"Insanely Happy"
15th January 2004
2.50am
I sat in a courtroom last night where the defendant was a friend and he was being judged.
His crime: following your heart.
Defendant: "..if anything, her innocence is a plus…”
Prosecutor: “I don’t believe that a long distance relationship with a 16 year old will work. Let me ask you a few questions my friend, everybody just shut up while I ask these questions…what do you define as love? What is love? Do you love her or are you in love?….There are plenty of girls in Sydney who could do it for you.”
Defendant: “I know that, but I don't feel anything for them”
I cannot remember what he said further in response but I do remember he used the words “insanely happy” and “pure and simple”.
Defendant: “All I know is that I am insanely happy when I am with her. I was attracted to her from the moment we met… But I am trying to limit my expectations. There are so many obstacles... distance, time, culture. Its a long shot... But how romantic would it be if it all works out?”
It was a futile conversation - an exchange of views that may also be perceived as a match between two arrogant minds. The prosecutor is adamant that his opinions are valid and universal. The defendant can see where he is coming from but refuses to be deterred by such views that he once held as well. He sees reflections of himself in the prosecutor who is taking this opportunity to release the bitterness, frustration and pain of losing the love of his life. The prosector is yet to learn, mature and move on from his bad taste of the world. On the other hand, it may be beneficial for the defendant to realise that what he is doing is self-indulgent and potentially obstructive.
This is not a question of right or wrong and whether the defendant has committed a crime for either deduction has its justifications attached to it regardless of how twisted or superficial, impractical and unrealistic.
This is more a question of why? The deed has been done but why did he do it? And the defendant answers plainly and directly “I am insanely happy when I am with her”.
He is “insanely happy”…
There was so much that I wanted to contribute to that conversation but could not find the energy or appropriate level of emotional temperament to expound my thoughts, especially with enough passion so that they may prevail over the defendant’s. My weak narcotic-induced physical state disabled me from enabling the necessary connections between my heart, my mind and my voice, which is why I now sit here typing away at 3am in the morning.
This is what I wanted to say..
“Insanely happy” – seeking refuge – seeking sense amongst what does not and then attempting to make sense through one another.
The use of the word “insanely” suggests emotions of transitory manner and degree. It is an extreme feeling that cannot be sustained. Insanity cannot be lived. It is not a lifestyle. It is a state of mind and states of mind are not stagnant.
To be insane is to be mentally disordered whereby one is not of sound mind and is mentally unbalanced. A person who is insane does not make sense.
When one is happy, feelings of pleasure, delight and contentment combine to create a powerful substance whereby wanting more of it also generates the production of the malicious emotional matter known as disappointment.
As a juror, the defendant appears to have taken all material and practical aspects of this romance into account, especially in relation to the future. Will pure and simple happiness hold significance when the insane happiness retires from its role – when it has reached the end of its function and all that it is defined to do?
Do you move on or salvage what remains? The latter being a desperate endeavour to prolong the insane happiness - to fuck with fate and assume the fate-maker’s role – where you are no longer the actor but the director of the film - to falsely convince yourself that extremities of emotions can be retained for an infinite period of time when in reality, it is exposing yourself to potential damage. It is fundamentally unhealthy and greedy.
The defendant: It is pure and simple.
His idea of love is that it is unspoiled, clear and free from contamination - something close to his subjective understanding of perfection (for perfection is overrated and often unattainable).
Somehow the defendant has transposed this purity and simpleness to her youth, naivety and innocence. He won’t let go because her appearance into his life has inspired him again. The enthusiasm to seek and experience that euphoric state of mind known as love has been activated.
She represents happiness but she is not happiness itself. She is just a girl. She does not know what she wants and she has yet to see and experience. She is yet to discover and learn for herself. She is yet to grow. She does not know what happiness means so how can she know what love is?
Self-discovery is a vital human process. To be the Prince who comes riding on a white horse to save her from the burning tower is to obstruct her ability to seek clarity and truth for herself.
Sometimes I see myself as a free baby bird that flies back to her mother in the nest where she was born, raised and protected. What my mother has built for me in that nest is irreplaceable. When I fly back to the nest, it is because I know that my mother has built a strong one for me so that I may know what true strength and love for another means. To go back to the nest is to acknowledge my mother’s efforts and substantiate my appreciation and respect.
Once, I was offered the prospect of a bigger and better nest. All I had to do was fly away from the one I was living in already. .. fly far far away….away from everything that meant anything…
So tempting and self-indulgent. That guarantee of warmth and comfort and freedom from the confines of what was already built for me at home.
Being completely consumed by the freshness, the overwhelming sense of pleasure, the warmth and the security, it was easy to forget how to be realistic.
Fortunately, the one who offered me the haven of happiness realised in time. He let me go and withdrew from our dream and it was within that moment that insane happiness became insanity.
What I thought made sense revealed to be senseless. What I believed was pure and simple exposed a harsh reality that I blinded myself to, be it deliberately or subconsciously – it still represents a refusal to acknowledge the transparency of the situation.
The truth was always there – it can never be eradicated – it may be denied and ignored but it will never go away.
Instead of salvaging, he preserved. He cut our losses short. Instead of taking the risk, he chose to protect. Instead of sticking more pins in, he threw the pins away.
What we had was pure and simple and he left it at that. He did not want a struggle to survive.
It was my youth and my naivety that made me fail to realise that in the end, what I interpreted to be an act of cruelty, selfishness and inconsideration was actually altruistic.
Why did he break up with me? If he loved me, why did he leave me?
I loved him. He loved me.
One year later…
Because he loved me.
My memory of him is only of beautiful things … walking in the rain, conversations in bed, the silence of having nothing to say as he held me – how that silence would be discomforting amongst other company.
I imagine what life would be like now if we had pursued that relationship beyond our practical limits. Our lives would be reduced to agonising over the future…constant longing, insecurities, he may be a long distance phone call away but he is far away … as I am far away to him.
Instead of preserving long distance phone calls and late night ICQ dialogues, he chose to preserve our warm embraces, our eye contact, our smiles – elements of the real relationship that we had. We couldn’t prolong it so he bottled it before the insane happiness was due to expire.
At first, I did not understand – why let go of a good thing? Now I understand - it is because it was a good thing. The moment I stepped into the departure gates of the airport was where the good thing could either be retained in its beautiful form as a memory and an experience or it could continue and become a struggle that I would deny and mentally strain myself over throughout the flight and afterwards. The latter inhibiting my capacity to grow and mature for myself as the only me in the Universe.
Therefore, love can be pure and simple. But in order for it to last requires a strength that is sown, slowly grown, nurtured and harvested when ripe. Strength cannot be given to us and it cannot be requested. Pure strength comes from within – an intricate combination of mental and emotional ingredients unique to each individual. Love is created when two strengths combine to create a powerful substance – the substance is balanced, light and stable – a composition that is damn good for those who use the ingredients with care but toxic to those who do not.
I wouldn’t mind meeting my compatible strength.
Like pain, love is powerful. Two strengths may also combine to create pain, which is usually not realised until the pain is felt. The manner and degree of pain or love does not matter. It is still pain and it is still love. Big win, small win – still a win. Big loss or small loss – still a loss.
You create your own adventures with all its dragons and treasures…
An intimate scrapbook documenting the trials and tribulations of nereis, our intrepid nematode at large (and a somewhat inconsistent blogger)
Friday, January 16, 2004
Monday, November 17, 2003
Have just finished packing the last of my stuff into boxes. I've hired a truck to move it all to my new apartment tomorrow.
I suddenly realise, tonight is my last night in the family home. It's quietly depressing emptying out one's room. Taking down those pictures, removing all the personal clutter, so carefully layered over time. Discovering lost objects amongst the dust bunnies, letters and presents from friends, assorted hair thingies left behind by ex-girlfriends, receipts for year's of purchases... It's either in the bin or a box now. I've given my space back to the void ... it will no longer be an extension of me.
Tomorrow, this room will be empty, and I will be living on my own.
One half of me shouts hurrah! The other half wipes a tear away.
I suddenly realise, tonight is my last night in the family home. It's quietly depressing emptying out one's room. Taking down those pictures, removing all the personal clutter, so carefully layered over time. Discovering lost objects amongst the dust bunnies, letters and presents from friends, assorted hair thingies left behind by ex-girlfriends, receipts for year's of purchases... It's either in the bin or a box now. I've given my space back to the void ... it will no longer be an extension of me.
Tomorrow, this room will be empty, and I will be living on my own.
One half of me shouts hurrah! The other half wipes a tear away.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
At 15, Annabelle was one of those rare beauties who can make every man's head turn - regardless of age or physical fitness. She was one of the few who could send pulses racing in young and old and cause old men to groan with regret simply by walking down the street. She quickly noticed the silence that followed her appearance in a cafe or a classroom, but it would be years before she completely understood it. At the CEG in Crecy-en-Brie, it was common knowledge that she and Michel were 'together', but even if they had not been, no boy would have dared try it on with her. The terrible predicament of a beautiful girl is that only an experienced womaniser, someone cynical and without scruple, feels that he is up to the challenge. More often than not, she will lose her virginity to some filthy lowlife in what can prove to be the first step in an irrevocable decline.
Monday, October 20, 2003
So it's been more than a year since G left... a symbolic milestone that now seems so inconsequential. Somehow it doesn't really feel like the fresh start I expected. But like the stock market, my fortunes have bottomed and are now trending up. I am carrying less baggage than I was at the beginning of the year... all that bitterness and anguish... seems so melodramatic now. Yet it changed my life. I am not the same person I was a year ago. Somewhat cynical and hardened. Less trusting. But at the same time, stronger, more mature, more caring.
September 5th, 2003 was quite special. On a crowded dancefloor, at the last RnB night ever at Dendy, I told Cherie that I'm surprised I'm still here. The rest of the night was not PG rated, and was in many ways a bit scandalous... I believe those who were there remember it much more vividly than I. The DJ's played all my favourite songs that night, including Return of the Mack, In Da Club, Too Close, and U Remind Me... haha, it's all coming back to me now...
Two weeks ago I got to run some focus groups into the cosmetics industry. I've always wanted to get into the strategic area of marketing... gaining consumer insights doesnt really fall under my current job role, but I volunteered for the out of hours experience... which involved lots of creative exercises to get groups of girls talking about cosmetics, concepts of beauty and motivations behind make-up... it was all very... educational. Highlights of the evening included beauty being defined as happiness, an inner glow. I like that... no guy would have said that.
In other news, I bought a little 1 bedroom apartment in Surry Hills, opposite Prince Alfred Park (the one with the swimming pool next to Central station). Yes, I am now officially a real-estate mogul / wage-slave! I will be moving out in mid-November and declaring independence. The whole property purchase has been quite surreal. I haven't really thought about it much, but in the space of a few weeks I will be a S.I.N.K.
Living with my parents has never been so good, but the decision to move out is motivated by the $7,000 first home buyers grant, and my infamous appearance in the July 15th edition of The Bulletin magazine - front cover feature article "Kids Who Won't Leave Home". Check out page 28, where an insouciant Nereis is glibly quoted as saying "You don't really worry about money. It just seems to accumulate no matter how much fun you have on the weekend." I've since become known around work as "the accumulator." At Friday night drinks, one of the office girls said to me "You realise you sound like an absolute wanker in that article?!"
Yes I do. Thank you, The Bulletin. But the funny thing about wankers is that they're proud of it.
I'm excited about doing the place up and learning to survive as a bachelor. In preparation, I've developed an unhealthy interest in DIY home improvement and cooking shows. However, part of me feels like I'm surrendering my youth. I got a taste of the domestic drudgery awaiting me over the past two weeks, as both parental units were oseas in Malaysia & Singapore. Coming home late after work to an empty house was depressing! With no one to talk to, I found myself doing a lot of cleaning and reading the newspaper in front of the TV, when usually, I do neither.
Rather more exciting, are my holiday plans! I'm taking a month off work to party with my friends in Malaysia, Hongkong and China over Xmas and New Year... I really should be saving towards my new mortgage, but a big oseas trip is the last new year's resolution that I haven't fulfilled yet. EN inspired me to write a list of personal goals at the beginning of the year... I'm secretly proud that I've now accomplished all of them. I've been really active, making new friends and trying a lot of new things like rock climbing, archery, dance class & tennis. At the same time, I've grown closer to my family, having really good conversations with my mum and dad, taking them out for cafe breakfast after a big night out... and I finished an evening marketing course at UTS - graduated with distinction average! So whilst this past year has been hard for me, in many ways, I think I've grown and become a better person for it.
September 5th, 2003 was quite special. On a crowded dancefloor, at the last RnB night ever at Dendy, I told Cherie that I'm surprised I'm still here. The rest of the night was not PG rated, and was in many ways a bit scandalous... I believe those who were there remember it much more vividly than I. The DJ's played all my favourite songs that night, including Return of the Mack, In Da Club, Too Close, and U Remind Me... haha, it's all coming back to me now...
Two weeks ago I got to run some focus groups into the cosmetics industry. I've always wanted to get into the strategic area of marketing... gaining consumer insights doesnt really fall under my current job role, but I volunteered for the out of hours experience... which involved lots of creative exercises to get groups of girls talking about cosmetics, concepts of beauty and motivations behind make-up... it was all very... educational. Highlights of the evening included beauty being defined as happiness, an inner glow. I like that... no guy would have said that.
In other news, I bought a little 1 bedroom apartment in Surry Hills, opposite Prince Alfred Park (the one with the swimming pool next to Central station). Yes, I am now officially a real-estate mogul / wage-slave! I will be moving out in mid-November and declaring independence. The whole property purchase has been quite surreal. I haven't really thought about it much, but in the space of a few weeks I will be a S.I.N.K.
Living with my parents has never been so good, but the decision to move out is motivated by the $7,000 first home buyers grant, and my infamous appearance in the July 15th edition of The Bulletin magazine - front cover feature article "Kids Who Won't Leave Home". Check out page 28, where an insouciant Nereis is glibly quoted as saying "You don't really worry about money. It just seems to accumulate no matter how much fun you have on the weekend." I've since become known around work as "the accumulator." At Friday night drinks, one of the office girls said to me "You realise you sound like an absolute wanker in that article?!"
Yes I do. Thank you, The Bulletin. But the funny thing about wankers is that they're proud of it.
I'm excited about doing the place up and learning to survive as a bachelor. In preparation, I've developed an unhealthy interest in DIY home improvement and cooking shows. However, part of me feels like I'm surrendering my youth. I got a taste of the domestic drudgery awaiting me over the past two weeks, as both parental units were oseas in Malaysia & Singapore. Coming home late after work to an empty house was depressing! With no one to talk to, I found myself doing a lot of cleaning and reading the newspaper in front of the TV, when usually, I do neither.
Rather more exciting, are my holiday plans! I'm taking a month off work to party with my friends in Malaysia, Hongkong and China over Xmas and New Year... I really should be saving towards my new mortgage, but a big oseas trip is the last new year's resolution that I haven't fulfilled yet. EN inspired me to write a list of personal goals at the beginning of the year... I'm secretly proud that I've now accomplished all of them. I've been really active, making new friends and trying a lot of new things like rock climbing, archery, dance class & tennis. At the same time, I've grown closer to my family, having really good conversations with my mum and dad, taking them out for cafe breakfast after a big night out... and I finished an evening marketing course at UTS - graduated with distinction average! So whilst this past year has been hard for me, in many ways, I think I've grown and become a better person for it.
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
D says any prospective girlfriend who read my blog would run in the opposite direction, so I shouldn't write so much about feeling blue and missing G. I told D she may be right and I should take this site down, so as to preserve the full potential of my beautiful future.
But when I actually logged in tonight, the urge to purge evaporated. I am feeling possessive over my words, my past. Honesty and a love for pretty phrases are enough to stay the executioner's axe. So what if I have moments of depression and desperation? Is that not natural? Does it make me a bad catch? A risky bet? A struggling company that no one wants to invest in?
D also said my blog has been less personal since I became conscious of my readership. It is true, I am torn between spilling my guts in the raw, and the diluting factor of those many eyes, to which I present many faces. From all walks of life, you gather here to peer into my soul. Yet I proudly wear my heart on my sleeve, and blurt out late-night passages of sadness and regret... I wield these sharp and honest words against an uncaring world, and I can only hope the actors of my beautiful future will look past these dangerous confessions to the passionate soul within... waiting for the right look, the right moment, to take tangible shape on centre stage...
Writing is bound up with solitude and introspection. I write when my heart and mind are tied in knots. When I am happy, I am consumed by the moment, and surrounded by friends, I live in the beauty of a laugh, that simple effervescent feeling, so removed from the heaviness of the literary world where everything is inscribed, as if in stone. No, blogging does not cross my mind when I can sense the wonderful things ahead of me. It's only when I'm alone at home, struggling with inner demons that I turn to the net to share my woes. By casting my dark thoughts out into the world, I feel more understood, and less burdened by sorrow. I cry on your virtual shoulder!
But please understand, I am not pining away in the hope of reconciliation or revenge. I am waiting for you, the star of my future, to come light up my life.
But when I actually logged in tonight, the urge to purge evaporated. I am feeling possessive over my words, my past. Honesty and a love for pretty phrases are enough to stay the executioner's axe. So what if I have moments of depression and desperation? Is that not natural? Does it make me a bad catch? A risky bet? A struggling company that no one wants to invest in?
D also said my blog has been less personal since I became conscious of my readership. It is true, I am torn between spilling my guts in the raw, and the diluting factor of those many eyes, to which I present many faces. From all walks of life, you gather here to peer into my soul. Yet I proudly wear my heart on my sleeve, and blurt out late-night passages of sadness and regret... I wield these sharp and honest words against an uncaring world, and I can only hope the actors of my beautiful future will look past these dangerous confessions to the passionate soul within... waiting for the right look, the right moment, to take tangible shape on centre stage...
Writing is bound up with solitude and introspection. I write when my heart and mind are tied in knots. When I am happy, I am consumed by the moment, and surrounded by friends, I live in the beauty of a laugh, that simple effervescent feeling, so removed from the heaviness of the literary world where everything is inscribed, as if in stone. No, blogging does not cross my mind when I can sense the wonderful things ahead of me. It's only when I'm alone at home, struggling with inner demons that I turn to the net to share my woes. By casting my dark thoughts out into the world, I feel more understood, and less burdened by sorrow. I cry on your virtual shoulder!
But please understand, I am not pining away in the hope of reconciliation or revenge. I am waiting for you, the star of my future, to come light up my life.
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
I'm home sick today. Woke up with a headache, temperature and sore throat. I've been stressed lately, effectively working two jobs since my trafficker left. We've hired another one to start Monday, but it's been all hands on deck for the last few weeks. I felt guilty about taking a sickie when there's so much work on, but damn, I've pre-paid for a big ski weekend in 3 days and I don't want to jeopardise my investment! hehehe
I've been too busy experiencing to blog or create lately. I'm going thru an "experiencing" period, you might say. Lately I can't stand my own company, so I've been going out after work and cramming my leisure time with movie nights, karaoke, hiphop dance lessons, gym, and late-night gaming. On weekends, I go hunting for realestate, the perfect bubble tea and good occasions for getting drunk. I'm enjoying life, greedily seeking out new friends and experiences, improving myself thru study and sport, and socialising like all lonely bastards should. I'm still somewhere between Coldplay's The Scientist, Robbie Williams' Better Man, and George Michael's Waiting for that Day. From the sublime, to the popular, to the pathetic. Haha, well we all have our pathetic moments. And somehow music manages to elevate the pathetic into the sublime.
Anyway, to keep you company in my absence, here are some blogs that do get updated regularly. I've been reading them vicariously, instead of writing my own. And no, I don't know any of these people personally, so don't go tellin them I sent you!
It's A Big (Fucking) Deal - sassy Malaysian girl who studies at UNSW.
A Soul-Less Man's Journal - funny ass Korean guy from LA who works in an ad agency like moi.
Dawei's House of Debauchery and Beeyotching - gay fucker from Brisbane... so offensive he's brilliant.
I've been too busy experiencing to blog or create lately. I'm going thru an "experiencing" period, you might say. Lately I can't stand my own company, so I've been going out after work and cramming my leisure time with movie nights, karaoke, hiphop dance lessons, gym, and late-night gaming. On weekends, I go hunting for realestate, the perfect bubble tea and good occasions for getting drunk. I'm enjoying life, greedily seeking out new friends and experiences, improving myself thru study and sport, and socialising like all lonely bastards should. I'm still somewhere between Coldplay's The Scientist, Robbie Williams' Better Man, and George Michael's Waiting for that Day. From the sublime, to the popular, to the pathetic. Haha, well we all have our pathetic moments. And somehow music manages to elevate the pathetic into the sublime.
Anyway, to keep you company in my absence, here are some blogs that do get updated regularly. I've been reading them vicariously, instead of writing my own. And no, I don't know any of these people personally, so don't go tellin them I sent you!
It's A Big (Fucking) Deal - sassy Malaysian girl who studies at UNSW.
A Soul-Less Man's Journal - funny ass Korean guy from LA who works in an ad agency like moi.
Dawei's House of Debauchery and Beeyotching - gay fucker from Brisbane... so offensive he's brilliant.
Monday, August 18, 2003
On Saturday morning I got a call from my cousin in Sabah. My uncle had passed away in Kota Belud, my Dad’s hometown. As coincidence would have it, my Dad was in KL for a work conference, and as I got the news first, I thought I should call him immediately on his mobile.
“Dad, I’ve got some very bad news for you. Your brother is dead.”
“Which one?
“Second uncle, Ah Seng’s father…”
My dad was in a good mood at the time, and I found it a bit strange not to detect any shock or sadness in his voice, but considering the way Asians dislike public displays of emotion, unexpected phonecalls of this type are sometimes hard to read. Anyway he cancelled his conference and flew to KK that day... and is now in KB, ready for the funeral tomorrow.
When my parents first came out to Australia as students, they both lived with Australian families who rented out the spare room to international students. These landlords/guardians eventually became adopted family. I grew up thinking of these folks as my Australian grandparents. We had three pairs of Aussie grandparents – the Kidds, the Hickeys and the Scotts. I will always remember the morning that Grandpa Hickey passed away and I had to get my Dad out of the shower to answer the phone. I must’ve been about 8 or 9 years old, but I remember him standing in the kitchen, dripping wet, and crying. I can’t remember ever seeing him cry, except for that occasion.
Last night I was out clubbing with my friends at Temptation, an Asian dance party at City Hotel, when a fight broke out on the dancefloor. An acquaintance of mine got the shit kicked out of him by 6-8 guys. I think he tried to chat up one of the girls in their group and that was all the excuse they needed. One of them grabbed him by the arm as he tried to walk away. He was apologizing at the time, saying “Sorry, sorry sorry” but they must’ve been spoiling for a fight because from out of nowhere they swarmed on him and beat him to the ground, kicking and punching him senseless. One of the bar-staff intervened and pushed the attackers back. I saw Paul’s body huddled on the floor, but at that stage I didn’t realize who it was. Then one of the gang members started throwing glass tumblers and bottles at the barman, who was forced to retreat. The projectiles hit his body and bounced up into the ceiling. It was all so wrong. I wanted to tackle the guy who was throwing the glasses, but before I knew it the psycho was hugging a friend that he had spotted in the crowd, and Paul and the barman had both disappeared.
We left before the cops arrived and went for a late-night pie at Harry’s Café de Wheels. Unlike my companions, who had found the whole spectacle rather surreal and exciting, I was disturbed by the ferocity of the attack, and the way the violence switched from Paul to the barman so quickly and indiscriminately. Just half an hour earlier, two of these haters had shaken my hand and ruffled my hair, as I was resting by the windowsill.
… I went to yum cha and played tennis today for the first time in 10 or so years, with some new friends I met on a recent ski trip. I've been raving and clubbing with these guys a fair bit lately. They're very close, but at the same time, welcoming to strangers like myself. And for some reason, they're going through a tennis craze at the moment. Tennis is one of my dad's great passions, which is one of the reasons I never really enjoyed it. When we were little kids, he used to make my sister and I accompany him to the courts, rather than hire a baby sitter. Later on, we both had to take tennis lessons so he could use us as target practice for his power serve. But today, I actually enjoyed bashing a few balls around, even though the events of the last two days have left me unsettled.
“Dad, I’ve got some very bad news for you. Your brother is dead.”
“Which one?
“Second uncle, Ah Seng’s father…”
My dad was in a good mood at the time, and I found it a bit strange not to detect any shock or sadness in his voice, but considering the way Asians dislike public displays of emotion, unexpected phonecalls of this type are sometimes hard to read. Anyway he cancelled his conference and flew to KK that day... and is now in KB, ready for the funeral tomorrow.
When my parents first came out to Australia as students, they both lived with Australian families who rented out the spare room to international students. These landlords/guardians eventually became adopted family. I grew up thinking of these folks as my Australian grandparents. We had three pairs of Aussie grandparents – the Kidds, the Hickeys and the Scotts. I will always remember the morning that Grandpa Hickey passed away and I had to get my Dad out of the shower to answer the phone. I must’ve been about 8 or 9 years old, but I remember him standing in the kitchen, dripping wet, and crying. I can’t remember ever seeing him cry, except for that occasion.
Last night I was out clubbing with my friends at Temptation, an Asian dance party at City Hotel, when a fight broke out on the dancefloor. An acquaintance of mine got the shit kicked out of him by 6-8 guys. I think he tried to chat up one of the girls in their group and that was all the excuse they needed. One of them grabbed him by the arm as he tried to walk away. He was apologizing at the time, saying “Sorry, sorry sorry” but they must’ve been spoiling for a fight because from out of nowhere they swarmed on him and beat him to the ground, kicking and punching him senseless. One of the bar-staff intervened and pushed the attackers back. I saw Paul’s body huddled on the floor, but at that stage I didn’t realize who it was. Then one of the gang members started throwing glass tumblers and bottles at the barman, who was forced to retreat. The projectiles hit his body and bounced up into the ceiling. It was all so wrong. I wanted to tackle the guy who was throwing the glasses, but before I knew it the psycho was hugging a friend that he had spotted in the crowd, and Paul and the barman had both disappeared.
We left before the cops arrived and went for a late-night pie at Harry’s Café de Wheels. Unlike my companions, who had found the whole spectacle rather surreal and exciting, I was disturbed by the ferocity of the attack, and the way the violence switched from Paul to the barman so quickly and indiscriminately. Just half an hour earlier, two of these haters had shaken my hand and ruffled my hair, as I was resting by the windowsill.
… I went to yum cha and played tennis today for the first time in 10 or so years, with some new friends I met on a recent ski trip. I've been raving and clubbing with these guys a fair bit lately. They're very close, but at the same time, welcoming to strangers like myself. And for some reason, they're going through a tennis craze at the moment. Tennis is one of my dad's great passions, which is one of the reasons I never really enjoyed it. When we were little kids, he used to make my sister and I accompany him to the courts, rather than hire a baby sitter. Later on, we both had to take tennis lessons so he could use us as target practice for his power serve. But today, I actually enjoyed bashing a few balls around, even though the events of the last two days have left me unsettled.
Saturday, August 16, 2003
Sunday, August 10, 2003
Things I like to do on weekends. Get horribly drunk at rnb parties and karoake. And read the arts section of the newspaper.
This week's highlight was an article on the concept of Beauty, which got me thinking because it relates to my last few posts about love, religion, and what motivates us to keep on living. How do we know what beauty is? And why do we seek it?
Everyone has heard that old acorn "beauty starts in the eye of the beholder." And yes, concepts of beauty differ from culture to culture. There is no doubt that beauty is tied up with perception. But it seems all cultures seek out the Beautiful, and there must be some underlying reason to all this yearning and drooling.
Some see beauty in Darwinian terms, as a sign of physical health, and by implication, reproductive ability. Handsome Kings are born of flawless Queens, which explains why the kingdoms of men often went to war over women. This theory also sheds some light on non-human kinds of beauty such as buildings and music. Things we create to impress the opposite sex and increase our chances of getting laid. However, it doesn't explain the heroin chic of the 90s supermodel scene, in which a healthy glow was considered the antithesis of beauty.
Plato thought the true lover of wisdom gained a heightened sensitivity to perceive natural beauty in the world. Thus a life of true virtue brought one in touch with the Beautiful. Many who followed Plato and Aristotle also intertwined beauty with truth and goodness... spreading the idea that beauty springs from moral purity, and because of this, beauty historically signified goodness. This explains why heroes and gods are always beautiful. However, ugly people are often nicer than their beautiful counterparts, perhaps because they have to try harder to attract the opposite sex. They cultivate inner beauty to cancel out their outer ugliness. Beautiful people have it easy. They are born with physical assets that bring happiness to others. This kind of effortless giving is akin to a headstart in life.
But if there's one thing I've learnt in months of clubbing, it's that beautiful people can also be sluts. This goes against the traditional view of beauty being associated with virtue and goodness. I think the Neech had it pegged right when he said that "truth is ugly." We possess art lest we perish of the truth. And similarly, beauty, much as it is tied to physical appearance, is actually this more complex, spiritual thing. Beauty belongs in the world of art, of ideals and dreams, and not the world of everyday truth. Because that beautiful young girl you see with the angelic face that radiates hope, innocence and a romantic future, is often an unpredictable, high maintenance bitch who sleeps with gangsters and backstabs her friends.
There is something inherently random about beauty. Part of its appeal is it's rarity. Cosmetics, surgery and clothing only go so far. True beauty is effortless superiority. Nature encourages mutation and constant adaptation. The natural distribution of all this variety creates beauty as a necessary and mysterious pinnacle towards which our loins command us to climb. Beauty as an evolutionary goal, an ancient, instinctual lust. And thus strange and wonderful species like the proboscis monkey came about because the babes kept choosing mates with big noses.
Lastly, beauty is inspiring because it gives us a glimpse of some greater existence - whether it be the hand of God or some natural order. Iris Murdoch wrote that "Art and morals are, with certain provisos, one. The essence of both of them is love. And Love is the extremely difficult realisation that something other than oneself is real." A beautiful girl, apartment, painting, or song, answers in us a primal need to believe in something greater than ourselves, and to be mesmerised by it. This transcendent moment of wonder and recognition allows us to triumph, however fleetingly, over death.
This week's highlight was an article on the concept of Beauty, which got me thinking because it relates to my last few posts about love, religion, and what motivates us to keep on living. How do we know what beauty is? And why do we seek it?
Everyone has heard that old acorn "beauty starts in the eye of the beholder." And yes, concepts of beauty differ from culture to culture. There is no doubt that beauty is tied up with perception. But it seems all cultures seek out the Beautiful, and there must be some underlying reason to all this yearning and drooling.
Some see beauty in Darwinian terms, as a sign of physical health, and by implication, reproductive ability. Handsome Kings are born of flawless Queens, which explains why the kingdoms of men often went to war over women. This theory also sheds some light on non-human kinds of beauty such as buildings and music. Things we create to impress the opposite sex and increase our chances of getting laid. However, it doesn't explain the heroin chic of the 90s supermodel scene, in which a healthy glow was considered the antithesis of beauty.
Plato thought the true lover of wisdom gained a heightened sensitivity to perceive natural beauty in the world. Thus a life of true virtue brought one in touch with the Beautiful. Many who followed Plato and Aristotle also intertwined beauty with truth and goodness... spreading the idea that beauty springs from moral purity, and because of this, beauty historically signified goodness. This explains why heroes and gods are always beautiful. However, ugly people are often nicer than their beautiful counterparts, perhaps because they have to try harder to attract the opposite sex. They cultivate inner beauty to cancel out their outer ugliness. Beautiful people have it easy. They are born with physical assets that bring happiness to others. This kind of effortless giving is akin to a headstart in life.
But if there's one thing I've learnt in months of clubbing, it's that beautiful people can also be sluts. This goes against the traditional view of beauty being associated with virtue and goodness. I think the Neech had it pegged right when he said that "truth is ugly." We possess art lest we perish of the truth. And similarly, beauty, much as it is tied to physical appearance, is actually this more complex, spiritual thing. Beauty belongs in the world of art, of ideals and dreams, and not the world of everyday truth. Because that beautiful young girl you see with the angelic face that radiates hope, innocence and a romantic future, is often an unpredictable, high maintenance bitch who sleeps with gangsters and backstabs her friends.
There is something inherently random about beauty. Part of its appeal is it's rarity. Cosmetics, surgery and clothing only go so far. True beauty is effortless superiority. Nature encourages mutation and constant adaptation. The natural distribution of all this variety creates beauty as a necessary and mysterious pinnacle towards which our loins command us to climb. Beauty as an evolutionary goal, an ancient, instinctual lust. And thus strange and wonderful species like the proboscis monkey came about because the babes kept choosing mates with big noses.
Lastly, beauty is inspiring because it gives us a glimpse of some greater existence - whether it be the hand of God or some natural order. Iris Murdoch wrote that "Art and morals are, with certain provisos, one. The essence of both of them is love. And Love is the extremely difficult realisation that something other than oneself is real." A beautiful girl, apartment, painting, or song, answers in us a primal need to believe in something greater than ourselves, and to be mesmerised by it. This transcendent moment of wonder and recognition allows us to triumph, however fleetingly, over death.
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