returned
Well, here I find myself in Victoria again, back like I've never left. There are subtle differences. On the outisde less familiar faces, on the inside . . . I'm not sure what. More stability I guess. Or something.
Well, here I find myself in Victoria again, back like I've never left. There are subtle differences. On the outisde less familiar faces, on the inside . . . I'm not sure what. More stability I guess. Or something.
I spent Christmas Eve at a sex worker's union in Bangkok, where my friend Jo volunteers, seeing a side of Bangkok that very few white men, for all their knowledge of the sex industry, get to see -- the human one. I spent Christmas day drinking beer on the back of a pickup truck on an unpaved, dusty, potholed road making my way towards the greatest complex of temples in the world. I spent the next few days exploring them, thinking that there are, indeed, a few things in this world that are constructed by humanity and, simultaneously, completely unfathomable to us. I spent New Year's Eve dancing in the sand in Beach Nation--that little piece of euroamerica that we tourists seek out wherever we are because, for some reason, we associate it with some sort of Edenic existence that transcends our mundane existence. In actual fact it breeds only sexual tension and hangovers. I am now in Bangkok, and find myself repeatedly drawn to Bangkok's Black Hole--Khao San Rd. To some it's backpacker heaven, cheap beer, cheap goods, a gateway to Thailand. To others it's backpacker hell, where you see yuorself mirrored back at you in ways you would rather ignore, the epitome of "spoiled" in a culture that searches for the "untouched," yet seems incapable of seeking it without the ever-present Lonely Planet guidebook (the irony of a name). But the Black Hole draws everyone in, regardless, and so I find it fascinating, and I probably return there this evening, to sit and write and watch. And in 3 days I will find myself somewhere over the Pacific, winging my way back to my beloved west coast, for 5hours in Vancouver's airport, and from there I'll find myself tossed back into the cold cold snow. Ah well, something kind of romantic about the idea of cold, when you spend 24 hours a day sweating.
As the title suggests I'm sitting in Changi airport, waiting for my flight to take off to Bangkok. I have enjoyed some of their fine amenities, such as duty free shopping (yay! overpriced alcohol that's still cheaper than what you find in stores!), the entertainment centre, and their e-hub. Yes, Changi Airport is a reflection in miniature of Singapore--clean, efficient, lots of consumer distractions. Give me the smelly bus stations of Malaysia anyday . . .
I've learned a lot about myself in the last few months. I've learned some of my motivations, some of my issues, a lot of my fears. I've learned about insecurity, and how I have let it control me. I've learned that I don't need attention to be okay. I've learned how far I still have to go. I see more of my father in me than perhaps I was willing to admit. I see more of my mother in me than I was able to recognize. I have dreamed up my own self-importance in many ways, and worn masks to deceive others into believing some of the things I wanted so badly to be true. I don't care whether they're true anymore. I think it's more important to be okay, and leave masks for others.
I think it was the moment I saw chairs flying across the bar last night that it really struck me how big a difference a few hours of travel can make. It's funny, cause you can fly from Vancouver to Singapore in less than a day, and feel like the only real difference is the warm weather. Or you can spend two hours by road and boat and be in a completely different world.
On thursday I went north from Kuching to Bako National Park. It's only 30 kms by bus, and a half hour boat ride, but mentally it's as further than the moon: it's jungle. I went with Leander, my companion from the longhouse misadventures, to hike to the furthest beach, on the tip of Bako's peninsula. We started our first day late, only 2hrs of hiking before we got to a little beach called Tajor. The hike was easy--lots of high flat rocky terrain, made very tourist friendly. The stretch from the trail down to the beah took some work, but was worth it for the view we got. Fine sand beach, pink clouds from a setting sun, clear weather (in the rainy season? we weren't complaining, but weird), and cliff walls carved out by ocean and river. Paradise, we thought. Until we realized that there would be no beach by high tide. The rangers hadn't mentioned that. Shrugging it off, we made our way around the the point to Sibur beach, the longest beach in the park. Fortunately it was low tide, so we made it easily. At this point we saw that this beach would also disappear in a few hours. A little annoyed, but still buoyed by the beauty of the forest at our backs, and the ocean in front of us, we trekked upriver to find a dry patch. A piece of advice, for those who are thinking about coming to the tropics: don't camp near mangrove trees. This is precisely what we did, justs as dark closed in on us, and the fireflies started darting around us. As they danced over the river, we appreciated the patch of grass growing on the sandy hill that we'd decided to pitch our tent on. Thinking we were far enough upriver to avoid the rising tide, we sat and talked, munching canned tuna and rice. A little paranoid, since we were sitting next to a river we'd been warned not to swim in, as a croc lived there, we still managed to relax and we looked at our surrounding. With stars and a firefly ballet things seemed to be going very well.
We were asleep at nine -- or at least in the tent. Something kept me from drifting very far though. It was then I heard ripples in the river. I listened carefully, but heard nothing more. A few minutes passed. Another sound from the water, like a . . . wave. Leander heard this one as well. We opened the tent and saw . . . an ocean at our front door. Retreat! Mildly annoyed, we got out and pulled our tent down. Just as we moved it, a wave swept over where we'd been sleeping a few minutes earlier. Pulling back further into the mangroves we'd seen some trail markers on a tree near where we were. Unfortunately it was pitch black, and with only one flashlight between us and a crumpled tent, we weren't about to start running around in the jungle in the dark. We saw a rise that looked like it should be a trail and went up--dry land, and palms. No mangroves--a good sign. As I got up into the jungle, Leander followed--and tripped. I don't know how much ya'll know about palm trees in the jungle, but they're not your average cuddly California coconut tree. They have thorns, and spikes. In fact, everything in the jungle seems to have thorns. When Leander feel he reached for a palm, and got about sixty splinter-sized thorns in his fingers. After a little looking around, we realized that we were also not on the trail at all. In fact, we turned around and realized that high tide had just washed over the trail. This is where things got less comfortable.
There's a kind of plant in this part of the world called the pitcher plant. It's carniverous. As the name suggests, it's pitcher shaped, and is filled with a sweet nectar that attracts ants and other insects. They get trapped by the sticky nectar and are slowly consumed by the plant for nutrients. This seems to me to be a perfect example, in miniature, of the jungle itself. Sure, at first it seems all pretty and green, full of cuddly monkeys and pretty flowers. But once you make your way in you get trapped, like an ant in nectar, and it seems all you can do is let the jungle consume you, and it really wants to eat you alive. Mosquitoes, ants, thorns--these are only the things that you see and feel.
So it was that we found ourselves on a hillock, in the middle of the jungle, settling down for a night from which we couldn't escape. Pitching the tent on the only patch of thornless ground we could find we settled in for a weird night. The tent was sweltering, and outside the mosquitoes beat themselves against the walls of our tent, intent on devouring us whole. Insects screamed from the treetops, and something made the most haunting noises, moving slowly in the trees above us. Some kind of owl, maybe. Occasionally we heard crashing noises coming from somewhere in the distance--not distant enough for my liking. We were not welcome. The jungle doesn't want you there, at least not unless you know the jungle. It was kind to us that night, but if it had wanted to it could have chewed us up and spit out our bones. After all, a place that creates glowing fungus, that shines through the floor of your tent, or golden six horned ants, nearly an inch long, an ecosystem that seems completely caught up in simultaneously devouring and reproducing itself is powerfully magical. It's full of ghosts, spirits, hauntings. It was in the air that night, prowling around us, but keeping its distance. We finally into a restless sleep, that only eased with the morning's rain.
And when we finally woke, and broke camp we realized that had we found the trail the night before, it would have led us to a river that we were supposed to cross. Had we crossed the river, though, as the rangers had told us we could do, we probably would have wound up in chest deep water, and probably sunk much deeper into mud like quicksand. We couldn't cross the river during the day, had we tried that night we probably would have drowned. So maybe the jungle was kind to us, maybe she held us close, saving us from the river, and taking only some blood and sleep as payment.
The next day's hike, though arduous, was worth it for a night on a real beach, stars that shouldn't shine like they did during this rainy season and a fire to keep away the mosquitoes. There were even moments I imagined myself in BC that night. Needless to say, though, the last day we had our minds set on a hot meal, a shower, and a cold beer. So we trekked hard, covering the longest 10km I've ever walked, shaky and leaking water by the end we made it back. Back in Kucing, after a shower, a shave, a nap, we went in search of Saturday night. The rest of this story you all know, conversation, pool, beer and we found ourselves sitting at bar called Discovery, at closing time, chairs flying over our heads, glass breaking as threats and fists bounced off eachother, giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. Three days of jungle, and we came back searching for the comforts of civilization, a place that worked according to rules we knew. Instead we found that this world, albeit completely different, still has some jungle in it.
Yesterday I rode back down the Ulu Skrang river, 2 hours by longboat, to a bus stop in the middle of nowhere, to catch a bus that took four hours to bring me back into Kuching. Last night I spent here in town, as I will again this evening. Today I saw orungatans and the largest flower in the world, which, it turns out, is not really a flower, but actually a form of fungus. Tomorrow I'll be heading to a coastal national park for a few days of hiking and camping on the beach. My life is pain.
I'm in Sarawak, East Malaysia right now, on the island of Borneo. I arrived on Friday night, and when I got to my hotel heard that a trip was leaving the next day for an Iban ghost festival.
(explanation:
the Iban are the indigeneous people in Kalimantan, sharing the island with other ethnic groups like the Dayak. The iban used to be headhunters. Also on the island, mostly the coast, are Malays and Chinese ethnicities.
the ghost festival is a big ass party that happens every 25 years to honor the ancestors of the iban people and insure a prosperous future
the main characters:
Me
Leander: a German guy making his way home from here overland, with whom I've got on well
Ernst: a Swiss fellow travelling the world for tattoos . . . picture pre-Roman Germanic tribes coupled with a childlike demeanour, little English, lots of hand gestures and a desire to discuss almost nothing but tattoos
minor characters:
Abba (our guide)
dutch couple
danish girls)
7am we (the above characters) leave Kucing, 4 hours by car to Abba's longhouse southeast of kucing. we arrive and walk from his longhouse to the party, talking place across the river at another longhouse in the village. we cross a shaky suspension bridge over a muddy river apparently full of crocs. music and shouts pour out from house. we walk in and are greeted with cheers. then comes the food. chicken and pork, rice and vegetables, over and over and over (yes, I've forsaken vegetarianism for the time being . . . when in Rome . . .). I stuffed myself, and with good reason: after the meal came the alcohol. whiskey, vodka, tuak (rice wine). Massive quantities, and an inability to refuse are seldom a good combination. this goes on for several hours. By 4pm I'm feeling quite hammered. At this point they unveil the food and drinks that need to be eaten to appease their ancestors. bottles of whiskey, gallons of vodka, truckloads of beer. We need to finish this tonight. more drink . . . Down to the river to take a break, back to Abba's house for a swim and a rest, then back to the party. . .more food. more drink. more food. more drink. dancing, processions, more drink. food. drink. dance. drink food. drinkfooddancedrinkdrinkdancefood. and the stumble home on the already shaky suspension bridge. out like a light. it's only midnight, but I've been drunk since 2pm. ouch . . .
the next day it's up the skrang river (the next river system over) on a two hour boat trip and we spend two nights at an older longhouse, farmers and hunters for the most part, are kind enough to welcome us in. only ernst, leander and I stay for both night, everyone else goes home after one night. we trek through the jungle, roast a chicken on a spit over an open fire . . . all in all it's been pretty fantastic. tomorrow I head to baku national park with Leander for a few days of hiking and nights on the beach. . . back to sing on monday and thailand on tuesday. . .
I smell like smoke from last night's campfire. It's raining hard, as I sit in a the top of a tower, at the top of a hill, near the top of Malaysia.
The Cameron Highlands smell like home. Maybe it's just the rain, the mist and fog that clings to these hills in the monsoon. Maybe it's the jungle that's alive with so many things that you feel like you're looking at a wall of life, and you can really pick anything out. The most you can do is focus on something really small, one thing at a time, and try to fit it into a bigger picture in your head.
Sitting here above this place, watching the forest below it seems like I've got the sense of the land, but I haven't. What goes on below this canopy, from the hidden folds in the mountains to the games played by life, it's not fathomable to a person like me, an urban kid with natural sympathies. But still, panorama and microscope come together and make my understanding a little clearer.
This place smells like green, like water hanging from the sky. This place smells like life.
Well folks, this is just a little note to say that I'll be taking off tomorrow to do some hiking in the Cameron Highlands, north of KL in Malaysia. This is the famous mountainous region where Jim Thompson, famed Thai silk tycoon (or was he a CIA agent?), disappeared 30 years. I've been told by my mother not pull another disappearing act. Anyways, I'll be there for a few days, then next Friday I will fly out to Kucing, in Sarawak (assuming I can book my ticket this afternoon). After that I'll return briefly to Singapore, before heading to Thailand to spend Christmas and New Year's with Jo Wong. Yay. Anyways, there's not really much to this message, but I will be checking email sporadically, so drop me a note sometime, but I probably won't write back as promptly as I've been doing recently :)
I have done the near impossible. Found the Holy Grail? The Lost City of Gold? Perhaps finally achieved the Ideal in physics and "discovered" a grand unified field theory? While these might all seem like worthy, or at least interesting, goals, I have done something much more difficult. I have found the surest sign that there actually is culture in Singapore (as opposed to, say, a population oriented entirely towards business, shopping and eating): a subversive element.
Now, I know I've written about what it's like here, with cameras and rules and a cleanliness that borders on sterility, and I've wondered, "where are the people who don't want to live this way?" Now I have, at long last, found them.
It started like this: I was perusing the newspaper yesterday morning, over a cup of coffee and roti prata, searching for the comics (surely the most relevant part of any daily news source), when I came across pictures of breakdancers and some rapper that looked vaguely familiar. Now this looks interesting . . . reading the article I discovered that that very evening would mark the beginning of a weekend long festival seeking to bring together "traditional" art and "street" art. An interesting idea, particularly for Singapore. So, I got the address of the place and decided to check it out (it being Friday night, it being Singapore and me having nothing else to do). So I went down, watched some graffiti artists spray canvas alongside painters, watched some local rappers, saw some breakdancers, saw a rapper from Toronto freestyling alongside some Indian drummers. Long story short, though, I made friends with the b-girls, who are from Ottawa, interestingly enough, met the rapper from Toronto (Jason aka Vandal), who offered to show me around KL when I pass through next weekend, and various other people involved in an art scene here that is not pretentious, not really based around making big money, and seems to be subversive. The space itself was a kind of gallery/theatre/cafe all rolled into one, that encourages young artists here in Singapore. The event was being held in the garden, where the walls were scribbled with those universal slogans of disenchanted youth such as: "Class war, not race war" "Bush and Blair are . . ." You get the idea.
So, here I am in Singapore, looking at the city a little bit differently, feeling a little bit more at home. It just goes to show that those pretentious old French postmodernists were right about one thing: where there is power, there is the struggle against it, in some form or another.
I think I secretly believe that words are the key to making things real. In the beginning there was the Word. It's voicing what's inside that makes something real. That's the magic of the word--that the internal world is externalized through it. It's my need to profess, confess, obsess (Mike told me "internal rhyme is always cheesy . . ." but hey). I have this problem with realizing that the unspoken has just as much power as the verbalized . . .
Words draw attention to me like a spotlight . . . at least I want them to. Look at this public medium. . . But do they make my internal landscape a reality? Not really: it's more just that when I boast something I then (usually) feel the need to follow through on it. At least if I mention it enough.
But it's what I don't say, somehow, that is the realest of me. It's the part of me that slides out between the words, inadvertantly, through the chinks in my armour, that reflects my internal reality. not the one I would like people to believe exists, rather the one that's there all the time. the little insecurities, the small hopes and worries. Usually I don't speak these because I'm so afraid of making them real--of having to face them, of dragging them into the light. so they hide in the shadows. But you know what? Words aren't the only way of acknowledging something's existence, I have recently realized. In fact, there are many, often much more powerful ways. It is these I want to explore.
Walked around my neighbourhood last night, trying to appreciate what it is I'm in the middle of, rather than treating each day as a chore. It's hard sometimes, but there are times when I'd rather be no place else. Past those shops selling cheap clothes that play tapes announcing prices, items and a going out of business sale that seem to have no correlation to the actual shop I'm passing. Past the restaurant guy whose mouth moves faster than sound, so the lips are going before the words can come out, like a badly synched movie, and his words are so fast that when they do come it's like a waterfall of sound and the letters are all mixed together in some string like binary code nicefoodverycheapairconditioningupstairsyoulikeyesNICEFOOD. Past the tourists in Bugis junction who seem to come to this city solely to shop and will buy just about anything, from the cheapest Buddhist kitsch, to the finest southeast Asian silk, and the vendor who cater to them, and they're all packed in like sardines. Past the Rochor "canal" that is more gutter than water. Past the disco era puke green shopping malls, past these shopping malls built in the decade of greed (which seems to have extended its stay indefinitely), past the malls built ten years ago, past the malls of today. Past the lines of trees stretching into the distance, with branches so wide you look to the horizon and think there's a park that you want to walk to, but it's just a desert mirage that never gets any closer no matter how far you walk, cause in the end its just a line of trees that decorates the sidewalk. Past the banyons, and god they're beautiful, their branches hanging down to the ground, stretching to form new trunks (they actaully do: when they hit they take root, and what was once a vine thickens into a trunk, so you get whole groves that are really just one big tree, like redwoods, who sprout new trunks off their main ones, only in reverse, all upside down) that ring this hollow, a little cave or hanging garden, where people leave prayers and messages and offerings because even in Singapore, even in 2003, people recognize something magical or sacred or holy which is really just something that defies our attempts to contain it in our cultural walls, something that's beyond the monotony of mechanized traffic and synchronized lives and the whims of the market. I stop for a moment. Past the red light alley where the unhappy looking men pace up and down, like they're window shopping, and you can't see what's in the windows but you know it's human, trying to delay the inevitable purchase, resist the desire just a little longer cause when that desire's gone you're just left with a void, cause you're still alone, and it hurts so much that all you want is your desire back, so you return, night after night, looking for a companionship that can never be, a plug for the hole that will never exist. Past the stray cats who only get fed secretively, furtively, by the old man in the morning whose eyes dart back and forth because what he's doing is illegal so it's not bad but it's still wrong, and the cats look as suspicious as him because everyone else just kicks them, and there are dogs around and they have kittens, I've seen them, and no one else is going to feed them, so they dart out of the alley at night and look for anything they can find. And the crows are sweeping, swooping down picking up sticks and soft stuff to build and line their nests with, and they yell at me in the morning while I'm eating breakfast, but I don't mind cause I like crows, they're smart, and they make use of what we waste and that just proves how stupid we are for thinking we have the right to consume nature, because in the end nature will just consume us. And I'm home and I stand and listen to my body and look at the wall, at the ground, which is blank and white like I wish I could be, but my mind is still stepping, running, sprinting even when my body's so still my head's gonna explode cause I have this urge to run to a rooftop somewhere and scream at the world: STOP!! JUST LOOK! Cause in the end all it takes is a real look around, and people will see, but right now no one's looking so no one thinks about what's happening.
And I don't. Instead I go upstairs, and sit at my desk and pour this out, so today I can send it to you and you can see my mind splat against a white wall, white ground.
My grandfather's dying. It's been happening slowly for the last few years, his Parkinson's has made him pretty immobile, despite his clarity of mind. He can't really read, or do crosswords, so he's reduced to watching TV most of the day. My mother bemoans the fact that such an intelligent man is reduced to this. So do I.
He's led a full life, travelled extensively in his late teens, working as crew on passenger liners to Asia from Vancouver. He saw China, the Philippinnes, Hong Kong when most of us today are still finishing high school. He worked himself through med school at a pharmacy, losing most of his hair in the process, until the owner gave him a scholarship that he paid off by continuing to work there once he'd finished his education. He worked as a doctor in logging camps in rural B.C. (I think) if I remember right he was up north in Haida Gwaii, or Bella Coola or something. He served as a doctor in England during WWII, and returned to Canada to pursue psychiatry, eventually establishing a private practice in Vancouver. I'm pretty sure these details are correct, but I get history mixed up in my head. In any case, this experienced man has just been diagnosed with prostate cancer.
Perhaps it's for the best, though. A full life behind him, and not much to look forward to, he seems prepared to go. I just hope it's not painful, and I hope I'm back home, able to be with him when it comes time.
I am giving up a dream. Perhaps I should be more accurate: I am giving up a fantasy. In fact, I'm giving up two, but I kind of see them as the same thing. You see, I have this tendency to romanticize life.
All through high school, and university, I had this notion, this idealized image of Love. I pictured myself one half of something greater than me, this transcendent bliss that would make all my problems disappear (okay, okay, laugh now). Childish in many ways, and as I got older I got disillusioned. Rough relationships and the realization that I was gauging my worth over whether or not someone found me attractive, found me worthy of being a partner, made me look harder, which obviously is not how love occurs. I longed for someone to approve of me, but now I'm tired of gauging my worth against someone else's views.
This brings me to the second thing I want to let go of. For as long as I can remember, I've loved heroics. Most people do, they get that tingle in the spine reading a book, watching a movie. Good versus evil, all that. Sure, it's fun. When I was young I was an avid fantasy and adventure reader--I loved the notion of some young kid, farmboy type, being picked out, being Chosen as a saviour. I was not exactly socially adept when I was young (or more accurately children between the ages of 10 and 14 are savage barbarians), so I always envisioned myself as that young hero.
Kind of unconsciously, this fantasy has so penetrated my self-image that I still find myself thinking in terms of the heroics I will, at some point in the vague future, perform. The reason I really want to excel in this manner is because I long for approval. I do. I'm confident, and as I grow older I feel more comfortable in my skin, but I still rely on others to validate myself. I guess we all do, and that's okay. I mean, friends are the ones who can tell me, after a particularly shit week that I'm still okay. Family is the one that's love me even when I get tired of loving myself. We need people, we need community. But I don't need to be a hero. I don't need to stand above everyone else, and I've really always wanted to.
So, I'm trying to put down a couple of old dreams.
I don't need some romantic vision of love, because someday someone whom I respect deeply will (hopefully) decide she wants to be with me. If that doesn't happen, I'll be okay.
I don't need to be a hero, because I'm already an okay guy. I already have people that love me, and I'm realizing that's enough.
I don't need life to become an adventure, because it already is an adventure. Every day that I wake up brings me some new thought, some new excitement. Now is my time for contemplation. Okay. Tomorrow will be a time for action. Okay. I don't need to be anything more than I already am.
I finally took a shower in the monsoon rain. It's amazing that in a place so hot the rain can be so cool. I stepped out from under the covered walkway and let the big fat raindrops slap against my face and chest. Within seconds I was soaked, and I felt really cold for the first time since I got to Singapore. Taking a shower in your bathroom's okay, but there's nothing to get you feeling quite as clean as real, cold rain.
ah yes my unwitting audience, you are, once again, the lucky recipient of a random rant from Matt. See, I have lots of time on my hands, so I'm trying to practise my writing--and of course all writers need an audience. Since I have no one to recite bad poetry to here, and since they'd probably lock me up if I tried, I have volunteered all of you, as usual, to listen to me talk about nothing and everything. Since there is so little to do in Singapore, since I don't shop and can only eat so much, there is lots of writing to be done.
this morning, after the sunday morning tai chi practice with students I headed over to Chinatown for a quick look around. The first place I went was a small park called Pearl Hill. This little green space, no bigger than summit hill park in Victoria, for those of you familiar with it (not a large park I assure you). What I found interesting about this park is that it's not considered a city park. No, this was a national park. I had to laugh a little at that, because I guess, being from Canada, I have a slightly different view of "National Parks," masses of sprawling land with little or no (we should hope, though I imagine it's more theoretical than real) human influence. This was a well manicured park, all lawn and fountain, paved paths and a reservoir at the top. Pearl Hill is a national park. Thinking about it now it makes me a little sad. This is considered by many here a getaway from the city--peace and quiet in Singapore. Now, I guess this is a priviliged position, but I only think of a get away as actually getting away from buildings, roads, traffic, the smell of gas and the roar of the city. It's kind of scary that as we develop our cities, as they sprawl out, we lose track of what it is they're replacing. Once again I see, in Singapore, a potential future for Canada as well--a sense of nature as a manicured, well-behaved patch of green. I hope not though.
Ah yes, a truly inspiring day when I put in two log entries. . .see previous entry for the reason why.
a) I wonder, as I get older, why I can never really recapture the intensity of my teenage years. It seems like that time in your life is so passionate--probably in good part because it is a time of a lot of firsts, first kiss, first drink, first really meaningful semi-adult friendship, etc. etc. I don't really look back with nostalgia because being a teenager's pretty damn hard, and I'm happy right now. But I was thinking this evening that maybe part of that passionate emotion, part of what's lonely and exhilariting about being lost somewhere between childhood and adulthood is precisely that quality of being lost. When you're lost there is glory in the looking, you seek yourself, what's important to you, your path. There are a lot of failures, some successes, but your passion comes from the search. As you get older, or at least as I've gotten older, life is less about looking and more about recognizing what I need to do and motivating myself to do it. I may not be able to see my future, but I have a strong sense of my path. I don't feel lost anymore, and I think there's a painful kind of beauty in being lost.
b) okay, was just reading that according to the Essene book of Moses (ie first five books of the pentateuch), found in the dead sea scrolls, the commandment to honor your mother and father is actually the commandment to honor your mother earth and father heaven. interesting no? Could be an argument for environmentalism, but that's another tangent. What I find particularly interesting about this heaven and earth vocubalary its its central place in so many philosophies. It occurs again and again in the New Testament Gospels, is prominent in the the I Ching and Tao Te Ching. I don't know about buddhist texts, or hindu ones, but I'd be willing to guess that H + E make an appearance at least in the former. So why this importance? Well, other than as an expression of a central binary principal governing the existence of mankind (wow, lofty statement), heaven and earth are our means to orient ourselves. According to the I ching there is a number system, one is unity (the Tao, Taiji--meaning supreme ultimate--god, etc. etc.), two is yin-yang (binaries prevalent throughout any religious system, masculine/feminine principles, good/evil, dark/light, heaven/earth), and three is heaven, earth and human. Our place is between them. Our feet are rooted on the ground and our spines reach to heaven. We are in both places at once. Awareness of heaven and earth, of the land around us and the sky above, are basic preconditions to self-awareness, both in the literal and the metaphorical (ie awareness of our environment in the literal sense and a sense of opposing universal forces and how they affect our lives in the abstract sense). Now, the problem is when we stop being aware of these things, and start trying to govern them, analyse them, or worse, conquer them. Heaven and Earth can govern themselves, and no matter how hard we try, we'll never really understand completely the world around us--that's part of the beautiful mystery of life--so how could we possibly conquer them? The truth is, we've forgotten that it is our place to stand on the earth and look to the heavens. Instead we're trying to carve away at them both, thinking it's the only way we can find a place for ourselves. So next time you're out under the sky, stand up and feel the ground rooting your feet, lift your spine up to the sky and honor mother earth and father heaven.
so here I am on a sunny saturday afternoon with nothing to do. it's incredible that in a city of 4.5 million people there is nothing to do on the weekends. It's like singaporeans work so hard during the week that they have no creative energy to put into their recreation. This is ironic, because the reasoning (I thought) behind hard work was to enjoy a better standard of living, ie quality leisure time. Anyways, looks like I'll be moping around the house, which is okay. At least I have it to myself this afternoon until at least tomorrow, maybe even monday. Tek has gone to Malacca for the weekend, so I'm here alone. I'm trying to appreciate that, put it to some kind of use, but I can't really figure it out. I've put in over 3 hours of practise today already, and I guess I'll do some writing this afternoon. Sigh . . . time does seem to be dragging. It goes through stages, faster, slower. Weekends are always slower because there's nothing to do, no evening classes, just long stretches of afternoon in which I try to read as slowly as possible so as not finish my books too quickly. Why is it that one always has either too much time on one's hands or not enough? Funny . . .
Every time I think this gets easier I'm proven wrong. At least I feel I'm getting a little better at dealing with it. I've realized that our culture is particularly adept at repression and lies. We push so much so deep into ourselves that we forget it's even there. Maybe we don't even know in the first place. We've gotten really good at lying to ourselves--so good the mind actually believes the lies. But not the body. No, the body doesn't lie. All that sadness, anger, fear--the body knows it, the body's telling you it's there. When you don't listen to your body it's easy to ignore--but lord, start listening and you'll almost wish you hadn't.
I have this ball of fear swirling around somewhere between my chest and stomach almost perpetually these days. I can't decide whether it's a rapid heartbeat, butterflies in my stomach or something else. I wake up in the mornign and it's there, and by the time I go to bed I feel I've let go of a little--but the next morning it's back. Where does it come from? I'm not really sure, except I'm realizing how ingrained in me fear is. I'm not a particularly nervous person, feel pretty self-confident, but man, this fear is deep. Maybe it's not even fear--it's not that overpowering--it's just like a constant stage fright, a nervousness, edginess. Maybe it's the realization that with all the lies we tell ourselves we're constantly performing, we're always playing roles, or maybe it's the a little more of the real me coming out, nervously. I don't know . . . working on figuring it out.
I have been thinking recently (far too much time on my hands . . .) a lot about coming of age recently, and what it means to be an adult. In the not too distant past different cultures had different ways of celebrating the movement from youth to adulthood. Vestiges of these rites remain, such as marriage and moving out, but these days there is no clear sense of being an adult--we seem to be stuck in this constant state of becoming. Now, this means that young people, such as myself, walk a fine line when determining that strange growth out of childhood. in some ways I'll always consider myself a kid because I can't stand certain ways we define adulthood in my culture, but in other ways I feel ready to move beyond the realm of innocence into some kind of challenging experience. In many ways I have been doing this, as we all have, for the last ten years. The problem is that without clear cut rites, without someone telling us now you're an adult, many young people wind up being childish (as opposed to childlike) all their lives. Of course, the other extreme is all too prevalent as well--overly responsible, all too serious people, going around doing serious things with no time to enjoy life. What I'm realizing, though, is that despite the lack of clear cut movement from one stage of life into another, or perhaps precisely because of it, young people today are inordinately free. We are able to make our own rituals. You can go into the desert at the end of every summer, make art and burn it all down, like I've done for the last two years. You can travel, you can meditate, you can prove to yourself what it means to be an adult. It is up to us to find our own ways--and that's an extremely powerful gift. So while many flounder I hope all of you "youth" are making--or have made your way--successfully into a stage of your life that offers new experience, and remember that no matter how old we get we're always learning. To the "adults"--I hope you've retained your sense of innocence that should never get old. more ramblings. . .
It has stopped raining here. It comes down so hard mid-afternoon--just watching it makes you feel almost wet. I succumb easily to the pathetic fallacy--my moods reflect the weather. A kind of sadness comes, when it rains. On Friday I spent time with some friends who were in town for just a day, Noah and Maylee, people my age, people who spoke my language. It felt good just to be around people who understand me, but it's kind of strange that just age makes that big a difference.
It's funny, here in Singapore there is little respect for youth. People assume that the young have nothing to teach them, so they don't really listen. I prefer to keep my mouth shut most of the time anyways (that's hard for me sometimes, but a good lesson). Tek's not really like that, but in some ways he is still of an older generation, and still my teacher. It's tough though, to be reining in that fire and passion of youth, that desire to run down the street naked just to show them it's okay. Or to yell at them to get off their cellphones. Still it's only for a couple more months and I'm here to observe, myself as much as anyone, and not necessarily act. That's kind of a strange thing in itself. Just to watch, to wonder, try not to pass judgement. Let myself be without too much interference, let others be without too much interference. My isolation is my own doing, and that's why though sometimes I get lonely, sad, angry, I'm also okay with it. Time for some bad poetry.
I am the casual observer--
sitting in the corner chain smoking cigarettes --
watching the crowd smile and lie.
I am the wiretap in the phone, the bug in the walls
hearing things noone's supposed to know,
unobtrusively powerful.
I am the black hole
pulling mass and energy towards me,
phenomenal gravity.
I am dark and dense,
infinite in mass, nonexistent in space,
unfathomable really.
I am omnipotent,
in silence.
This process of "progress" is, by its own insistence on momentum, undoing itself.
Last night I went to a Chinese tea ceremony--an ancient ritual of communication, sharing and mediation. The woman speaking about the importance of this ceremony explained, as we all know, that you can't email tea. or beer. or laughs. it's face to face, it's sharing the same moment in time, appreciating the same thing, face to face. it's disappearing.
Before the ceremony there was a presentation on origami folding--the presenter showed us his eagle, elephant, seal, geometrical shapes. All folded with one piece of paper, and incredibly realistic. He remarked on the difference between being skillful and being creative, hinting that perhaps though Singapore has reached the peak of skillfulness in business, as well as scientific and mathematical education, it has done so while sacrificing creativity--that drive within us to be unique.
Our haste, our notions of what is advancing us as a species is making us less mindful of eachother-- our relationships, communities and friends--and less mindful of ourselves--or desires, needs and emotions. We can email halfway round the world but we can't say hello to a neighbour on the street. We've sent many people to space, yet we seem incapable of appreciating our rapidly disappering wildlife. We all know this already. What's interesting, though, is that these very things we are ignoring now (and I would say it's not technology, rather the way we use it that is causing these fractures) will be missed soon--in some ways they are already missed. Singaporeans over thirty, even while embracing convenience, material wealth and a modern city, bemoan the lack of . . .well the lack of many things. loss of tradition, loss of community, loss of . . .it goes on. So there is an awareness of a gap, an emptiness. And its growing--and even as we try to fill it we make it bigger. If there's a hole inside us, no amount of progress, material (or national) security, or technology will ever fill it. It's up to us to do it.
So another rant . . .I think I'll keep sending them. Rants to you (heh heh) and slightly more maudlin emotional stuff on my new blog (maybe even some bad poetry, how fortunate for you). Hope you are all doing well.
they are coming now, with disarming regularity. they finish day's peak heat, just after two I expect them. Often without warning, though occasionally there's a flash or crack from above, and they come. And you're drenched.
It rushes down, hard, big drops on your head, your roof, pelting you like a narrow waterfall running down a canyone. It almost hurts. I watch them, today, from in here; watch them, amazed every time at their punctuality, these monsoon rains. Like a cat who knows exactly when dinner is, and never wears a watch. These rains know their business so well its way beyond knowledge. How limited are we, with our information and structures, in comparison. They are so precisely executed we should plan our days, our seasons, our lives around them. We used to.
And as I sweep, mop the dust from the floors, watching it hang in the air for a few minutes, then settles and I sweep again, I watch the rains. They are doing outside what I am doing in here. They are doing it infinitely better.
I had forgotten their precision, I had forgotten so much about the tropics. It comes back slow and fast, like some treasure you find, hidden as a kid, lost for what you thought was forever and found when you grew up and moved out, packing just before they tear down your house and even when it's gone, you're left with your treasure, dusty and old, but precious because it gives you back, in time, something you were sure you'd lost.
These rains make me want to tear the roof off this house and let their waters flood in, wash out all the dust and dirt, clean my sweat and cool my body, that pants from the slightest movement.
Quickly as they come they're gone and I'm alone with my broom, and the sky is clear and it's hotter than before, now, because they're are no clouds. And somewhere in the distance the thunder rolls, and I know they'll be back for me tomorrow.
I have been told that the way Peking duck and French ducks used in making pate is the same. They are caged, or trapped in such a way that only their head can emerge from an airhole--which they obviously use to breath. When they stick their heads out--desperate for breath--their faces are stuffed. Since their prison is so small that they can't move, they get no exercise. I am waiting to be slaughtered and cooked.
I would never have believed it, but the people of Kuala Lumpur like to eat even more than Singaporeans. I guess while here the emphasis is more on the shopping, their basic entertainment rests slightly more on the side of food. Having spent the weekend there I have finally waddled back into singapore, wondering when my liver will be harvested for the pate. I was fed, and fed and fed while I was there. Chinese, Malay, Indian, dessert, tea, snacks. I'd come away from one meal and walk straight into another. I'd feel ready to burst and then find I'd have to eat more--or risk being impolite. So I ate and ate and ate. And now I feel like I never want to eat again.
Another pleasure of travelling around Malaysia, for those who've never been there, is the music. Being slightly music deprived in here in Sing, having no stereo or music, I am open to most music. But Malay pop . . . well, that's something else. It's like Micheal Bolton, Kenny G. and some bad eighties synthesizers all thrown together. . .in Malay. Ah yes the heartfelt croonings of some anonymous Malay singer is enough to bring tears to almost anyone's eyes. Here in Singapore, though, I do occasionally here some familiar songs at the food court near where I live . . . classics like Gloria Estafan's "The rhythm is gonna get you" and Europe's "The final countdown" (wow, haven't heard that one in a LONG time, didn't even know there were still copies of it kicking around), anyone familiar with Europe knows that they are the perfect blend of eighties euro cock rock (an altogether different variety from American cock rock) epitomized by The Scorpions and eighties pop--the wailing synth, shrieking guitar and heavy german accent. beautiful. of course, nothing as heartwarming as Cutting Crew's "I just died in your arms tonight" and Bryan Adams' "I'm gonna run to you" which I had the pleasure of hearing over and over while I was on Pulau tioman. I guess those middle level resorts cater to the kind of Westerner (and Asian?) who appreciates such things. I know that after a long bus ride hearing nothing but malay pop, I was fully appreciative. so this is my musical life here in Singapore. I am quite thankful, now, that a long car ride in early september allowed me adequate time to memorize the complete works of The Weakerthans, so that at least in my own bathroom I can remember that somewhere, some kind of music exists that does no incorporate a synth. . .
miss you all, miss my music more.
well, someone seems to have spread the word, since I do not recall mentioning in any of my emails my 23rd. I really am not sure who it was (family? friend?) but I really appreciate the well-wishing. I also have to apologize for the lack of recent correspondence. I am writing from an internet cafe, since Tek's computer is down with a virus. so I'm not writing any of you as often as I would like, and I'm reduced to sending these group emails (which is fine, but should be coupled with personal ones). I really would like to say how grateful I am to have friends and family like you. I'm feeling rather emotional these days, (one of my current challenges being to actually face my emotions, rather than hope the bad ones will go away and the good ones will stick around) and I got pretty teary reading all the notes from home. you all seem so far away right now. For me this time is not easy--being alone is not something I do well. But I'm doing okay. Being alone is giving me a perspective on who I am outside of all the roles I take on in my life--outside of friend and brother, son and ex-boyfriend. One of the things I've noticed is how often we take on the roles we're in not out of choice, but out of obligation, out of some kind of sense of duty. I realize, too, that my relationship with each of you is shaped not by obligation, but by something much stronger.
sitting on the beach last weekend, looking up at the stars with Tek and his daughter I sat, perplexed, between youth and age. as leona wondered, in that way that we all do as teenagers, what was beyond the stars, beyond the bounds of the universe--beyond life itself. I remember my asking that question, for years, and never finding an answer. somewhere along the way I put the question down and turned the spotlight inward--looking for some inner essence, some sense of self. I'm realizing that asking the question "who am I?" is a lot like asking "what is the universe?" there may be answers, purely physical, purely practical, but they will never capture the essence that makes the real answer so undefinable, so elusive. that answer is something I think all of us are never really capable of putting our fingers on--but I think it's the same one for both questions. a pretty good substitute for the answer, though, for me, for now, is we are what we mean to eachother. And each of you means a lot--though sometimes I take it for granted--each in your own very special way, because of the relationship that we have created over months or years. sometimes the strings that hold us together are tenuous, and someday they might break (if not before, than at our time of death) but for now we have them. and I value them very much. my relationships, then, at least the important ones, are not roles of obligation, nor even roles that are acted, but rather as much a part of my essence as anything else I can see. These relationships are, in many ways, the answer to both "what is the universe?" and "who am I?"
there is no bitterness here. there is no stifling city, no architectured anal retention, no sense of society pressing in all sides. not here. I am in Bali H'ai. or, more accurately, the island used to depict the fictional Bali H'ai in the movie South Pacific. Rated, by someone, one of the 10 most beautiful islands in the world, I'm on Pulau Tioman. Why am I writing you? Well, first because I've been bad with emails this week, computer out of commission, and despite the beauty of this island I do still miss my friends (I'm kind of an email junky these days). Also, right now I'm avoiding the sun for reasons that should be apparent from the title. And. . . because I wanted to gloat. This morning I went snorkelling on coral reefs just of the island, swimming with rainbow tropical fish, ones with long noses and thin bodies, whole schools, huge schools, that look like seaweed from above yet glitter with silver bellies when seen from below. urchins, anenomes and of course water the colour of a bombay sapphire bottle. It's a welcome respite from Singapore's propriety. In any case, this is just a short note to say I'm here, I'm alive, I'm thinking of all of you, I miss you. I won't send little notes to each of you at the end in an effort to personalize this, but hopefully I'll be able to start catching up on my email backlog when I get back from this trip.
I am not all doom and gloom. In fact, I'm not any doom or gloom at all, despite what it might sound like from my emails. I don't find Singapore depressing, and it's not getting to me. More than anything I find it interesting to observe, kind of amusing, and indicative of the extremes to which all our countries and/or cities may go before we smarten up. Today, though, to assure you of how content I am, I thought I'd send a little email describing some of the simple pleasures of my last two weeks.
Obviously there's tai chi. I'm slowing down, being patient with it. Realizing that this training is only the beginning if I want to do this thing seriously, which I do. I've got a few years ahead of me before I'll even really be able to practice on my own. I'm committed to it, which means I'll be back in Vic as of March or so, and I learning. This whole long term realization thing is also allowing me to slow down. I don't have to get to a certain point by the time I leave. I don't have to cram in as much as I can. I'm here to learn tai chi, and that means letting go, not pushing too hard, but not being soft. It's a fine balance, and usually I'm tipping heavily one way or another. But I'm realizing I don't have to get it all now, do it all now, experience it all now. It's a relief.
Then there's the food. The main advantage to the fact that the Singapore economy seems to be based entirely upon shopping and eating (I have no idea why I see so few obese people) is the extreme of abundance of cheap, delicious food. Almost every morning I wake up, and if I don't have to practice immediately, I go for roti prata. This is, essentially, Indian fried bread with a curry dipping sauce. The Best Roti Prata in Singapore is less than a block from where I'm living (it really is the Best--not only is that the name of the store, but I have yet to discover better). There are many other cheap places to eat, drink tea, observe the street. Many of these are in little india.
And the fruit. . .well those of you who have been to the tropics know. . .and those that haven't do yourself a favour, pick somewhere warm, with a beach and spend three months eating fruit. Mango, mangosteen, papaya, watermelon, starfruit. . . all juicier and sweeter than the best produce we get in Canada. There is nothing like sticky juice running down your arm in the humid heat of the tropics. . .the only way to survive. I have also cultivated a taste for the infamous durian. This fruit tastes a little like garlic at first, then blossoms into a sweet rich flavour, quite indescribable, has the texture of an avocado and stinks so foully (to those that dislike the taste) that they don't allow it on public transit or in hotels. Today we went to a little island off singapore, pulau ubin (ie ubin island) which was literally covered in durian trees. It smelled great, and at the end of the day we feasted on this wonderfully garlicy sweet fruit.
Which brings me to contentment number three. Arriving on Ubin I was reminded of how tenacious life can be. One comes from singapore, the roar of traffic and crowds, and even just 15 minutes by boat away the air is quieter, cleaner, the people friendlier. Looking at Sing. on the way over I remarked at how the jungle there clings on only at the coastline--a thin buffer between the ocean and the asphalt. Arriving on Ubin the same jungle ran the place. Buildings that had probably only been deserted for a few years were overgrown, ruins really. Gives you real respect for the lasting power of places like Angkor Wat and Timbuktu. This ain't no wussy prairie grass--this is thick vine, creeping flower, mangrove and banyan land. I smiled, coming back to Singapore, because that same jungle, pushed to the edge of our land and counsciousness, will grow back. When the people go, on this island or some other, the rainforest will push back in. Within months The asphalt will crack and split with shoots pushing through, the skyscrapers reduced to ruins and shelters for the stray dogs and cats. Within ten years our cities will be unrecognizable. I'm not saying it's gonna happen tomorrow, or even this century, but it will happen, and when it does life will roll over our monuments to ourselves like we steamroll an anthill. This, more than anything else, gives me a certain kind of satisfaction.
so I'm living in a sci fi movie. I was wandering through a shopping mall today, on my way to lunch, observing a security camera observing me. I wandered by the soldiers carrying automatic weapons, and thought "gee, I feel like I'm back in the US of A. . .particularly with the sterile smell emanating from these storefronts that reminds me of the airport." So I came up with my own little diversionary fantasy (as I am wont to do when wandering the streets of singapore these days, they range from romantic, to heroic to tragic), but this one I feel was particularly good. I am wandering through a shopping mall, eyes of the state pinned on me (they keep track of your movements with the EZ link card I carry in my pocket) listening to the bodiless voice tell me where I can and cannot eat, can and cannot drink, can and cannot loiter. eye contact is strictly avoided. I expect to be contacted by the underground any day now. the rumours of an armed resistance are spreading quickly on the street, though the police are quick to investigate subversive activities of any kind. yesterday an anti government website was attacked by "hackers," ie the police "anti cyber terror squad." they will do it quietly, deceiving the cameras always pinned on us. just two casual consumers conversing in a store. or something equally subtle. they will give me information on the headquarters. i figure it's somewhere in the Housing Development Board (HDB) slums, north of downtown. Maybe somewhere more dangerous though? right under their noses. Singapore's installing those new microchips in people's skulls, ostensibly to keep your bank account right along with you, but we know the truth. this has to stop.
good one, I thought. At least it killed twenty minutes of consumer desire. Now I ask you: how much of this story is true?