Somebody wrote in to Lianhe Zaobao: To be a member of the elite (
jing ying), one has to
jingtong yingwen (be proficient in English).
Too bad the government is more interested in the Singaporean elite than its essence (
jing hua). Besides university, all the other schools I attended have a 'hua' in their names; ironically, inclusive of Anglo Chinese School (
ying hua).
Me Chinese chavinist? Why, not happy? Not happy fight lah! I've got 1.2 billion people on my side (China's population minus the non-Han ethnic groups). There aren't enough thermonuclear weapons to kill them all. But in case they are decimated to the point of near-extinction, I'll be in India passing myself off as a Sikkimese or something.
LKY said that out of a year's birth of 45 000, there might only be about 150 to 200 who would be top-class standards. The dwindling birth rates kept him awake at night. I wake up screaming in the middle of the night wondering if I belong to the top 200 of my cohort.
During a class presentation, I argued for substantially reducing the number of A*Star scholarships. My lecturer played the devil's advocate, but I could tell he agreed with me. I have many reasons for saying so, but I won't delineate them all here. For starters, the scheme is simply not cost-effective. Considering the amount of money required to sponsor someone from Bachelors to Ph.D at a top US university, multipled manifold, we could bring more (and better) foreign talents here and then sponsoring them overseas if necessary. Please, you expect me to believe our typical local A*Star scholar is more talented and, more importantly, driven than a good PRC undergrad here? Sure, we need local personnel with certain specialized expertise to head the whole enterprise, which is why we should still retain the scholarship scheme to some degree. But having said that, my study of R & D suggests to me that quickly building up a critical mass of researchers is more important than having a handful of academic superstars.
"Because I have to fast, I can't help it" said the hunger artist. "What a fellow you are," said the overseer, "and why can't you help it?" ..."Because I couldn't find the food I liked. If I had found it, believe me, I should have made no fuss and stuffed myself like you or anyone else." These were his last words...
-Franz Kafka,
A Hunger Artist"A full Belly makes a dull Brain"- Benjamin Franklin,
Poor Richard's Almanack"I'm sick of people telling me how many people die of hunger each year. Hunger never killed anyone, people die of malnutrition."
"Napoleon Bonaparte said an army travels on its stomach. No wonder pre-mechanized armies travelled so slowly."
- K
You can live without a stomach. It's a physiological convenience, but a convenience we would like to think we cannot do without. There are people who have their stomach surgically restricted as a extreme method of weight control. I learnt of this when attending a seminar by Dr Jeffrey Roth, a psychiatrist specializing in addictions. However, a restricted stomach doesn't mean a given person will automatically regulate her diet to suit her new anatomy. Rather, she retains her diet of old, and over time, the stomach goes back to its original (huge) size.
The stomach demands. The tongue, ever the Epicurean, savours empty pleasures that do not satisfy. The intestines are satisfied but they do not enjoy. The stomach, like a spoilt child, is quickly satisfied and then satiated. But both desire and satiation are unpleasant. Worse still, if you have the temerity to upset your stomach, it creates a tantrum that expels the offending material via the nearest exit or both. Suddenly, quickly and most uncomfortably. When that happens, we can safely ignore our Earthly Rulers to appease our Visceral One.
As alluded to, our alimentary canal is a tyrant, and we are mere serfs. Life is not just meaningless, it is absurd. Absurd in the Camus sense. But try telling that to your stomach. It will vituperate and punish you with its incessant complaints; complaints that you are unable to ignore, not for long anyway without succumbing to its wilful demands. "Life is meaningless", you say. "Why eat when the process ultimately doesn't mean anything?" And you go on with your clever arguments. Alas, the stomach has you by the leash. And you cannot disobey without killing both the stomach and yourself in the process. Not that it cares anyway, but you might.
The James-Lange theory of emotion posits counter-intuitively that it is the sensation of butterflies in your stomach that tell you you are nervous. That is, you sometimes might not know what emotions you are experiencing unless you can perceive and evaluate the physiological responses. There are some problems with the theory, but by and large it is verifiable. So my belly tells me how I feel. That's cool. In fact, there are times when I'm unsure of myself and I need the leadership of my lower abdomen to guide me. That's what we mean by 'gut feeling'.
I want my stomach to tell me the truth. If not, I'll think I'm perfectly fine when I'm actually starving to death. But as to be expected, there are times when it lies to me. When it tells me it's full when it's not, and vice versa, when it tells me it desires to be fed when there is no such necessity in reality. I can't live with such uncertainty. Because the stomach is the only part of my body I know it's real. I look at myself in the mirror. What I can see the existence I'm unsure of, what I can feel within I know is real. Between dream states and hypoarousal, my stomach sometimes reminds me that I remain grounded on Earth. To determine whether I've slept five minutes or five hours, I'll have to consult my stomach. My clock is unreliable and everyone else may be lying to me. Five hours is about right; if I sleep for five days, months or years, they will insert a feeding tube into me. Then when I finally wake up after five years, my stomach would have misled me into thinking that I've slept only five hours. That wouldn't be so nice. My day is divided into pre and post lunch. Then I wouldn't know whether I've had lunch.
I do quite a bit of record-hunting. Hopped down to Tower Records yesterday, which I haven't been to in some time, looking for some hard-to-find CDs. The ambience was subdued, even sombre. My impression was that it was an establishment on her dying throes, eking an appearance of salubrity (and failing badly). I really don't see how Tower Records can continue to survive in Singapore, if her prices remain as high as they are.
Whatever you want to say about local music tastes, or the lack thereof, there is still a band of music aficionados who diligently collect records. Of course I'm one of them. I won't admit to being an intellectual snob, but I don't deny being a musical snob though. For example, yesterday I saw one lady with a long CD shopping list in alphabetical order, beginning with Alison Krauss. And certain highly-acclaimed albums by indie labels are sold out pretty quickly. HMV is still the default retailer of choice, even though more and more people are being lured away by Amazon. I don't really want to buy through Amazon, but HMV's collection remains to be desired. Rare imports are available, but often at exorbitant prices.
Kinokuniya earns quite a bit of my money, less so Borders. Once in a while there's still a need to order books via the sales counter, but that's understandable especially for academic publications. Her novels selection is impeccable though. I think there's no reason why HMV cannot offer the consumer a comprehensive selection, at reasonable prices even for import CDs. After all the British flagship HMVs seem to be better-stocked. If not, I'm taking my business to Amazon. Which I suspect I will do so sooner rather than later.
A glimpse into my JC life:
Orientation: Was generally involved, but conveniently wasn't around to learn the mass dances. I think I only know one. Anyway, everytime there's a mass dance session, I would be watching from the class bench drinking my Nescafe in spite of the Student Councillors' urgings. Too bad if the girls had to dance among themselves.
CNY and Teachers' Day celebrations: I hung around for a while, pretending to be interested in the performances, before heading down to TCHS to look for my teachers.
Student Council President elections: Sat on a chair at the back of the auditorium, listening to my Discman. To think of it, half the auditorium were either studying or doing tutorials.
Visit of R.Adm. Teo CH and BG Lee HL: Rather than listen to the principal deliver his excruciating speech, I watched priated VCDs in the library.
Sports Day: In the TCHS library, reading newspapers on the sofa and then sleeping.
National Track & Field finals at National Stadium: At my friend's house playing PlayStation. Then we headed down to the stadium towards the end of the meet to mark our attendence (turned out we didn't have to cos our CT rep had already done so for us on his inititative). Cheered and sang
Man Jiang Hong, as the 'B' and 'C' division boys lifted their trophies. To be fair, I also cheered on our winning 'A' division girls.
Scholarship Day (yes, we actually have such elitist nonsense): Watching a movie at Orchard.
ACES Day (the day when every student and teacher had to do the Great Singapore Workout): Hid in the toilet for a while, before going to the canteen for a cup of Teh Susu. I wasn't alone; I sat opposite a Caucasian humanities teacher who was having Kopi-O. Neither of us were supposed to be there, but we were too polite to point it out to each other.
Mid-Autumn Festival: Didn't turn up in JC1, left early in JC2. To be fair, I had to attend my grandpa's birthday dinner in my first year.
College Day: Much as I wanted to watch people I didn't know receive awards for being over-achievers, I wasn't selected to do so. Awww
Prom Night: At home watching TV.
People don't seem to realize how much their shit stinks. You walk into the bathroom immediately after somebody else has done her business and complain about the smell. "Huh, where got?" comes the reply. That said, it would be poor form to complain about someone else's shit when you are about to let the contents of your bowels see the light of day. When I void my bowels spectacularly, I'm only aware of a faint unpleasant miasma emanating from directly below, even though I know that it probably smells like a rotten carcass in a drain. We go about our daily routines carrying stinky stuff within us. The contents vary from time to time, but still the olfactory qualities wouldn't too pleasing in general. We can douse all the perfume and deodorant we want, but it wouldn't negate the fact that we have smelly organic material within us. We conveniently keep it off our minds in any case until the need arises. I had the opportunity to dissect a rat in school and genuinely enjoyed my experience thoroughly. My task was aided by the discovery that my rat had voided her bowels before dying, so when I removed the intestines I didn't have to deal with spilled shit. All the rats looked the same on the outside, but some had empty bowels while others were literally full of shit. This can only be discerned when we cut them open.
Was flipping through the university and scholarship guides my brother brought home when he received his A-level results; Scholar’s Choice pts 1-3, The First Degree and Career Central. These are about the most depressing material I’ve ever read. Pages and pages of scholars’ profiles with the obligatory photos of them at work and on travel to places you dream of visiting. You read reams of testimonials about the breadth in perspective and opportunities the scholarship has given them, the copious amount of fun they had spending their organizations’ money, the cannot-be-understated importance of their jobs and how much they love what they are doing of course. We common people accept that over-achievers exist in any meritocratic society and it’s foolish to compare ourselves with them. To be sure, these publications are not meant for your run-of-the-mill A-level students, but the putative cream of the academic crop. I hope your C-C-D student doesn’t get his hands on a copy since there’s a possibility he might die of shame or envy.
Which brings us to the scholarship ads. They are unapologetically candid. Essentially there are only so many talented people in any batch and every organization wants the best to work for them. So the strategy universally is to be boost the would-be applicant’s ego and simultaneously inform how his/her talents will be put to good use in the organization. A sampling of the taglines: ‘our stars blazing a trail into the future’, ‘your turn to run the show’, ‘we unleash talents, literally’, ‘enough is never enough’… you get the idea. If your interest is piqued enough to read on, you are told in no uncertain terms how much ‘true talent and exceptional intellect’ you possess, with the potential to ‘shape the future’. Of course we only want people with ‘fresh ideas and different perspectives’, who ‘thrive on challenges’ and ‘dare to dream’. By the way, we expect a ‘stellar academic showing’ at the A-levels, ‘passionate CCA involvement’ and ‘peerless leadership qualities’. Wah piang, I didn’t know such people existed in our midst; well maybe we have about ten per year. Rather inconveniently there are about 200+ scholarships awarded each year, so 100+ almost-there students will have to fill the gaps.
The students themselves know this of course, and they are under no illusions about how the system works. Not all scholarships are created equal. One may be perfectly eligible to apply for a given scholarship, but the chances of landing one would naturally depend on how prestigious it is. Everyone is aware of this. The top scholarships are reserved for the academic superstars, the so-called zaikias, who rub shoulders with academics and drink tea with politicians. 4 As, 2 S distinctions no guarantee of interview. Next there are the second-tier scholarships usually for statutory boards, which I suppose are ironically the most competitive because of the ‘apply and see how’ attitude. Then we have some private sector scholarships reserved for those who failed to secure one from second-tier, and now think surprisingly well of their organization. Lastly we have the vast majority of students who ‘smell no smoke’ and watch in good-humoured bemusement as the top students fight it out for a piece of the pie, ostensibly in the name of self-actualization and personal fulfilment.
Do I sound bitter? Maybe. Do I have a point? Not really. But I do have some personal knowledge (which I definitely cannot disclose) that makes me want to burst out in wistful laughter when I look at the whole affair from a distance or in retrospect. In conclusion, I’d say that if you’re currently in the game, try not to take it so seriously.
We visit the local cathedral when in European cities. The cathedral, or royal residence if there's one, would probably be the most architecturally significant building. To me, it is also testament to the importance of religion in people's lives and the power of the clergy. But in Singapore, we have churches that are more impressive than the cathedral. What does that signify?
I have a copy of
The Communist Manifesto, which came with
Das Kapital in a single volume. While TCM is a fascinating read, I'm quite ashamed to admit that I couldn't get beyond the first twenty pages of
Das Kapital. I've been unable to obtain a copy of either Mao's quotations (the Little Red Book) or Lenin's
What's to be Done and Other Writings. TCM is moving enough by itself, but reliable sources tell me that Lenin's writings will convert you to revolutionary socialism there and then. Most people are quick to condemn communism (in whichever guise) almost by default, but few people outside history and political science realize how difficult it is to critique Marxism without referring to hindsight bias. In any case, Marx's writing were partially distorted by Engels (who is a unique thinker in his own right). Lenin and Trotsky were also, in some quarters, betrayed by Stalinism, but this is an enormous and controversial topic I won't go into.
As Edmund Husserl put it in a different context, zu den Sachen selbst! The best way to understand thought is to go back to the original thinker himself. We've always sorta implicitly understood this, but I only realized this for myself not too long ago. Which is why I would prefer, if possible, to read the original writings. For example, I know nuts about economics but I discovered that Adam Smith was not the proponent of free-market, laissez-faire capitalism that intro econs textbooks portray him to be. He's just a convenient face to attach to a conceptual label. One would have to read
The Wealth of Nations (or at least the relevant sections) to understand what he actually said. Considering the amount of info we've imbibed via second-hand sources, I would say that we have been misguided all our lives.
My brother enlisted today. The report of my day at Tekong:
At SAF Ferry Terminal: A lance corporal asks me if I'm enlisting. Why of course, I'm absolutely dying to serve my country for another two years. Quickly tell me where to sign up.
On ferry: Very nice, got ushers in green. Some Singaporeans don't know the meaning of 'row by row', maybe their sons cannot wait any longer to enlist. My brother tells me Teo Chee Hean's son had his passing out parade last week. Our Minister of Defence declined the offer to become Guest-of-Honour, so he sat among commoners in the stands, listening to his subordinate's speech.
Bus tour of BMTC: Handsome and muscular 3SG as our tour guide. He informs us that timing is no longer taken for Standard Obstacle Course in BMT, the recruits are just taught how to clear the obstacles. So now people got less excuse to SOC (Siam One Corner). Last time I run until pengsan...and still fail some more. Then I miraculously passed in unit with a longer course and a more demanding passing time. The wonders of RT.
Lecture on SAF standard issued items: Wah lau, now can use camouflage cream in BMT. Got SAF sandals, clear plastic water bottle and designer PT bag. The webbing and field pack are more user-friendly. Improved combat rations which I've had the privilege of consuming in Australia. Ali Baba bag now resembles a Samsonite luggage bag, with wheels.
Tour of living quarters: Bunk hasn't changed, toilets got flowers and hand-washing liquild but I think wayang one.
Tour of recruit mess: There are three guys who wore their combat unit shirts to Tekong. When the tour guide introduced the mess as a place where recruits can relax most nights (when there's no night training), one of them sniggered, "Yeah right!" The tour guide went on to explain that during PTP, the recruits actually have time to utilize the mess. Who ask you so fit go and get silver/gold for your NAPFA?
Auditorium: The video was so touching. YES, I'll gladly spill my blood for the Goverment of the Republic of Singapore. The Commanding Officer was so lorsor (long-winded), but he sounds like pretty welfare to me. I thought everyone was dying to get the ceremony over and done with so they could proceed with lunch. But no, got lots of concerned parents with pressing questions. One of them wanted to visit her son as and when she wanted. Eh I know Tekong looks like a resort but, please, it's not Pasir Ris chalet hor.
Lunch: Western, not as good as my unit's Western food. The CO walked round to chat with us. He asks me which unit I came from and whether I was a commander. Of course lah! I was the Supreme Commander of 'S' Company Block and Vehicle Shed Drains. Sometimes the President, in times of need, bestows me with the appointment of 2nd floor Toilet Officer-in-Charge.
Given my proclivity for assaying local public policies, you might think that I would have strong views regarding the casino debate. To quote Rhett Butler, frankly my dear I don't give a damn. If the government builds one, okay loh. If not, also like dat loh. The controversy isn't so important as to justify a referendum, neither do we need expert policy analysts like Gurmit Singh or Joanne Peh to furnish us with arguments. There are more important policy debates at hand, let's not neglect them.
Today someone asked me if I thought the recent case where the sorry fellow murdered his family before killing himself was ammunition against the building of a casino. I counter-queried. Actually I was surprised that she wasn't staunchly opposed to the idea given her strong faith. But in the end she couldn't help raise the spectre of moral values. I use 'spectre' cos I absolutely abhor people talking about morality as if it were a unitary concept. Morality is a big word we bash against our opponents' heads, but we don't mortally injure them cos the word is largely filled with air. I know, I know, there are lots of people out there with 'strong moral values', and I'm someone with an internal moral compass that spins like a propeller.
There are people who think flaunting a dash of amorality is cool, like the societal conventions have less hold over them or they are far more open-minded (the corollary being that anyone who disapproves of them is more conservative than the Taleban chief cleric). They can show everyone how cool they are for all I care, but just don't do it in my presence. It irritates the hell out of me. Personally I don't care if a guy performs oral sex on a girl who's shooting up heroin beside me in the library, so long as they don't shake the table or make too much noise. In reality, I would probably gawk throughout and tell everyone about it after. Except the authorities of course, so there's a similar chance I might witness it again.
Rats which are wired up such that their pleasure centres are stimulated at the press of a lever will do so until they collapse in exhaustion. Sometimes when we think we're hungry, the first bite of food already satiates us. But we proceed to finish the whole portion, even though each chew tastes more or less the same.
i'm into my fifth season in Career mode on FIFA 2005. When i play at Semi-Pro difficulty level, my victory is almost assured. But i'm unable to win regularly at Professional level, so i keep playing at Semi-Pro. Since the outcome can be predicted, there's no buzz when i win. Still, something compels me to keep playing. There's an intangible sense of flow when the passes click into gear and the movement of my players is fluid, ripping the opposition defence into tatters. i also feel a sense of aesthetic satisfaction when my team scores a goal that has not been scored before. But because i'm imperfect, my gameplay is imperfect; and so there will always be spells in the game when play gets sloppy. A part of me tells me to keep playing until i manage to play the perfect 90 mins. The perfect game is not about thumping the worthy opposition by a rugby score. It consists of, among other things, a sense of complete mastery over the ball. The team is able to impose its will on the opposition, scoring sublimely crafted goals as and when it likes. At that stage, i no longer control the team.
There's a long passage in Milan Kundera's
The Unbearable Lightness of Being pertaining to this conundrum. Isn't making love merely the eternal repetition of the same? i've given the issue some thought, but i shan't reveal my fruits of my inelegant ruminations here. The author's conclusions, though specific to the character Tomas, are worth reproducing in digestible extracts.
"... between the approximation of the idea and precision of reality there was a small gap of the unimaginable... What is unique about the 'I' hides itself exactly in what is unimaginable about a person... He was not obsessed with women; he was obsessed with what in each of them is unimaginable, obsessed, in other words, with the one-millionth part that makes a woman dissimilar to others of her sex... To be sure, the millionth part dissimilarity is present in all areas of human existence, but in all areas other than sex it is exposed and needs no one to discover it."
i think someone said something to the effect of, if you've made love to one woman satisfactorily, it's equivalent to having had made love to every woman in the world an infinite number of times. i cannot think of a statement i intuitively disagree with more, but it makes some sense upon reflection.
i was having a group conversation with a high-rank civil servant at a buffet, just some friendly banter about governmental policies without touching on anything sensitive. A cocksure undergrad formerly of an elite JC whom i know personally joined in, and started to offer his opinions. Not that his observations were particularly off-the-mark, but his mannerisms and eagerness to show the whole world how well-informed he was was getting on everyone's nerves. Then he made a comment about the personalities of then-DPMs Tony Tan and Lee junior.
The civil servant glanced quickly at him and asked, "Do you know them?"
"Huh?"
"Do you know the DPMs personally?"
"No, but from.... i infer..." he stuttered.
And the rest of us rejoiced wickedly in our hearts.
Sometimes we like to think we know our public figures, because we inferred that they think and feel this and that from their speeches and policies. But in reality, we wouldn't really know, unless we've read their autobiographies, how to separate their public personas from their private personalities. Their policies could be forged based on any number of factors, some pragmatic/utilitarian, others grounded in personal proclivities. It's not within us to know which of these factors had a bigger role to play.
