the Rhythm Rhythm is just as important in writing and storytelling as it is in
music. I know, from unfortunate experience, how even the funniest joke
or most interesting anecdote can fall flat if told without regard for
properly timed delivery. This quality of being “in rhythm”, while
being difficult to describe, is unmistakable. And Murakami, an avowed
lover of music having run a jazz bar for some years, has unmistakably
got it. Murakami’s language is deceptively simple, avoiding complicated
sentence structures and scholarly diction in favor of being frank and
straightforward. He works his pared-down language skillfully; the
ceaseless interior monologue of his protagonist feels natural and
uncontrived. Once meeting his main character had hooked me, getting me
to stay was no problem at all. I didn’t even want to leave. Reading him is in fact like listening to a favorite record:
engrossing, familiar, rewarding. It matters little whether he is
describing the most mundane of activities or discussing loss – of
life, love, innocence, or any one of those essential things curled up
inside us.
Escape and Exploration Murakami’s protagonists more often than not live lives that seem just
as pared-down and inevitable as his language. They lead isolated existences, with barely any contact with or
attachment to society. Reserved and self-sufficient, they touch other
people’s lives only incidentally, or more relevantly, by accident.
They remain inside their own heads, either lost in contemplation or
fully absorbed in the current moment. For an introvert like me, not much seems to be more satisfying than
living alone, cooking and doing housework for myself, spending my time
reading, downing the occasional beer, and, of course, thinking. It is
much too easy for me to fantasize about leaving everything behind and
living such a peaceful, carefree life. However, everything is not always as it seems, and I eventually get a
nagging, gradually strengthening feeling that something isn’t quite
right. In the external narrative, strange events and people filter
through and widen the cracks. Then, I experience, along with the
protagonist, a certain internal current, an ominous movement in the
darkness. And thus I come to recognize that, if I want to escape into Murakami’s
world, I must also be prepared to explore the mysterious darknesses
within myself. The characters I meet in Murakami’s world are troubled
souls, carrying burdens deep within themselves. Just like me and you.
Haruki Murakami and me, and you As I near the end of this, my communication with you, I begin to feel
with greater intensity the desire to do right by Haruki Murakami. He
has, through his writing, managed to reach out and touch my mind, to
share a part of himself with me in a deep, significant way. I can only hope that some small echo of my experience has come
through. As our brief acquaintance ends, I hope that you will listen
closely for a soft, resonant note sounding within yourself, and pay
attention. In Murakami’s world, as perhaps in our own, the music that grows from
such tiny beginnings may very well transport us to places we never
thought we’d be.
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