bluepen is twenty-one & still uninteresting. it feeds on blueink, and thinks bluethoughts; only rarely does it turn white, and even then it's bluish white
uninteresting thoughts
Thursday, December 25, 2003
Leaving for NS early tomorrow morning. Feeling's mixed, but that's so clichéd. The military stint however does make the future slightly less known and predictable for me, again. Just now, as the need for clothes hangers calls for putting away of RJ uniforms, i couldn't help but feel that oh-my-how-time-flies sensation rising from somewhere in my stomach to that funny place behind my nose where it became an especially audible exhalation. It doesn't seem very long ago when i so excitedly put on the RJ uniform and pretended to be stuck-up and cool, yet now i can't even remember exactly how i looked in it. Very soon i'll put on my military uniform with "C Su" on my left chest (wait... maybe it's right... no, left... hmmm... i dunno *shrugs*). Oh my how time flies.
Obviously, this blog will be quiet for quite a while. But swing by once in a while, will ya all? It's not like i'm dead or abducted by alien. Merry Christmas in the meanwhile!
Obviously, this blog will be quiet for quite a while. But swing by once in a while, will ya all? It's not like i'm dead or abducted by alien. Merry Christmas in the meanwhile!
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
Just finished up 75 Short Masterpieces (edited by Roger B. Goodman, published by Bantam Books, 1972), which Eve had been so kind to lend me to while away waiting time or otherwise while at Malaysia. Well it's sad to say that many of the stories are dull and drab, a few even reach the level of being completely absurd. However, one story immediately called for attention and is truly a masterpiece, and here it is, The Chaser by John Collier:
Alan Austen, as nervous as a kitten, went up certain dark and creaky staris in the neighborhood of Pell Street, and peered about for a long time on the dim landing before he found the name he wanted written obscurely on one of the doors.
He pushed open this door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, which contained no furniture but a plain kitchen table, a rocking-chair, and an ordinary chair. On one of the dirty buff-coloured walls were a couple of shelves, containing in all erhaps a dozen bottles and jars.
An old man sat in the rocking-chair, reading a newspaper. Alan, without a word, handed him the card he had been given. "Sit down, Mr. Austen," said the old man very politely. "I am glad to make your acquaintance."
“Is it true,” asked Alan, “that you have a certain mixture that has -er - quite extraordinary effects?”
“My dear sir,” replied the old man, “my stock in trade is not very large – I don’t deal in laxatives and teething mixtures – but such as it is, it is varied. I think nothing I sell has effects which could be precisely described as ordinary.”
“Well, the fact is…” began Alan.
“Here, for example,” interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the shelf. “Here is a liquid as colourless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, wine, or any other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy.”
“Do you mean it is a poison?” cried Alan, very much horrified.
“Call it a glove-cleaner if you like,” said the old man indifferently. “Maybe it will clean gloves. I have never tried. One might call it a life-cleaner. Lives need cleaning sometimes.”
“I want nothing of that sort,” said Alan.
“Probably it is just as well,” said the old man. “Do you know the price of this? For one teaspoonful, which is sufficient, I ask five thousand dollars. Never less, not a penny less.
“I hope all your mixtures are not as expensive,” said Alan apprehensively.
“Oh dear, no,” said the old man. “It would be no good charging that sort of price for a love potion, for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have five thousand dollars. Otherwise they would not need a love potion.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said Alan.
“I look at it like this,” said the old man. “Please a customer with one article, and he will come back when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if necessary.”
“So,” said Alan, “you really do sell love potions?”
“If I did not sell love potions,” said the old man, reaching for another bottle, “I should not have mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a position to oblige that one can afford to be so confidential.”
“And these potions,” said Alan. “They are not just – just – er –”
“Oh, no,” said the old man. “Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the mere casual impulse. But they include it. Oh, yes, they include it. Bountifully, insistently. Everlastingly.”
“Dear me!” said Alan, attempting a look of scientific detachment. “How very interesting!”
“But consider the spiritual side,” said the old man.
“I do, indeed,” said Alan.
“For indifference,” said the old man, “they substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give one tiny measure of this to the young lady – its flavour is imperceptible in orange juice, soup, or cocktails – and however gay and giddy she is, she will change altogether. She will want nothing but solitude and you.
“I can hardly believe it,” said Alan. “She is so fond of parties.”
“She will not like them any more,” said the old man. “She will be afraid of the pretty girls you may meet.”
“She will actually be jealous?” cried Alan in a rapture. “Of me?”
“Yes, she will want to be everything to you.”
“She is, already. Only she doesn’t care about it.”
“She will, when she has taken this. She will care intensely. You will be her sole interest in life.”
“Wonderful!” cried Alan.
“She will want to know all you do,” said the old man. “all that has happened to you during the day. Every word of it. She will want to know what you are thinking about, why you smile suddenly, why you are looking sad.”
“That is love!” cried Alan.
“Yes,” said the old man. “How carefully she will look after you! She will never allow you to be tired, to sit in a draught, to neglect your food. If you are an hour late, she will be terrified. She will think you are killed, or that some siren has caught you."
“I can hardly imagine Diana like that!” cried Alan, overwhelmed with joy.
“You will not have to use your imagination,” said the old man. “And, by the way, since there are always sirens, if by any chance you should, later on, slip a little, you need not worry. She will forgive you, in the end. She will be terribly hurt, of course, but she will forgive you – in the end.”
“That will not happen,” said Alan fervently.
“Of course not,” said the old man. “But, if it did, you need not worry. She would never divorce you. Oh, no! and, of course, she will never give you the least, the very least, grounds for uneasiness.”
“And how much,” said Alan, “is this wonderful mixture?”
“It is not as dear,” said the old man, “as the glove-cleaner, or life-cleaner, as I sometimes call it. No. that is five thousand dollars, never a penny less. One has to be older than you are, to indulge in that sort of thing. One has to save up for it.”
“But the love potion?” said Alan.
“Oh, that,” said the old man, opening the drawer in the kitchen table, and taking out a tiny, rather dirty-looking phial. “That is just a dollar.”
“I can tell you how grateful I am,” said Alan, watching him fill it.
“I like to oblige,” said the old man. “Then customers come back, later in life, when they are better off, and want more expensive things. Here you are. You will find it very effective.”
“Thank you again,” said Alan. “Good-bye.”
“Au revoir,” said the old man. the end
Of course, if you had bothered to read it, you will find it not nearly as exiting or suspenseful as Roald Dahl, which i'm just getting started on now. But for a thousand words, this is almost as good as they get. :)
Alan Austen, as nervous as a kitten, went up certain dark and creaky staris in the neighborhood of Pell Street, and peered about for a long time on the dim landing before he found the name he wanted written obscurely on one of the doors.
He pushed open this door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, which contained no furniture but a plain kitchen table, a rocking-chair, and an ordinary chair. On one of the dirty buff-coloured walls were a couple of shelves, containing in all erhaps a dozen bottles and jars.
An old man sat in the rocking-chair, reading a newspaper. Alan, without a word, handed him the card he had been given. "Sit down, Mr. Austen," said the old man very politely. "I am glad to make your acquaintance."
“Is it true,” asked Alan, “that you have a certain mixture that has -er - quite extraordinary effects?”
“My dear sir,” replied the old man, “my stock in trade is not very large – I don’t deal in laxatives and teething mixtures – but such as it is, it is varied. I think nothing I sell has effects which could be precisely described as ordinary.”
“Well, the fact is…” began Alan.
“Here, for example,” interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the shelf. “Here is a liquid as colourless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, wine, or any other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy.”
“Do you mean it is a poison?” cried Alan, very much horrified.
“Call it a glove-cleaner if you like,” said the old man indifferently. “Maybe it will clean gloves. I have never tried. One might call it a life-cleaner. Lives need cleaning sometimes.”
“I want nothing of that sort,” said Alan.
“Probably it is just as well,” said the old man. “Do you know the price of this? For one teaspoonful, which is sufficient, I ask five thousand dollars. Never less, not a penny less.
“I hope all your mixtures are not as expensive,” said Alan apprehensively.
“Oh dear, no,” said the old man. “It would be no good charging that sort of price for a love potion, for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have five thousand dollars. Otherwise they would not need a love potion.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said Alan.
“I look at it like this,” said the old man. “Please a customer with one article, and he will come back when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if necessary.”
“So,” said Alan, “you really do sell love potions?”
“If I did not sell love potions,” said the old man, reaching for another bottle, “I should not have mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a position to oblige that one can afford to be so confidential.”
“And these potions,” said Alan. “They are not just – just – er –”
“Oh, no,” said the old man. “Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the mere casual impulse. But they include it. Oh, yes, they include it. Bountifully, insistently. Everlastingly.”
“Dear me!” said Alan, attempting a look of scientific detachment. “How very interesting!”
“But consider the spiritual side,” said the old man.
“I do, indeed,” said Alan.
“For indifference,” said the old man, “they substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give one tiny measure of this to the young lady – its flavour is imperceptible in orange juice, soup, or cocktails – and however gay and giddy she is, she will change altogether. She will want nothing but solitude and you.
“I can hardly believe it,” said Alan. “She is so fond of parties.”
“She will not like them any more,” said the old man. “She will be afraid of the pretty girls you may meet.”
“She will actually be jealous?” cried Alan in a rapture. “Of me?”
“Yes, she will want to be everything to you.”
“She is, already. Only she doesn’t care about it.”
“She will, when she has taken this. She will care intensely. You will be her sole interest in life.”
“Wonderful!” cried Alan.
“She will want to know all you do,” said the old man. “all that has happened to you during the day. Every word of it. She will want to know what you are thinking about, why you smile suddenly, why you are looking sad.”
“That is love!” cried Alan.
“Yes,” said the old man. “How carefully she will look after you! She will never allow you to be tired, to sit in a draught, to neglect your food. If you are an hour late, she will be terrified. She will think you are killed, or that some siren has caught you."
“I can hardly imagine Diana like that!” cried Alan, overwhelmed with joy.
“You will not have to use your imagination,” said the old man. “And, by the way, since there are always sirens, if by any chance you should, later on, slip a little, you need not worry. She will forgive you, in the end. She will be terribly hurt, of course, but she will forgive you – in the end.”
“That will not happen,” said Alan fervently.
“Of course not,” said the old man. “But, if it did, you need not worry. She would never divorce you. Oh, no! and, of course, she will never give you the least, the very least, grounds for uneasiness.”
“And how much,” said Alan, “is this wonderful mixture?”
“It is not as dear,” said the old man, “as the glove-cleaner, or life-cleaner, as I sometimes call it. No. that is five thousand dollars, never a penny less. One has to be older than you are, to indulge in that sort of thing. One has to save up for it.”
“But the love potion?” said Alan.
“Oh, that,” said the old man, opening the drawer in the kitchen table, and taking out a tiny, rather dirty-looking phial. “That is just a dollar.”
“I can tell you how grateful I am,” said Alan, watching him fill it.
“I like to oblige,” said the old man. “Then customers come back, later in life, when they are better off, and want more expensive things. Here you are. You will find it very effective.”
“Thank you again,” said Alan. “Good-bye.”
“Au revoir,” said the old man. the end
Of course, if you had bothered to read it, you will find it not nearly as exiting or suspenseful as Roald Dahl, which i'm just getting started on now. But for a thousand words, this is almost as good as they get. :)
Sunday, December 21, 2003
Just returned from my Malaysia trip with my class gang and Heather the outcast. :p Here is a summary:
17th Dec, 1st day
Boarded Superstar Virgo at 8:30pm, lugging Zhijing's bag which could well have served as the ship's anchor. A flamboyant couple dressed in bright blue and green Latino stuff grabbed me for a photo. Forced a smile. Moved on. The rooms were spacious, considering that we were not on terra firma. Dropped our luggage before proceeding to buffet dinner. The dinner was finished while the shp was still sitting in the port. It was only after the sucky dinner, when Clemence, Ruijie, Kat and i dipped ourselves into the jacuzzi did the vessel begin to trudge out of the harbour. Kat's bikini top almost drifted off, thanks to me who pulled off the knot behind. Fortunately for the rest of us, nothing could be seen in the bubbly water.
18th Dec, 2nd day
Almost woke up too late for breakfast. The food was significantly better than that of the night before. i especially enjoyed the fruits in heavy syrup. Heather, Kat and i then went to play basketball on the top deck. The sea breeze was good, and i got a tan, everyone was happy. We reached Port Klang slightly after noon. Blue card holders, i.e. us, had to wait till 3pm to embark, by which time i had completely lost my voice. The coach then carried us into Kuala Lumpur. Ruijie our future PM fell asleep on my shoulder, i felt touched. We checked into Novotel Century before dusk, then moved out to seek dinner. Aimless wandering brought us to a Chinese/Japanese restaurant which served steamboats with ingredients that were distinctly Southeast Asian (huh?). Anyway the food was good and fulfilling, which gave us renewed strength to advance to Chee Cheong Gai (which, according to Clemence, is the combination of Chee Cheong Fan and Lo Mai Gai) the night market. The entire market had over fifty stalls at least, selling only five classes of goods: clothes and shoes, jewllery, sunglasses, perfume, and bags. Perfect competition was the economic thought of the day.
19th Dec, 3rd day
Woke up early to the call of Kat the demonic queen who stayed next to me (furthermore the two rooms are connected internally, separable only by a door, which i failed to close the night before). Everybody sat and had breakfast by the swimming pool. i fell asleep at the table shortly, and woke up to find some playing bridge over the bread and jam to kill time. Zhijing and Heather were late, and only pronounced their disinterest in going to Times Square with everyone then. i was justifiably pissed, but forgot all about it as Kat, Vina, Yong Chuen, Clemence and i ventured into the Times Square themepark. The indoor roller coaster ride was refreshing and blew away all my sleepiness. Kat and Clemence then left for Puduraya station, where a coach would take them back to Singapore. The rest then went to Patronas Twin Towers. Sadly discovered that we couldn't go up neither tower, so more shopping ensued. Voice returned slowly, but suspected that i was more popular without my voice than with...
20th Dec, 4th and last day
Had the best night's sleep since start of the journey - a full 7-hour slumber. After checking out, it was lunch at Times Square (it was just behind our hotel) and last minute itsy bitsy shopping, then departure time. Then disaster struck, unknowingly to everyone, as we rushed down to Puduraya station in three teksis. After waiting for one and a half hours, we were told that our coach had tried to pick us up at our hotel. Further complications and settlements finally secured us our places on bus 7822 (buy toto), and we departed only at almost five. The bus reache d Singapore at midnight, amidst wind and rain. Received the best supper of my life from Eve, who had been waiting since God-knows-when. And thus the perfect conclusion of my last holidays of 2003. :)
Oh and of course, the photo album. :)
17th Dec, 1st day
Boarded Superstar Virgo at 8:30pm, lugging Zhijing's bag which could well have served as the ship's anchor. A flamboyant couple dressed in bright blue and green Latino stuff grabbed me for a photo. Forced a smile. Moved on. The rooms were spacious, considering that we were not on terra firma. Dropped our luggage before proceeding to buffet dinner. The dinner was finished while the shp was still sitting in the port. It was only after the sucky dinner, when Clemence, Ruijie, Kat and i dipped ourselves into the jacuzzi did the vessel begin to trudge out of the harbour. Kat's bikini top almost drifted off, thanks to me who pulled off the knot behind. Fortunately for the rest of us, nothing could be seen in the bubbly water.
18th Dec, 2nd day
Almost woke up too late for breakfast. The food was significantly better than that of the night before. i especially enjoyed the fruits in heavy syrup. Heather, Kat and i then went to play basketball on the top deck. The sea breeze was good, and i got a tan, everyone was happy. We reached Port Klang slightly after noon. Blue card holders, i.e. us, had to wait till 3pm to embark, by which time i had completely lost my voice. The coach then carried us into Kuala Lumpur. Ruijie our future PM fell asleep on my shoulder, i felt touched. We checked into Novotel Century before dusk, then moved out to seek dinner. Aimless wandering brought us to a Chinese/Japanese restaurant which served steamboats with ingredients that were distinctly Southeast Asian (huh?). Anyway the food was good and fulfilling, which gave us renewed strength to advance to Chee Cheong Gai (which, according to Clemence, is the combination of Chee Cheong Fan and Lo Mai Gai) the night market. The entire market had over fifty stalls at least, selling only five classes of goods: clothes and shoes, jewllery, sunglasses, perfume, and bags. Perfect competition was the economic thought of the day.
19th Dec, 3rd day
Woke up early to the call of Kat the demonic queen who stayed next to me (furthermore the two rooms are connected internally, separable only by a door, which i failed to close the night before). Everybody sat and had breakfast by the swimming pool. i fell asleep at the table shortly, and woke up to find some playing bridge over the bread and jam to kill time. Zhijing and Heather were late, and only pronounced their disinterest in going to Times Square with everyone then. i was justifiably pissed, but forgot all about it as Kat, Vina, Yong Chuen, Clemence and i ventured into the Times Square themepark. The indoor roller coaster ride was refreshing and blew away all my sleepiness. Kat and Clemence then left for Puduraya station, where a coach would take them back to Singapore. The rest then went to Patronas Twin Towers. Sadly discovered that we couldn't go up neither tower, so more shopping ensued. Voice returned slowly, but suspected that i was more popular without my voice than with...
20th Dec, 4th and last day
Had the best night's sleep since start of the journey - a full 7-hour slumber. After checking out, it was lunch at Times Square (it was just behind our hotel) and last minute itsy bitsy shopping, then departure time. Then disaster struck, unknowingly to everyone, as we rushed down to Puduraya station in three teksis. After waiting for one and a half hours, we were told that our coach had tried to pick us up at our hotel. Further complications and settlements finally secured us our places on bus 7822 (buy toto), and we departed only at almost five. The bus reache d Singapore at midnight, amidst wind and rain. Received the best supper of my life from Eve, who had been waiting since God-knows-when. And thus the perfect conclusion of my last holidays of 2003. :)
Oh and of course, the photo album. :)
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Boy by Roald Dahl is so irresistable that i had to and did finish it within a day. Dahl's vivid and and sincere description of his own childhood, told in subtle and unpretentious humour, immediately wins anyone over. His forthright and calm style of storytelling, intermingled with such inherent wit and an occasional outburst of boyish mischief, tugs at your very heartstring with just those plain words. And all these liveliness and innocence, coming from an old man in his seventies! Now i just can't wait to read Roald Dahl's short stories.
Friday, December 12, 2003
Brother Bear is rather a jolly little movie. By little, i mean both in terms of plot and duration. The storyline is totally absurd at several joints, and the appearance of the mammoths, despite being hilarious, just makes you wonder what the director was trying to do. The traditional Disney laugh-out-loud humour is still present, of course. In fact, it was Rutt and Tuke the dumb moose who kept the cartoon from becoming a total drag. Even then, the show was soporific at various intervals, made even more so by the cushy sofa at the back, which nobody was bad enough to exploit. Nobody, that is, except for me, who have been spoilt by the free-for-all Beach Road cinema. Brother Bear is also short, only 1.5 hours at most. Oh, and the saddest part was the music. Please move on, Phil, you really have had it. Jane's comment after the movie, "i still like hand-drawn animation the best." If you ask me, i can't even tell the difference.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
The CAAS scholarship application programme is taking forever to load. i wonder if it's scripted to assess the applicants' patience. Anyway it's boring me to death so i'm playing around with Friendster... Can you believe it? Friendster - the ultimate product of aimless new-age cyberism with a not-so-subtle hint of promise of carnal opportunities - and i signed up. Yes, that's what boredom can do to you.
Will be putting up some Prom photos soon, but not just yet. Expect some shockingly revealing shots though, such as "Yong Chuen caught peeing in bushes". :p
By the way, Jane, NO Wishing Stairs! Absolutely NOT.
Will be putting up some Prom photos soon, but not just yet. Expect some shockingly revealing shots though, such as "Yong Chuen caught peeing in bushes". :p
By the way, Jane, NO Wishing Stairs! Absolutely NOT.
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
Yesterday's Prom was truly an extravangaza of phototaking. Not exactly "much ado about nothing", but it could have been more interesting (they could do away with the Hotties, for example). The only sad part is that many of my photos were blur, as a result of my anal assertion (no pun intended) that no flash would make the lighting more ambient. Then i closed my eyes for many of the photos with flash. In most of the remaining photos (i.e. not blur and with open eyes) i looked ugly. That didn't leave many desirable photos at all. Anyway a lesson was learnt: use flash, you can always adjust brightness later.
After the Prom cleared out at around half past eleven, Yong Chuen, Kat, Clemence and i cabbed down to Parkway K-box for some midnight karaoke-ing. Almost destroyed all our voices after Shin's Tian Gao Di Hou. Could hardly keep my voice in pitch for the song after, and it was Vincent. You can imagine... The K-box closed at 3 am. Clemence, who had to leave for Bintan at 8 am, went home in a cab and swallowed the midnight surcharge. YC and Kat - the cheapskate ones - decided to go to the beach and whiled away till 6. i had nothing better to do and went along with the idea. A tiny picnic at one of the many pavillions along the coast sustained us until 6, by which time YC started whining like hell and wanted to go home. We eventually sat around till 6:30 to wait for the sunrise but the sun was not visible under the heavy cloud cover, so we left disppointed.
All incidents between boarding the cab and crashing out on my bed were mysteriously done by sub-consciousness. If i drank any more than that 3 mouthfuls of Tiger, i'd have been left on the beach.
After the Prom cleared out at around half past eleven, Yong Chuen, Kat, Clemence and i cabbed down to Parkway K-box for some midnight karaoke-ing. Almost destroyed all our voices after Shin's Tian Gao Di Hou. Could hardly keep my voice in pitch for the song after, and it was Vincent. You can imagine... The K-box closed at 3 am. Clemence, who had to leave for Bintan at 8 am, went home in a cab and swallowed the midnight surcharge. YC and Kat - the cheapskate ones - decided to go to the beach and whiled away till 6. i had nothing better to do and went along with the idea. A tiny picnic at one of the many pavillions along the coast sustained us until 6, by which time YC started whining like hell and wanted to go home. We eventually sat around till 6:30 to wait for the sunrise but the sun was not visible under the heavy cloud cover, so we left disppointed.
All incidents between boarding the cab and crashing out on my bed were mysteriously done by sub-consciousness. If i drank any more than that 3 mouthfuls of Tiger, i'd have been left on the beach.
Thursday, December 04, 2003
A most tiring day. Picked my suit for Prom in the morning. It was an expensive piece of suit, as all suits are, so i hope i won't be a klutz and pour orange juice over it or something. And i got it from a hmm... popular shop, ready-made, so i also hope that not too many people will be wearing the same thing. The blazer is little bit too tight, which worries my mum, who thought that i'll be more built up after some training in the army and hence outgrow the blazer. This brings me to a very dilemmatic situation. On one hand i'd like to improve my build, on the other i don't want to waste the suit. But presently a 48 looks almost perfect whereas a 50 looks and feels too big for comfort. And a large blazer painfully reminds me of THOSE days in DHS choir. *winces*
After the dental check-up in the afternoon, i went to help at the MAD movement at Orchard Road. (For the uninitiated, skip.) It is even better than last year. The command post is now DOUBLE-STOREYED! And complete wtih floor-to-ceiling windows for rooms on the second floor and lots of plants. It almost resembled a carribean get-away resort! Old friends were there too: Joanne, Tim, Serene, Yumiko, Jianming, Rizal and of course Raymond and Sharon. Hope it rains less this year and more people will drop by. Can't wait for the VJ choir performance as well. And Eve, you HAVE to sing. :p
Once the launch ceremony (by Minister Wong Kan Seng this year) for the MAD movement was over, i rushed down to City Hall MRT, and fearlessly found my way to Ritz Carlon armed with a map meant for tourists picked up from Raffles City Concierge. The VJ Prom sure looked nice, even from the outside, through a locked glass door, and with a big headache. And of course, Eve, you looked glamorous too. :)
After the dental check-up in the afternoon, i went to help at the MAD movement at Orchard Road. (For the uninitiated, skip.) It is even better than last year. The command post is now DOUBLE-STOREYED! And complete wtih floor-to-ceiling windows for rooms on the second floor and lots of plants. It almost resembled a carribean get-away resort! Old friends were there too: Joanne, Tim, Serene, Yumiko, Jianming, Rizal and of course Raymond and Sharon. Hope it rains less this year and more people will drop by. Can't wait for the VJ choir performance as well. And Eve, you HAVE to sing. :p
Once the launch ceremony (by Minister Wong Kan Seng this year) for the MAD movement was over, i rushed down to City Hall MRT, and fearlessly found my way to Ritz Carlon armed with a map meant for tourists picked up from Raffles City Concierge. The VJ Prom sure looked nice, even from the outside, through a locked glass door, and with a big headache. And of course, Eve, you looked glamorous too. :)
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
George Orwell was the pen name of Eric Arthur Blair! Who'd have thought of it... The Orwell of 1984, of Animals Farm, of A Clergyman's Daughter... turned into a Blair! This is most distressing indeed.
Monday, December 01, 2003
O brave new world! The words so breathlessly exclaimed by Mirinda thus became the title of Aldous Huxley's greatest work of all time. O brave new world! The savage John exclaimed when Bernard Marx decided to take him back to civilization. O brave new world! Though the words themselves are so stirring, so very much giving one hopes and expectations and desires to see, to learn, to know, Brave New World is but an old world, not so brave as well.
One is compelled to draw a parallel between Huxley's work and Orwell's 1984. Admittedly i am unfairly biased towards the latter simply because 1984 was the year in which i was born, yes born, not decanted. i also admit that perhaps it was because i had read the latter first and so was somehow prejudiced against the former. i thought that there are, however, such depth and courage and raw energy in Orwell which are not found in Huxley. Where Huxley tried so hard to make art, Orwell succeeded effortlessly. i am not to say that Huxley has written poorly, hell no. Brave New World is indeed a classic with many inspiring stanzas and earthshattering ideas. But if i may say so, juxtaposing Huxley and Orwell is like juxtaposing a first-rate commando and Rambo. Huxley was a master alright, but Orwell was a prodigy.
Brave New World and 1984 are arguably painting two completely different pictures of the future; different futures in fact. While Orwell based his future in year 1984, Huxley wrote about the future in 2495 A.D. And they were inspired by different threats present in their time as well. Huxley by the evergrowing American consumerism and Orwell by the totalitarian socialism. However, Huxley busied himself with description of a world so vastly different from ours, where genetic and in vitro conditioning and hypnopaedia determine the destiny of a man. Everybody is programmed to like what he does. Sex is free. Both monogamy and solitude are antisocial sins. Consumption is encouraged (a dead give-away that Huxley wasn't very impressed by Keynes) both by making everything complex and expensive, Electro-magnetic Golf for example, and by building desires for consumption in to people. Everybody is happy and contented all the time, or else they take a side-effect-free drug called soma and everything is fine. Fascinating brave new world. So distant and unfamiliar, too.
Orwell didn't bother with the details. The only scientific invention of his book is this device installed in every home to monitor and to propagandize. In fact, 1984 is so indistinguishably like our own world, with slight alterations, very slight alterations indeed. But it is exactly this great similarity between reality and 1984 that makes it so electrifying and terrifying to the very core of the reader. The very possibility of 1984 becoming true as suggested by Orwell is already too overwhelming for an individual to take.
There was one part in Brave New World that snapped as hard as a mousetrap, though. It was when Mustapha Mond, one of the ten World Controllers (i.e. very important men), said to John, "It's curious to read what people in the time of Our Ford used to write about scientific progress. They seemed to have imagined that it could be allowed to go on indefinitely, regardless of everything else. Knowledge was the highest good, truth the supreme value; all the rest was secondary and subordinate." i cannot deny the possibility and viability that happiness can be the ultimate value, which however topples all which i held true all my life - that seeking Truth is an intrinsic value and desire of Man. It seems that, perhaps, there is no intrinsic value of Man after all.
One is compelled to draw a parallel between Huxley's work and Orwell's 1984. Admittedly i am unfairly biased towards the latter simply because 1984 was the year in which i was born, yes born, not decanted. i also admit that perhaps it was because i had read the latter first and so was somehow prejudiced against the former. i thought that there are, however, such depth and courage and raw energy in Orwell which are not found in Huxley. Where Huxley tried so hard to make art, Orwell succeeded effortlessly. i am not to say that Huxley has written poorly, hell no. Brave New World is indeed a classic with many inspiring stanzas and earthshattering ideas. But if i may say so, juxtaposing Huxley and Orwell is like juxtaposing a first-rate commando and Rambo. Huxley was a master alright, but Orwell was a prodigy.
Brave New World and 1984 are arguably painting two completely different pictures of the future; different futures in fact. While Orwell based his future in year 1984, Huxley wrote about the future in 2495 A.D. And they were inspired by different threats present in their time as well. Huxley by the evergrowing American consumerism and Orwell by the totalitarian socialism. However, Huxley busied himself with description of a world so vastly different from ours, where genetic and in vitro conditioning and hypnopaedia determine the destiny of a man. Everybody is programmed to like what he does. Sex is free. Both monogamy and solitude are antisocial sins. Consumption is encouraged (a dead give-away that Huxley wasn't very impressed by Keynes) both by making everything complex and expensive, Electro-magnetic Golf for example, and by building desires for consumption in to people. Everybody is happy and contented all the time, or else they take a side-effect-free drug called soma and everything is fine. Fascinating brave new world. So distant and unfamiliar, too.
Orwell didn't bother with the details. The only scientific invention of his book is this device installed in every home to monitor and to propagandize. In fact, 1984 is so indistinguishably like our own world, with slight alterations, very slight alterations indeed. But it is exactly this great similarity between reality and 1984 that makes it so electrifying and terrifying to the very core of the reader. The very possibility of 1984 becoming true as suggested by Orwell is already too overwhelming for an individual to take.
There was one part in Brave New World that snapped as hard as a mousetrap, though. It was when Mustapha Mond, one of the ten World Controllers (i.e. very important men), said to John, "It's curious to read what people in the time of Our Ford used to write about scientific progress. They seemed to have imagined that it could be allowed to go on indefinitely, regardless of everything else. Knowledge was the highest good, truth the supreme value; all the rest was secondary and subordinate." i cannot deny the possibility and viability that happiness can be the ultimate value, which however topples all which i held true all my life - that seeking Truth is an intrinsic value and desire of Man. It seems that, perhaps, there is no intrinsic value of Man after all.
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