I love Star Wars. I love the story, the mythology, the premise, the characters, the cities and the aliens and enduring battle between good and evil played again and again on distant battlefields. And not just the movies, either - the entire body of work that constitutes the Star Wars storyline, from the novels to the games to the comics.
One can tell that a franchise has surmounted the bonds of unreality when an entire community of Star Wars lovers has arisen in both the real world and the electronic one. Star Wars is not merely a successful movie series, nor is its massive popularity a result of nostalgia over the good ol' 1970s (and such arcana that we will never truly know). It has grown into a cultural phenomenon, no less real than Elvis or eating with chopsticks. It is a legitimate facet of global culture - Star Wars is unabashedly Western, but its appeal is universal and it harbors no ill will toward any race or creed (save, of course, those that have been indentified as Profoundly Evil). It embodies a fresh and unfettered view on morality, while at the same time introducing subtle moral vagaries such as the right of redemption. It is simple to understand and yet profoundly deep. The wider universe of Star Wars is a sandbox of the mind, allowing free rein in a galaxy that stretches infinitely in both time and space.
The movies have ceased to be the only defining aspect of Star Wars - the Star Wars mythos has extended through popular media, tinkered with and expanded by the unceasing labours of hundreds of creative minds. It has grown into one of the largest self-consistent chronologies ever created. It is the ultimate escapist fantasy for the Everyman, but it is by no means an ideal world - it is filled with enough grit and noir to please most who look for quality in the grim and the dirt. The gleaming and immaculate spires of Coruscant against the dusty sandstone of Tatooine or the slime-filled sleaze of Nar Shardaa, the insouciant heroism of Luke against the dark and contorted souls of the most conflicted characters in space opera - Darth Vader, Dooku, Exar Kun and the rest. The supercilious nobility of the Senate against the rough but open manner of smugglers like Han Solo and Talon Karrde - Star Wars has characters that speak to us, that we may identify with, characters that can be loved and hated, characters that change, age, mature. No cookie-cutter Rambos in Star Wars, despite appearances. Not even the Jedi are perfect. The Fall of the Galactic Republic echoes that of Foundation and conversely that of Greece.
One of the best things about Star Wars is its capacity to expand. It is an agglomerate of concepts, ideas, and grand mythologies spawned in hundreds of dreams and visions. It is a sweeping and self-sustaining universe, dynamic and ever-changing, encyclopedic in its detail, grand in premise and scope. Star Trek really cannot hold a candle.
To those who scorn Star Wars because it seems like conventional Hollywood fare, simplistic and explosive, you haven't bothered to look deep enough. Granted, the Prequel Trilogy hasn't been brilliant. But the Originals are, along with the vast account of SW history of the books, comics and games, that speak to me more clearly than the gothic travesties of overly complex and grim steamy sci-fi tomes that critics love to sneeringly compare to Star Wars.
In short, Star Wars has transcended mere fiction; more than most, it lives on within not merely my mind, but also in my heart.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Come Potter Finale
The Harry Potter series is nearing its grand finale, following the release of the penultimate book in the series, the Half-Blood Prince.
What tidings will Book Seven bring? What ill news, what seeds of new hope? What comic affectations and tragic setups? What absurdities, what profoundities, and what tangents will branch off from the great colossus of the epilogue?
Here are some speculations, conceived and brought to tremolous ripening by the warm rolling tides of the postmeridan clime.
About the Great Conflict:
What should happen:
- Harry Potter destroys the last horcrux and confronts Voldemort, who does eerie twisting motions with his eyebrows, and apparates to the Moon after using the Bubble-Head Charm. Harry checks his Apparition licence and follows, leaving his heart behind. On the Moon, Harry and Voldemort face off while fending off strange Moon fairies and explosive decompression. After farting soundlessly into the night, Harry Potter gets sick and tired of the game and points his wand on the Moon's surface, screaming Reducto. The ensuing conflagaration smashes Voldemort into a pulp while Harry disapparates back into Hogwarts and realizes that he never read Hogwarts: A History. Amazed by this revelation he looks up at the sky and sees the exploding moon with tears of happiness brimming in his eyes, while mass-species extinction events take place in America. Soon after sleeping through a civil war he retires into Albania and finds a gigantic canvas containing images from Harry's most intimate dreams. He then find's Quirrell's turban, puts it on his head, and finds a vestige of Voldemort's soul within, along with a flowery note of apology bidding adieu to the world. Amidst the general rejoicing and adulation Harry then writes a book called The Dark Wizard Who Only Wanted to Show the World His Dance Moves, which subsequently reveals that it was the word dark in dark wizard that started all the trouble in the firstplace and Voldemort was in fact a nice guy and didn't mean to hurt anyone. The ensuing controversy destroy's Harry's reputation as a saviour and leads people to call him the Monoxide. Harry then takes Ginny and Quirrell's turban and disapparates to many distant planets, searching for a world where Voldemort can once again show his dance moves. Subsequent novels will deal with Harry's adventures on the world of Luputamia and how he discovered that werewolves were a beautiful species which bit their victims in the mistaken assumption that they would all go into doggy-heaven.
What May happen:
-Harry Potter destroys all the Horcruxes and confronts Voldemort, who will reveal choice bits of information about the world and Harry in general before proceeding to cackle evilly and set in motion devious traps for Harry. While Harry dodges many poorly aimed spells he will discover many things about himself and the world in general. Somehow a couple of people will sacrifice themselves to let him have a shot at old Voldemort, which he promptly succeeds at doing. He will then experience many conflicting emotions and despair.
Characters
Severus Snape
What should happen: While concocting a particularly vile potion Snape slips on his greasy little head and falls head first into his cauldron, causing him to mutate into the hideous reptilian monster known as the Wizzard (to avoid confusion). In tattered robes he then proceeds to battle Spiderboy (aka the spider-bitten Draco Malfoy) in a fit of pique and promptly drops dead for breaking the Unbreakable Vow.
What may happen: During Harry's faceoff with Voldemort he will reveal his true colours and kill Voldemort with a well-placed Avada Kevadra spell (because the prophecy never said they had to kill each other). He will then die heroically.
Draco Malfoy
What should happen: Malfoy gets bitten by a spider and becomes Spiderboy, and expresses his undying love for Pansy Parkinson after placing her under the Imperius Curse to ensure that she doesn't talk back. He later battles the Wizzard, dying in the process.
What may happen: Malfoy will mend his ways and become a stalwart member of the DA, dying in the process like Snape.
Bellatrix Lestrange
What should happen: While torturing little cats with a pair of chopsticks and some boiling water she will trip over a bit of catnip and impale herself on her chopsticks, whilst simultaneously strangling herself on her own knickerbockers and getting knocked down by a passing freight-train.
What may happen: A lot of poetic justice, hopefully.
Sirius Black
What should happen: Sirius returns, for a little while, yet, lo! he is not Sirius Black, who fell into darkness. He is Sirius White, who has returned from death. And he will wander, as he has always done, giving aid to friendly peoples, helping the weak, grudging no favours to the strong, binding the races of Men and All Other Assorted Creatures as one, to face the great Enemy who lurks yonder, in the Land of Shadow (a.k.a the Riddle House).
What may happen: Very little.
Rubeus Hagrid
What should happen: He will come into his own as the rapper. Yo.
What may happen: He may die heroically saving Harry.
What tidings will Book Seven bring? What ill news, what seeds of new hope? What comic affectations and tragic setups? What absurdities, what profoundities, and what tangents will branch off from the great colossus of the epilogue?
Here are some speculations, conceived and brought to tremolous ripening by the warm rolling tides of the postmeridan clime.
About the Great Conflict:
What should happen:
- Harry Potter destroys the last horcrux and confronts Voldemort, who does eerie twisting motions with his eyebrows, and apparates to the Moon after using the Bubble-Head Charm. Harry checks his Apparition licence and follows, leaving his heart behind. On the Moon, Harry and Voldemort face off while fending off strange Moon fairies and explosive decompression. After farting soundlessly into the night, Harry Potter gets sick and tired of the game and points his wand on the Moon's surface, screaming Reducto. The ensuing conflagaration smashes Voldemort into a pulp while Harry disapparates back into Hogwarts and realizes that he never read Hogwarts: A History. Amazed by this revelation he looks up at the sky and sees the exploding moon with tears of happiness brimming in his eyes, while mass-species extinction events take place in America. Soon after sleeping through a civil war he retires into Albania and finds a gigantic canvas containing images from Harry's most intimate dreams. He then find's Quirrell's turban, puts it on his head, and finds a vestige of Voldemort's soul within, along with a flowery note of apology bidding adieu to the world. Amidst the general rejoicing and adulation Harry then writes a book called The Dark Wizard Who Only Wanted to Show the World His Dance Moves, which subsequently reveals that it was the word dark in dark wizard that started all the trouble in the firstplace and Voldemort was in fact a nice guy and didn't mean to hurt anyone. The ensuing controversy destroy's Harry's reputation as a saviour and leads people to call him the Monoxide. Harry then takes Ginny and Quirrell's turban and disapparates to many distant planets, searching for a world where Voldemort can once again show his dance moves. Subsequent novels will deal with Harry's adventures on the world of Luputamia and how he discovered that werewolves were a beautiful species which bit their victims in the mistaken assumption that they would all go into doggy-heaven.
What May happen:
-Harry Potter destroys all the Horcruxes and confronts Voldemort, who will reveal choice bits of information about the world and Harry in general before proceeding to cackle evilly and set in motion devious traps for Harry. While Harry dodges many poorly aimed spells he will discover many things about himself and the world in general. Somehow a couple of people will sacrifice themselves to let him have a shot at old Voldemort, which he promptly succeeds at doing. He will then experience many conflicting emotions and despair.
Characters
Severus Snape
What should happen: While concocting a particularly vile potion Snape slips on his greasy little head and falls head first into his cauldron, causing him to mutate into the hideous reptilian monster known as the Wizzard (to avoid confusion). In tattered robes he then proceeds to battle Spiderboy (aka the spider-bitten Draco Malfoy) in a fit of pique and promptly drops dead for breaking the Unbreakable Vow.
What may happen: During Harry's faceoff with Voldemort he will reveal his true colours and kill Voldemort with a well-placed Avada Kevadra spell (because the prophecy never said they had to kill each other). He will then die heroically.
Draco Malfoy
What should happen: Malfoy gets bitten by a spider and becomes Spiderboy, and expresses his undying love for Pansy Parkinson after placing her under the Imperius Curse to ensure that she doesn't talk back. He later battles the Wizzard, dying in the process.
What may happen: Malfoy will mend his ways and become a stalwart member of the DA, dying in the process like Snape.
Bellatrix Lestrange
What should happen: While torturing little cats with a pair of chopsticks and some boiling water she will trip over a bit of catnip and impale herself on her chopsticks, whilst simultaneously strangling herself on her own knickerbockers and getting knocked down by a passing freight-train.
What may happen: A lot of poetic justice, hopefully.
Sirius Black
What should happen: Sirius returns, for a little while, yet, lo! he is not Sirius Black, who fell into darkness. He is Sirius White, who has returned from death. And he will wander, as he has always done, giving aid to friendly peoples, helping the weak, grudging no favours to the strong, binding the races of Men and All Other Assorted Creatures as one, to face the great Enemy who lurks yonder, in the Land of Shadow (a.k.a the Riddle House).
What may happen: Very little.
Rubeus Hagrid
What should happen: He will come into his own as the rapper. Yo.
What may happen: He may die heroically saving Harry.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Winter Wish
In Winter
I yearn
For summer solitude
and autumnal ash
Of leather leaves
That saunter down for spring.
That make a laurel crown
For gentle grass and green.
In Summer
I wish
for winter withering
and blinding white
of silent snow
and lakeside jewel-laid.
And midst the quietude,
A snowy enfilade.
I yearn
For summer solitude
and autumnal ash
Of leather leaves
That saunter down for spring.
That make a laurel crown
For gentle grass and green.
In Summer
I wish
for winter withering
and blinding white
of silent snow
and lakeside jewel-laid.
And midst the quietude,
A snowy enfilade.
Monday, July 17, 2006
On Books
Like music books are often connected to a memory, or a sensation, or an emotion one feels upon finishing; terrible regret, yearning, warmth, sadness. The best of books induce emotion, yet so do the worst. When do such emotions indicate a good book? When that emotion was identifiably the author's intent, or of a purpose and cause relevant to the content.
Some of the most powerful books induce in me a yearning. It is a yearning for the characters to become relevant, to somehow leap from the pages into reality and engage in a series of illuminating conversations with each other. It is a yearning for the fulfillment of the author's universe, for it to leave some print, something more that merely trivial, on the world. The dreary, less-than-perfect real world more complex than even the most cynical of tomes can effectively describe.
To experience a yearning after finishing a book is to subscribe to the ideal that a book represents. To someone reading a historical novel it is that desire to relive moments enshrined in the past that we can never visit save through the weavings of another's words; to read Harry Potter is to yearn for Hogwarts and magic, escapism into a world inherently magical and exciting, despite the conflict that is so central to the plot progression.
I have always associated the beautiful classic Watership Down with sunlight and gentle wind, quietude on a summer day, despite the fact that I don't know what summer is like, save as an observer in the goings on of the rabbits in the book. And I yearn for the characters to be real, that what has taken place, the heroism and the romance and the tragedy, even, has somehow taken place, has somehow assumed the label of reality, of being real, not merely in the mind, but in the flesh. The stuff of human thought sprung forth into the world, sharing a place with the real and the dull, infusing some life into tired senses.
Perhaps that is why fiction is such a terrible thing; good fiction and its contents are ever fated, like an unrequited lover, to suffer entrapment in the medium of mere words, when the words themselves are like cages of a real beauty, that, like a marble sculpture or an engraving, show off the fine curves of their charges in all their splendour while all the time keeping them from bursting forth into life. And it is up to the reader to imagine that it happens.
And yet, had not the craftsman made the statues, the reader would never even have the pleasure of imagination.
Some of the most powerful books induce in me a yearning. It is a yearning for the characters to become relevant, to somehow leap from the pages into reality and engage in a series of illuminating conversations with each other. It is a yearning for the fulfillment of the author's universe, for it to leave some print, something more that merely trivial, on the world. The dreary, less-than-perfect real world more complex than even the most cynical of tomes can effectively describe.
To experience a yearning after finishing a book is to subscribe to the ideal that a book represents. To someone reading a historical novel it is that desire to relive moments enshrined in the past that we can never visit save through the weavings of another's words; to read Harry Potter is to yearn for Hogwarts and magic, escapism into a world inherently magical and exciting, despite the conflict that is so central to the plot progression.
I have always associated the beautiful classic Watership Down with sunlight and gentle wind, quietude on a summer day, despite the fact that I don't know what summer is like, save as an observer in the goings on of the rabbits in the book. And I yearn for the characters to be real, that what has taken place, the heroism and the romance and the tragedy, even, has somehow taken place, has somehow assumed the label of reality, of being real, not merely in the mind, but in the flesh. The stuff of human thought sprung forth into the world, sharing a place with the real and the dull, infusing some life into tired senses.
Perhaps that is why fiction is such a terrible thing; good fiction and its contents are ever fated, like an unrequited lover, to suffer entrapment in the medium of mere words, when the words themselves are like cages of a real beauty, that, like a marble sculpture or an engraving, show off the fine curves of their charges in all their splendour while all the time keeping them from bursting forth into life. And it is up to the reader to imagine that it happens.
And yet, had not the craftsman made the statues, the reader would never even have the pleasure of imagination.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Mr Brown
I just heard the Mr Brown podcast called "Resident Smilers".
It's revolting, disgusting, perverse, cynical, demeaning filth. It may have been meant as humour or irony, but the manner of its execution is needlessly vitriolic, relentlessly pessimistic, savagely ironic, and grotesque in the extreme, from the poster of the gruesome, surgically-altered grimace to the very content of the podcast.
Is Mr Brown suggesting that we are mindless syncophants? Is he casting the government's harmless and well-meant intention to INITIATE A WELCOME to the WB and IMF summit delegates, an exhortation to just MIND OUR MANNERS, to be the workings of some cynical plot to pander and suck up to Westerners? Is his ironic scorn meant as a jab at the government, or is his portrayal of us Singaporeans in the podcast meant to reflect our true natures?
That podcast is disgusting and demeaning. Worse still, it is told from the point of view of the foreign delegates, symphathetic to them, and it begs the question of who exactly he wishes to criticize and to insult; a relentlessly campaigning government whose aims are, at this juncture, benign, representatives of an ineffectual and unpopular group of delegates, or Singaporeans themselves.
I suppose we should all act our surly selves when they arrive, and throw rotten tomatoes at their passing cars, rather than extending them the courtesy that is their very right as human beings.
It's revolting, disgusting, perverse, cynical, demeaning filth. It may have been meant as humour or irony, but the manner of its execution is needlessly vitriolic, relentlessly pessimistic, savagely ironic, and grotesque in the extreme, from the poster of the gruesome, surgically-altered grimace to the very content of the podcast.
Is Mr Brown suggesting that we are mindless syncophants? Is he casting the government's harmless and well-meant intention to INITIATE A WELCOME to the WB and IMF summit delegates, an exhortation to just MIND OUR MANNERS, to be the workings of some cynical plot to pander and suck up to Westerners? Is his ironic scorn meant as a jab at the government, or is his portrayal of us Singaporeans in the podcast meant to reflect our true natures?
That podcast is disgusting and demeaning. Worse still, it is told from the point of view of the foreign delegates, symphathetic to them, and it begs the question of who exactly he wishes to criticize and to insult; a relentlessly campaigning government whose aims are, at this juncture, benign, representatives of an ineffectual and unpopular group of delegates, or Singaporeans themselves.
I suppose we should all act our surly selves when they arrive, and throw rotten tomatoes at their passing cars, rather than extending them the courtesy that is their very right as human beings.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Contrasts
The sun is shining and the sky is blue and the light shafts down in a dusty sky, and it's beauty, beautiful, splendid. Here we are in Common Tests Drudge still.
Trapped in time, trapped in school life. Unlike space, there is no avoiding time, that which is inevitable. It's like being strapped to the front of a bulletrain. Bullet rain, bull trains, bullet trains.
Have absolutely no desire to mug chemistry. Mathematics is now done.
Hearken back to the days of 2005, where the greatest worry now was readjustment to school. Now its readjustment to school and exams and school and more school and EE and CAS and the pressures of being alone.
Music from Harry Potter bounces around in my head, coupled with strains of Euro Techno music and the Chemplanet in the envirochem competition, plus Romeo+Juliet. Or What You Will.
I desire to watch many movies, including Batman Begins, Contact, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Superman Returns, X-Men 3, V for Vendetta. Still searching for the Lindsay Lohan flick.
Desire a nice book along the lines of science fiction. Desire to go out for a bit, set chemfile aside.
Mired, though.
Trapped in time, trapped in school life. Unlike space, there is no avoiding time, that which is inevitable. It's like being strapped to the front of a bulletrain. Bullet rain, bull trains, bullet trains.
Have absolutely no desire to mug chemistry. Mathematics is now done.
Hearken back to the days of 2005, where the greatest worry now was readjustment to school. Now its readjustment to school and exams and school and more school and EE and CAS and the pressures of being alone.
Music from Harry Potter bounces around in my head, coupled with strains of Euro Techno music and the Chemplanet in the envirochem competition, plus Romeo+Juliet. Or What You Will.
I desire to watch many movies, including Batman Begins, Contact, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Superman Returns, X-Men 3, V for Vendetta. Still searching for the Lindsay Lohan flick.
Desire a nice book along the lines of science fiction. Desire to go out for a bit, set chemfile aside.
Mired, though.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Solitude
The human drive is a strange thing, teetering oftentimes on sheer contradiction and paradox out of its sheer mutability. I love and despise solitude; the former at times, the latter, not overmuch, and this love/hate is not merely as a product of circumstances, but an absolute enveloping feeling, a blanket that enfolds on my gasping senses and smothers me in the lone corridors of wherever I might dwell.
I am reminded of that terrible poem, Best Society, by Philip Larkin that we did last year, in the high tide of school, most especially of his attitudes to the state of solitude. In his words, solitude becomes harder to obtain as one ages,
And more desired - though all the same
More undesirable; for what
You are alone has, to achieve
The rank of fact, to be expressed
In terms of others, or it's just
A compensating make-believe.
Glancing through the archives of others I am struck by how much their discourse dwells on their interactions with others, while my own rarely does. I do not like - I am honest - the teenage fixation with themselves and with people, their never-subsiding interest in the doings of the couple around the corner, with the clique in the next class. Such things have never fascinated me, beyond an attempt, while conducting such discourse with others over lunch, to politely add a qualifier, a statement of my abrogation, amidst the continuing torrent of the other parties privy to such (over the table) discussions over last week's party or the featured and ill-perceived semi-platonic relationships of somebody else's problem.
I enjoy solitude. Sometimes I think I enjoy it too much, and parts of me yearn to connect, to establish axial links to the outside world. This is done primarily through the medium of MSN, especially during this holidays. But another part yearns to cut off links to all but a few special individuals who are beyond reserve, whom I have grown comfortable with over years of mutual understanding, individuals who share my interests and whom I can share the day's thoughts with, or such other activities that reside within my sphere of interest. I like to think that I, in my self-admitted reticience, mantain cordial but distant relations to everybody I know in school, surveying the social scene, insofar as I have an interest in it, with a certain detachment and calm endemic to those who know that they are not subsumed, like everyone else is, into the perceived "fray" of frenetic social happenings or latest scandals.
And yet sometimes, solitude grows heavy. It is a burden to carry solitude, despite the fact that solitude frees you from other types of social responsibilities. Solitude is heavy because it denies social pressure and leaves you oddly free of such things, and yet the corollary effects of embracing solitude are felt when one inevitably re-enters the frenetic world of the social. Human society is nothing else but the totality of individuals working as a collective whole, each human a cog in the vast artifice of humanity. Once you reenter the social world solitude works against you much as rust works against an old car, for me at least, feeble social responses try to initiate and leaves one awkward. Solitude is also like an addictive drug, I yearn for solitude much as a drowning person yearns for dry land. Perhaps not a good analogy, but so there.
There are times, however, that, sunk in narcotic solitude one yearns for the social world, in an odd reaction. One sickens of the reflective, shimmery curtains of safety and wants to be with companions, laughing and sharing jokes and imprecatory statements without a care in the world. I realize this probably only applies to me; gregarious people are, following from my bad analogy, swimmers and are perfectly in their element in the rough seas, perhaps even enjoying the pseudo-weightless sensation and the giddy ecstasy of social discourse. But I am not, by any means, a gregarious person, and the diatribe above is the product of introspection and Hyperion.
Moving to Hyperion, I have just finished the Hyperion Cantos series, and trying to search for antecedent mythological sources. My EE is that ship, prow up, in the high waters of a pirate bay. And the rocks are coming.
***
I just thought of a delightful pun. !nk is truly an !nkubus.
I am reminded of that terrible poem, Best Society, by Philip Larkin that we did last year, in the high tide of school, most especially of his attitudes to the state of solitude. In his words, solitude becomes harder to obtain as one ages,
And more desired - though all the same
More undesirable; for what
You are alone has, to achieve
The rank of fact, to be expressed
In terms of others, or it's just
A compensating make-believe.
Glancing through the archives of others I am struck by how much their discourse dwells on their interactions with others, while my own rarely does. I do not like - I am honest - the teenage fixation with themselves and with people, their never-subsiding interest in the doings of the couple around the corner, with the clique in the next class. Such things have never fascinated me, beyond an attempt, while conducting such discourse with others over lunch, to politely add a qualifier, a statement of my abrogation, amidst the continuing torrent of the other parties privy to such (over the table) discussions over last week's party or the featured and ill-perceived semi-platonic relationships of somebody else's problem.
I enjoy solitude. Sometimes I think I enjoy it too much, and parts of me yearn to connect, to establish axial links to the outside world. This is done primarily through the medium of MSN, especially during this holidays. But another part yearns to cut off links to all but a few special individuals who are beyond reserve, whom I have grown comfortable with over years of mutual understanding, individuals who share my interests and whom I can share the day's thoughts with, or such other activities that reside within my sphere of interest. I like to think that I, in my self-admitted reticience, mantain cordial but distant relations to everybody I know in school, surveying the social scene, insofar as I have an interest in it, with a certain detachment and calm endemic to those who know that they are not subsumed, like everyone else is, into the perceived "fray" of frenetic social happenings or latest scandals.
And yet sometimes, solitude grows heavy. It is a burden to carry solitude, despite the fact that solitude frees you from other types of social responsibilities. Solitude is heavy because it denies social pressure and leaves you oddly free of such things, and yet the corollary effects of embracing solitude are felt when one inevitably re-enters the frenetic world of the social. Human society is nothing else but the totality of individuals working as a collective whole, each human a cog in the vast artifice of humanity. Once you reenter the social world solitude works against you much as rust works against an old car, for me at least, feeble social responses try to initiate and leaves one awkward. Solitude is also like an addictive drug, I yearn for solitude much as a drowning person yearns for dry land. Perhaps not a good analogy, but so there.
There are times, however, that, sunk in narcotic solitude one yearns for the social world, in an odd reaction. One sickens of the reflective, shimmery curtains of safety and wants to be with companions, laughing and sharing jokes and imprecatory statements without a care in the world. I realize this probably only applies to me; gregarious people are, following from my bad analogy, swimmers and are perfectly in their element in the rough seas, perhaps even enjoying the pseudo-weightless sensation and the giddy ecstasy of social discourse. But I am not, by any means, a gregarious person, and the diatribe above is the product of introspection and Hyperion.
Moving to Hyperion, I have just finished the Hyperion Cantos series, and trying to search for antecedent mythological sources. My EE is that ship, prow up, in the high waters of a pirate bay. And the rocks are coming.
***
I just thought of a delightful pun. !nk is truly an !nkubus.
Friday, June 09, 2006
June
June finds me at a disadvantage. What with having to balance the twin plea(res)sures of homework/revision and the playing of The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, which, upon perusal of Der Faschist's blog on Diablo II, I have little inhibitions admitting to.
So far, at least, most of the mundane homework has been dealt with. History IA practice is painfully underway. EE has been shamefully shoved into a corner very temporarily. Once I get more reference material, I'll start. The pressures of the CTs are but a distant dream, imperative though they may be. Revision will resume...soon. 16th June is my preferred date.
Oblivion is compelling, despite less-than-ideal computer specifications, combining an interesting multi-threaded storyline with a large portion of freeform gameplay. Although gameplay invariably gets dull after the thousandth dungeon-sweeping. Frequent sword-swinging may just render my mouse inoperable sometime.
But the dull weather beats on and rest evades me. If only the common tests were before June...but wait, they were.
***
Two thoughts have been gravitating in my mind recently.
1
I was rereading Foundation after a long long hiatus of non-Foundation-ness and Hari Seldon's character struck me with a new...familarity. Who else in the world of fiction, I thought, was an athletic, highly intelligent but naive provincial academic flanked by a younger but more discerning female sidekick cum guide who goes on a travelogue-ish romp through disparate locales in pursuit of an intractable academic problem that has applications beyond the mundane pursuit of knowledge, chased by forces who are not exactly what they seem?
Why, Robert Langdon, of course. It probably is a sort of literary formula 101 archetype, because it basically covers the three essentials of exciting fiction: danger, romance and hilarity.
2
I don't think Singapore produces little or no talent relative to its size. Its just that the system here works in such a way that the only way to get a stable job and a good life is to join the government. Or to make a career of opposing it. Or to leave. So the emigres and the government are the talent of Singapore, and as for the budding entrepreneurs of billionaire destiny and unconventional Warhol wannabes and Picasso potentials are few and far between, their kin having removed themselves to the time-consuming task of running the country. In other words, perhaps, the talents of Singapore mostly go the political path, rather than the economic or artistic path.
***
So far, at least, most of the mundane homework has been dealt with. History IA practice is painfully underway. EE has been shamefully shoved into a corner very temporarily. Once I get more reference material, I'll start. The pressures of the CTs are but a distant dream, imperative though they may be. Revision will resume...soon. 16th June is my preferred date.
Oblivion is compelling, despite less-than-ideal computer specifications, combining an interesting multi-threaded storyline with a large portion of freeform gameplay. Although gameplay invariably gets dull after the thousandth dungeon-sweeping. Frequent sword-swinging may just render my mouse inoperable sometime.
But the dull weather beats on and rest evades me. If only the common tests were before June...but wait, they were.
***
Two thoughts have been gravitating in my mind recently.
1
I was rereading Foundation after a long long hiatus of non-Foundation-ness and Hari Seldon's character struck me with a new...familarity. Who else in the world of fiction, I thought, was an athletic, highly intelligent but naive provincial academic flanked by a younger but more discerning female sidekick cum guide who goes on a travelogue-ish romp through disparate locales in pursuit of an intractable academic problem that has applications beyond the mundane pursuit of knowledge, chased by forces who are not exactly what they seem?
Why, Robert Langdon, of course. It probably is a sort of literary formula 101 archetype, because it basically covers the three essentials of exciting fiction: danger, romance and hilarity.
2
I don't think Singapore produces little or no talent relative to its size. Its just that the system here works in such a way that the only way to get a stable job and a good life is to join the government. Or to make a career of opposing it. Or to leave. So the emigres and the government are the talent of Singapore, and as for the budding entrepreneurs of billionaire destiny and unconventional Warhol wannabes and Picasso potentials are few and far between, their kin having removed themselves to the time-consuming task of running the country. In other words, perhaps, the talents of Singapore mostly go the political path, rather than the economic or artistic path.
***
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Dreams
Hestia, she was always the Cassandra of the little Playgroup.
The other day, during Practitions of Kinematical Ability, she ran sobbing to the Playcircle and announced to the class, "A Mercedes Benz R350 just came out of the waste paper basket!"
The scene of the crime was unsurprisingly devoid of any such improbability, though. We stood reproachfully around the offending basket and ignored the sobs of the betrayed Hestia. Miss Moppets, our teacher-in-charge, tapped a red-painted finger on her full lips and considered the surrounds.
"For once, I think Hestia did see what she just saw."
Miss Moppets was a formidable force in our collective sight. At One Point Six Emm she towered still over us like a vengeful giant bent on destruction, her reproach sufficient to annihilate cities. But notwithstanding her vastness the most remarkable thing about her was how she housed her abdominal regions within the confines of a 3-inch cylindrical aluminum pipe, making the two bulbs of her body resemble twin globules of sweetness on a giant lollipop. When she walked on her platforms they wobbled precariously to and fro. Often during our darker moments we shared this collective vision of her vulnerability and traded dark stories on her history.
Presently we stared at her, faculties skeptical but inquiring. The silence was enough to say it all.
She pointed a red finger at the floor, where two streak marks, fresh, graced the delicate granite. Our eyes followed her to the north wall, amalgamation of centuries-old tapestries.
"Observe closely, children." Her voice was marigold on tinted silver and reverberated painfully in the room. It filled us with a sense, an image, of great red dark fleshy organs and squelching blood palpitating in the depths of her trachea, where indomitable golems of bloodred flesh laboured quietly to belch forth patterns of sounds that would rise sickly, bubbly, up to her lipstick-smeared mouth, past her rows of glinting, wet teeth and rolling, wet tongue-stained with black cigarette smears and green mint, forward, blowing back the uvula and making it bounce back and forth like a punching-bag, forward, whistling through the jagged gaps of skin-flaked lips and-
There was something strange about the wall. We stared closely. "Concentrate," she breathed.
Some got it first, others later, but we all did get it in the end. There was a hole in the wall, except that-
It wasn't there.
Miss Moppets placed a hand on her abdomen, which is to say, the aluminum pipe, and announced that she was proud of us. "Only," predator's teeth bared in feral grin, "my children would have seen it."
A voice from the back whispered, "What is it?"
The grin widened. For a moment Miss Moppets resembled a Great White, alien, hostile, and exultant over a prospective meal. The caverns of her satisfaction opened, and for a while, we were defenceless, alone, vulnerable before her infinite might.
Pronounced from the deadly caverns of her satisfaction: "It is a quantummechanical effect."
The illusion shattered. There she was, back again, Miss Moppets, hand on aluminum pipe. "The car exists, or did not. It came, it did not come. And what it did, it could not have done, for it did not exist. The wave function does not collapse, here, in the Playroom."
Seeing our confusion, she pronounced, "The mind cannot comprehend the spatialics of the Higher Dimensions."
Our notebooks were busy for that moment. Hestia's sobs receded into snuffling. "Hestia." The sudden import of sound was earsplitting. "Come here."
Hestia went, shaking with fear.
Miss Moppets regarded her from above. "You showed remarkable potential, Hestia. The ability to dictate quantummechanical reality. I have decided that you shall ascend, despite your lack of training. Children," she addressed us, "Hestia is leaving. Her delusions have not, in fact, been delusions. Her fancies have been realities. She has the ability to conjure dreams from reality, and reality from dreams. She shall Ascend."
Hestia disappeared, then.
Years later she is an idea, a representation of a quality, a force. Like Minerva, she spawns from dreams. She spawns dreams. She is a goddess, and she has become endemic in the minds of men.
***
Okay, got the idea from American Gods.
The other day, during Practitions of Kinematical Ability, she ran sobbing to the Playcircle and announced to the class, "A Mercedes Benz R350 just came out of the waste paper basket!"
The scene of the crime was unsurprisingly devoid of any such improbability, though. We stood reproachfully around the offending basket and ignored the sobs of the betrayed Hestia. Miss Moppets, our teacher-in-charge, tapped a red-painted finger on her full lips and considered the surrounds.
"For once, I think Hestia did see what she just saw."
Miss Moppets was a formidable force in our collective sight. At One Point Six Emm she towered still over us like a vengeful giant bent on destruction, her reproach sufficient to annihilate cities. But notwithstanding her vastness the most remarkable thing about her was how she housed her abdominal regions within the confines of a 3-inch cylindrical aluminum pipe, making the two bulbs of her body resemble twin globules of sweetness on a giant lollipop. When she walked on her platforms they wobbled precariously to and fro. Often during our darker moments we shared this collective vision of her vulnerability and traded dark stories on her history.
Presently we stared at her, faculties skeptical but inquiring. The silence was enough to say it all.
She pointed a red finger at the floor, where two streak marks, fresh, graced the delicate granite. Our eyes followed her to the north wall, amalgamation of centuries-old tapestries.
"Observe closely, children." Her voice was marigold on tinted silver and reverberated painfully in the room. It filled us with a sense, an image, of great red dark fleshy organs and squelching blood palpitating in the depths of her trachea, where indomitable golems of bloodred flesh laboured quietly to belch forth patterns of sounds that would rise sickly, bubbly, up to her lipstick-smeared mouth, past her rows of glinting, wet teeth and rolling, wet tongue-stained with black cigarette smears and green mint, forward, blowing back the uvula and making it bounce back and forth like a punching-bag, forward, whistling through the jagged gaps of skin-flaked lips and-
There was something strange about the wall. We stared closely. "Concentrate," she breathed.
Some got it first, others later, but we all did get it in the end. There was a hole in the wall, except that-
It wasn't there.
Miss Moppets placed a hand on her abdomen, which is to say, the aluminum pipe, and announced that she was proud of us. "Only," predator's teeth bared in feral grin, "my children would have seen it."
A voice from the back whispered, "What is it?"
The grin widened. For a moment Miss Moppets resembled a Great White, alien, hostile, and exultant over a prospective meal. The caverns of her satisfaction opened, and for a while, we were defenceless, alone, vulnerable before her infinite might.
Pronounced from the deadly caverns of her satisfaction: "It is a quantummechanical effect."
The illusion shattered. There she was, back again, Miss Moppets, hand on aluminum pipe. "The car exists, or did not. It came, it did not come. And what it did, it could not have done, for it did not exist. The wave function does not collapse, here, in the Playroom."
Seeing our confusion, she pronounced, "The mind cannot comprehend the spatialics of the Higher Dimensions."
Our notebooks were busy for that moment. Hestia's sobs receded into snuffling. "Hestia." The sudden import of sound was earsplitting. "Come here."
Hestia went, shaking with fear.
Miss Moppets regarded her from above. "You showed remarkable potential, Hestia. The ability to dictate quantummechanical reality. I have decided that you shall ascend, despite your lack of training. Children," she addressed us, "Hestia is leaving. Her delusions have not, in fact, been delusions. Her fancies have been realities. She has the ability to conjure dreams from reality, and reality from dreams. She shall Ascend."
Hestia disappeared, then.
Years later she is an idea, a representation of a quality, a force. Like Minerva, she spawns from dreams. She spawns dreams. She is a goddess, and she has become endemic in the minds of men.
***
Okay, got the idea from American Gods.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Charles Stross and Other Matters
Since Perdido Street Station I have cultivated an ever-growing interest in steampunk, which is to say, that particular genre of novels that deal with the themes of the dynamic between magic and technology, usually represented in the typical Victorian "mechanized civilization" and corresponding "magic" elements in society. Steampunk must be dark, gritty, and Gothic. It must defy some mechanical rules; essentially, it is an atavistic, fantasy version of technopunk.
As a testament to this newfound interest in steampunk I have been digging into Rise of Legends, the "spiritual sequel" to the famous and Nova-beloved RON, as well as having recently purchased KJ Parker's Devices and Desires, which although not categorically steampunk, has some nice drawings of pistons and pumps on the cover. (Come off it, it's called the Engineer Trilogy, for all's sake. And medieval Dukedoms are a worthy substitute to magic-spinning voydanoi.)
I have also been trying to broaden my sci-fi tastes, in a grandiose effort to 1) expand my science fiction reading circle, 2) aid my EE research. So the other day I stopped by Kinokuniya and acquired one Iain M Banks book, Consider Phleblas, and the two Charles Stross ones on the Eschaton - Singularity Sky and Iron Sunrise. Suffice to say, Bank's seemingly action-centric narrative hides a deeper significance encapsulated in the title that no doubt has links to the question of the moral right to sovereignty and overlordship of a certain Culture in the novel. Stross, on the other hand, is hailed for his innovative sci-fi universe and blazingly new concepts along with the "Benford-like care", as a reviewer put it, in his works. I never liked Benford because of the Second Foundation series. Nor David Brin neither. I preferred Iron Sunrise of the two, although it was more conventional. Iron Sunrise seemed more complete, with a clarity and direction rare in books of such scale.
I have yet to expound fully on my liking for The Parent Trap. Since I seem more loquacious today, it shall begin hence. The Parent Trap is a testament to the fact that innocent, carefree movies cannot be consigned just so into the rubbish dump of bad movies. Merely because it lacks the "real world grit" of machismo-ridden, film noir angsty jungle-world Oscar-winning scions of the Great Directors doesn't mean that it is of little value, relevance or profoundity. The Parent Trap is a cohesive mixture of comic action, serious themes in life and relationships. Lindsay Lohan performs her dual roles with near perfect polish, rendered doubly noteworthy by the fact that her two characters are so different. Her acting is one of the best things about the movie and is a major reason why this movie is a must-watch. Besides, although including the inevitable reunion, the plot is not as cliched as I had thought it would be. All in all, excellent performances from all, and although six years old, The Parent Trap is as fresh and relevant as it ever was and will be.
Tests. Firefly and Serenity. Rome. Chemistry Practical 9. All these things; they trouble me. All the obligatory projects and long-term mash of must-dos. IOP. Group 4 project. TOK. Math Portfolio. Common Test.
Respite eludes me. That's it. I am done with the obligatory blog-rant.
No matter what I cannot seem to summon up the resolve to write about Shanghai. I have enlisted the aid of Nova, who has much to say on the matter.
The weather seems to be improving, with the exception of the heavy rain of a few hours back. The blue sky reminds me of America and other temperate countries. Blue sky is, for me, indelibly associated with OM and holidaying. Sunny days and cumulus cloud-dotted skies are my favourite type of weather.
PAP won again. I was hoping that the Opposition would get a full GRC this election, what with the furore over 47 contested seats and such. Apparently not, with the system skewed such that possible pockets of opposition support are integrated into the pro-PAP GRC fold. The PAP overreacted. I cannot believe that it would honestly think that negative attacks on the opposition would rally public sympathy to their cause. Gomez was a clear miscalculation, and I think they knew that along the way. But what irks me most is that a PAP minister would actually say after the whole affair had come and gone that "Don't Worry, if you voted for the opposition, you're still pro-Singapore." Thats an ultimately arrogant and fallacious statement on several counts. First, it assumes that people are naturally inclined to think that the Opposition is anti-Singapore. Second, it's a smug assertation of PAP superiority and a tacit assumption that voting for the PAP was the "right" and "pro-Singapore" thing to do -which, although correct to a certain extent, suggests an overturning of the democratic process in which the moral right of the voter is asserted. Third, it just sounds so arrogant, especially coming after the shameful things the PAP had to pull in order to discredit the opposition, like the ruckus over Gomez, the carrot-and-stick approach to the Opposition Wards in Hougang and Potong Pasir. Those two wards remain to this day poorer districts of Singapore. I honestly cannot believe that the PAP thinks it is right to pull such outrageous and plainly insincere stunts. If a governing party rescinds upgrading privileges for the sake of getting more political clout, it has lost some of its mandate, no matter what the analysts say.
It may be that the PAP honestly believes that it is the only party that can handle Singapore, and responds as such. And perhaps it is. One cannot discount the incredible things the PAP has done for Singapore over the years, or attribute it to luck or regional climate or any such half-baked reason. One cannot deny the fact that without the PAP, it would have been so easy for Singapore to slide down the path to darkness and obscurity. But disregarding our obligation to them, and their contuining effectiveness in running the country, the utilization of strongarm tactics like these is simply untenable and shameful, and gives the critics more meat to discredit our nation.
Let us hope that GE 2010 will see a mellowing of the PAP's campaign and the inclusion of an increased opposition.
CAS. A fruitful Monday afternoon works wonders on the mind.
With all this talk of OM, memories once again surface. I remember Iowa, Boulder, Chicago; all the American cities I visited; the bookstore at the Uni, the teen's party of such American exuberance, the trading of pins and T-shirts. The pain of OM. The utter agony; listening to Enya and Blue (Da Ba Dee) while working on props that seemed never to get done. Waiting in the Glenn Miller Hall and emerging sans a mask.
Funny how remembrance blurs the pain. And how merciless is time and transition.
***
As a testament to this newfound interest in steampunk I have been digging into Rise of Legends, the "spiritual sequel" to the famous and Nova-beloved RON, as well as having recently purchased KJ Parker's Devices and Desires, which although not categorically steampunk, has some nice drawings of pistons and pumps on the cover. (Come off it, it's called the Engineer Trilogy, for all's sake. And medieval Dukedoms are a worthy substitute to magic-spinning voydanoi.)
I have also been trying to broaden my sci-fi tastes, in a grandiose effort to 1) expand my science fiction reading circle, 2) aid my EE research. So the other day I stopped by Kinokuniya and acquired one Iain M Banks book, Consider Phleblas, and the two Charles Stross ones on the Eschaton - Singularity Sky and Iron Sunrise. Suffice to say, Bank's seemingly action-centric narrative hides a deeper significance encapsulated in the title that no doubt has links to the question of the moral right to sovereignty and overlordship of a certain Culture in the novel. Stross, on the other hand, is hailed for his innovative sci-fi universe and blazingly new concepts along with the "Benford-like care", as a reviewer put it, in his works. I never liked Benford because of the Second Foundation series. Nor David Brin neither. I preferred Iron Sunrise of the two, although it was more conventional. Iron Sunrise seemed more complete, with a clarity and direction rare in books of such scale.
I have yet to expound fully on my liking for The Parent Trap. Since I seem more loquacious today, it shall begin hence. The Parent Trap is a testament to the fact that innocent, carefree movies cannot be consigned just so into the rubbish dump of bad movies. Merely because it lacks the "real world grit" of machismo-ridden, film noir angsty jungle-world Oscar-winning scions of the Great Directors doesn't mean that it is of little value, relevance or profoundity. The Parent Trap is a cohesive mixture of comic action, serious themes in life and relationships. Lindsay Lohan performs her dual roles with near perfect polish, rendered doubly noteworthy by the fact that her two characters are so different. Her acting is one of the best things about the movie and is a major reason why this movie is a must-watch. Besides, although including the inevitable reunion, the plot is not as cliched as I had thought it would be. All in all, excellent performances from all, and although six years old, The Parent Trap is as fresh and relevant as it ever was and will be.
Tests. Firefly and Serenity. Rome. Chemistry Practical 9. All these things; they trouble me. All the obligatory projects and long-term mash of must-dos. IOP. Group 4 project. TOK. Math Portfolio. Common Test.
Respite eludes me. That's it. I am done with the obligatory blog-rant.
No matter what I cannot seem to summon up the resolve to write about Shanghai. I have enlisted the aid of Nova, who has much to say on the matter.
The weather seems to be improving, with the exception of the heavy rain of a few hours back. The blue sky reminds me of America and other temperate countries. Blue sky is, for me, indelibly associated with OM and holidaying. Sunny days and cumulus cloud-dotted skies are my favourite type of weather.
PAP won again. I was hoping that the Opposition would get a full GRC this election, what with the furore over 47 contested seats and such. Apparently not, with the system skewed such that possible pockets of opposition support are integrated into the pro-PAP GRC fold. The PAP overreacted. I cannot believe that it would honestly think that negative attacks on the opposition would rally public sympathy to their cause. Gomez was a clear miscalculation, and I think they knew that along the way. But what irks me most is that a PAP minister would actually say after the whole affair had come and gone that "Don't Worry, if you voted for the opposition, you're still pro-Singapore." Thats an ultimately arrogant and fallacious statement on several counts. First, it assumes that people are naturally inclined to think that the Opposition is anti-Singapore. Second, it's a smug assertation of PAP superiority and a tacit assumption that voting for the PAP was the "right" and "pro-Singapore" thing to do -which, although correct to a certain extent, suggests an overturning of the democratic process in which the moral right of the voter is asserted. Third, it just sounds so arrogant, especially coming after the shameful things the PAP had to pull in order to discredit the opposition, like the ruckus over Gomez, the carrot-and-stick approach to the Opposition Wards in Hougang and Potong Pasir. Those two wards remain to this day poorer districts of Singapore. I honestly cannot believe that the PAP thinks it is right to pull such outrageous and plainly insincere stunts. If a governing party rescinds upgrading privileges for the sake of getting more political clout, it has lost some of its mandate, no matter what the analysts say.
It may be that the PAP honestly believes that it is the only party that can handle Singapore, and responds as such. And perhaps it is. One cannot discount the incredible things the PAP has done for Singapore over the years, or attribute it to luck or regional climate or any such half-baked reason. One cannot deny the fact that without the PAP, it would have been so easy for Singapore to slide down the path to darkness and obscurity. But disregarding our obligation to them, and their contuining effectiveness in running the country, the utilization of strongarm tactics like these is simply untenable and shameful, and gives the critics more meat to discredit our nation.
Let us hope that GE 2010 will see a mellowing of the PAP's campaign and the inclusion of an increased opposition.
CAS. A fruitful Monday afternoon works wonders on the mind.
With all this talk of OM, memories once again surface. I remember Iowa, Boulder, Chicago; all the American cities I visited; the bookstore at the Uni, the teen's party of such American exuberance, the trading of pins and T-shirts. The pain of OM. The utter agony; listening to Enya and Blue (Da Ba Dee) while working on props that seemed never to get done. Waiting in the Glenn Miller Hall and emerging sans a mask.
Funny how remembrance blurs the pain. And how merciless is time and transition.
***
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Rumination II
Shanghai was...interesting. It's changed so much since I last went there, and that was only about a year and a half ago. Many things have remained the same, though. Its beauty; its ugliness, its modernity and parochialism all mixed together like every other city humanity has ever spawned at one time or another. Shanghai has grown beyond its people, a first world city still amongst third- to second- world attitudes. Like Singapore in the 1970s, perhaps. Its people are catching up though. With frightening adeptness.
I wouldn't want to live in Shanghai, though. Unless someone gave me a million dollars to furnish a reasonably high-end locale establishment in-city, preferably in Pudong. Nova will again provide details on the trip, if he wants.
***
It's saddening to watch the Parent Trap, delightful though it may be. The Parent Trap owns Mean Girls hands down, which is a primary imperative for me to go search out a VCD of the movie and keep it for posterity. It's saddening because Lindsay Lohan is currently engaged in discreet drug-taking (or is alleged to be by vengeful paparrazi) and the production of "sexually suggestive music videos" in an attempt to be a cross-platform teenage drama queen (hah). Contrast to her double role as the twins Who Decide to Reunite Their Estranged Parents in the 1998 movie, where she, like Macaulay Culkin before her, is/are the quintessential mischevious but good-hearted kid(s) who swoop(s) in to deliver the oversized double whammy of feel-good comic action Against the Antagonists. Two words that bespoke of the cruel inevitability of change: Growing Up.
I wouldn't want to live in Shanghai, though. Unless someone gave me a million dollars to furnish a reasonably high-end locale establishment in-city, preferably in Pudong. Nova will again provide details on the trip, if he wants.
***
It's saddening to watch the Parent Trap, delightful though it may be. The Parent Trap owns Mean Girls hands down, which is a primary imperative for me to go search out a VCD of the movie and keep it for posterity. It's saddening because Lindsay Lohan is currently engaged in discreet drug-taking (or is alleged to be by vengeful paparrazi) and the production of "sexually suggestive music videos" in an attempt to be a cross-platform teenage drama queen (hah). Contrast to her double role as the twins Who Decide to Reunite Their Estranged Parents in the 1998 movie, where she, like Macaulay Culkin before her, is/are the quintessential mischevious but good-hearted kid(s) who swoop(s) in to deliver the oversized double whammy of feel-good comic action Against the Antagonists. Two words that bespoke of the cruel inevitability of change: Growing Up.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Postcards from Shanghai
It was a song that had been playing on my way to the airport on the day of the flight. "...send me picture postcards from LA..." sang Joshua Kadison. Seven days and half a week of rumination and distraction later, I can only present a URL.
Shanghai-Suzhou OEP Pictures
The connexions are clear enough. When we are ready, perhaps we will furnish this place with some reflections.
Shanghai-Suzhou OEP Pictures
The connexions are clear enough. When we are ready, perhaps we will furnish this place with some reflections.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Silence
Silence-
That is what we embody. Facelessness, uniformity, soulessness - those are not words for us. We were never faceless. To claim that would be an abomination of the highest degree, for it is the contempt of millions and a whitewashing of a myraid coloured lives. We were never uniform. No doubt clad as such, long ago, but never little matchstick men, to be struck dry without discrimination or rancour.
Why? Why do they label us such? And why, why do we listen?
We are silent. Whether it be conditioning, cultural or otherwise, I do not know. But our silence dances in the lecture hall. It revels in the empty grass in a corner, it echoes in the pages and pages of white officialdom.
No, we are not voiceless, for we speak. Our talk is voluble and varied, spicy and flavoursome. But we are silent. As we often are. For we think that there are only two notches on the lever that may express dissent - none at all, and to the extreme. Cautious probes forwards are diverted with benign intent. Radicals are eliminated as threats to the state.
The voluble minority trades correspondence in the underground of the cyberage. Their electronic ministrations trickle powerfully down congested highways, and are sniggered at by self-important revolutionaries. Dissent and radicalist anti-intent evade the peering eyes, the scrutiny, of the powers that be. Lies and mistruth and shocking indignities are bandied back and forth among dwarfs and titans of the age. Such is steam vented and virulence transmitted, the shocking contagion of the networks and talk-webs.
But, in the arena of the real, they are silent. Shockingly, incongorously. Silent.
Globally,we are silent. We maintain pomp and dignity that belies our stature. But, down here, we are silent. We are savages from a voiceless land. We communicate using arcane ideograms and inscrutable hand signals. At the shock of our volubility, paradigm shifts emerge and fade rapidly into obscurity. Always gracious, always tight and correct, and they fall for our conjuror's tricks, they fall for our facades and performances everytime. We are charlatans who hide the real cards from view. We are silent.
They talk of our cosmopolitanism. For we are nomads bound to a meandering course and a distant womb that beckons for deliverance. We search for our Canaan, never realizing that we have already left it for greener pastures. We are thanklessly globalist. For our paucity makes us dissolve within the congealing mists. Such that we find cause to trumpet the recalcitrants, those that refuse to fade away into mist. But their voices are silent, stridence unheard in a voluble wind. For they are too few. And they cannot be too many.
Perhaps our lives have been structured around silence. Perhaps the race has been run too far and too fast. Perhaps, in our ceaseless wandering, we have missed the oasis, or seen it fade in a relentless mirage. For we are too caught up in our private lives to speak. And the world is too seemingly perfect, in its crystalline silence.
For once broken, we fear the futility of picking up the shattered pieces. For, but for its deep unfathomability, we admire its unbroken skin. And the passersby, varied as they often are, speak without regard for our values.
Wherefore apathy, agreement, or guilt, I do not know.
But we are silent.
***
That is what we embody. Facelessness, uniformity, soulessness - those are not words for us. We were never faceless. To claim that would be an abomination of the highest degree, for it is the contempt of millions and a whitewashing of a myraid coloured lives. We were never uniform. No doubt clad as such, long ago, but never little matchstick men, to be struck dry without discrimination or rancour.
Why? Why do they label us such? And why, why do we listen?
We are silent. Whether it be conditioning, cultural or otherwise, I do not know. But our silence dances in the lecture hall. It revels in the empty grass in a corner, it echoes in the pages and pages of white officialdom.
No, we are not voiceless, for we speak. Our talk is voluble and varied, spicy and flavoursome. But we are silent. As we often are. For we think that there are only two notches on the lever that may express dissent - none at all, and to the extreme. Cautious probes forwards are diverted with benign intent. Radicals are eliminated as threats to the state.
The voluble minority trades correspondence in the underground of the cyberage. Their electronic ministrations trickle powerfully down congested highways, and are sniggered at by self-important revolutionaries. Dissent and radicalist anti-intent evade the peering eyes, the scrutiny, of the powers that be. Lies and mistruth and shocking indignities are bandied back and forth among dwarfs and titans of the age. Such is steam vented and virulence transmitted, the shocking contagion of the networks and talk-webs.
But, in the arena of the real, they are silent. Shockingly, incongorously. Silent.
Globally,we are silent. We maintain pomp and dignity that belies our stature. But, down here, we are silent. We are savages from a voiceless land. We communicate using arcane ideograms and inscrutable hand signals. At the shock of our volubility, paradigm shifts emerge and fade rapidly into obscurity. Always gracious, always tight and correct, and they fall for our conjuror's tricks, they fall for our facades and performances everytime. We are charlatans who hide the real cards from view. We are silent.
They talk of our cosmopolitanism. For we are nomads bound to a meandering course and a distant womb that beckons for deliverance. We search for our Canaan, never realizing that we have already left it for greener pastures. We are thanklessly globalist. For our paucity makes us dissolve within the congealing mists. Such that we find cause to trumpet the recalcitrants, those that refuse to fade away into mist. But their voices are silent, stridence unheard in a voluble wind. For they are too few. And they cannot be too many.
Perhaps our lives have been structured around silence. Perhaps the race has been run too far and too fast. Perhaps, in our ceaseless wandering, we have missed the oasis, or seen it fade in a relentless mirage. For we are too caught up in our private lives to speak. And the world is too seemingly perfect, in its crystalline silence.
For once broken, we fear the futility of picking up the shattered pieces. For, but for its deep unfathomability, we admire its unbroken skin. And the passersby, varied as they often are, speak without regard for our values.
Wherefore apathy, agreement, or guilt, I do not know.
But we are silent.
***
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Perdido Street Station
Perdido Street Station is a celebration of grotesquerie in every sense of the word. It is an almost revoltingly eclectic conglomeration of the most far-reaching and diverse themes, motifs, and symbols in the realm of speculative fiction, sprung forth from the most fecund imagination of a British author set to outdo all his contemporaries in the deliverance of the perverse and the macabre.
It is interesting how British authors, most of all, seem to revel in this brand of macabre fiction. We see signs of incipient madness in giants such as Peter F Hamilton, Alastair Reynolds, and others. Mieville's New Crobuzon is the student of their devices. Almost from the beginning it is depicted in such filth, chaos and despair that the reader is disinclined to take the author's words at face value, assuming, rather, an unsubtle attempt at hyperbole. New Crobuzon itself seems to be an agglomeration of various disparate elements of other brilliantly realized worlds. Its post-Victorian air and cheerful debauchery recall the city Ankh-Morpork of Pratchett's Discworld. Its macabre fusion of machine and man is reminiscent of Alistair Reyonld's Inhibitors series. The mindbending horror of the slake-moths is perfectly captured in the ruinous depredation of the undead in Hamilton's Confederation Universe novels. Yet what sets Perdido Street Station apart is the author's casual treatment of this deliberately instituted filth. Mieville achieves this effect by making New Crobuzon the centerpiece of his narrative, in an acknowledgement of the setting as an integral part of an appreciation of the novel.
New Crobuzon is set to become a defining landmark in the techno-fantasy playland. With it Mieville conceives a whole new way to unite science fiction with fantasy, creating something so new and unique that it defies all current boundaries. In Mieville fiction refuses to conform to boundaries and bleeds cross-genre, something that perhaps only readers as modern as we are are prepared to accept. The defining thing about New Crobuzon and its world, Bas-Lag, is that magic becomes a scientific and technological curiosity, a plaything for engineers. It is a world where stuffy academics from established institutions mutter hexes with impunity and self-styled mediums use electrochemical cells. The chief theme seems to be fusion, and Mieville's work embraces the concept on all levels, especially in the deranged Motley and the phenomenon of the Remade. Mieville's world is overrun with strange forces of chaos that foster unity and disunity at will, and this allows him an excuse to set his imagination loose, filling the hundreds of pages with strange constructs (pun intended, don't even try to guess what this means if you haven't read the book), macabre creations of darkness and light, and the occasional non sequitur irrationality ala Douglas Adams. It is a world where eldritch realms share space with the physical and phantasmorgic entities roam before an incredulous science. Despite this seemingly fantastic realm, however, Mieville's characters are real and tangible, with real lives, insecurities, and attachments. And many of Mieville's ideas have real-world relevance, being metaphors of such issues as homosexuality, ethics in industry, and the dangers of unrestrained advancement.
All in all, Perdido Street Station is a testament to the power of grotesquerie and an unrestrained imagination. While I have yet to finish the book, its been a jolly disgusting ride through much filth and excitement.
It is interesting how British authors, most of all, seem to revel in this brand of macabre fiction. We see signs of incipient madness in giants such as Peter F Hamilton, Alastair Reynolds, and others. Mieville's New Crobuzon is the student of their devices. Almost from the beginning it is depicted in such filth, chaos and despair that the reader is disinclined to take the author's words at face value, assuming, rather, an unsubtle attempt at hyperbole. New Crobuzon itself seems to be an agglomeration of various disparate elements of other brilliantly realized worlds. Its post-Victorian air and cheerful debauchery recall the city Ankh-Morpork of Pratchett's Discworld. Its macabre fusion of machine and man is reminiscent of Alistair Reyonld's Inhibitors series. The mindbending horror of the slake-moths is perfectly captured in the ruinous depredation of the undead in Hamilton's Confederation Universe novels. Yet what sets Perdido Street Station apart is the author's casual treatment of this deliberately instituted filth. Mieville achieves this effect by making New Crobuzon the centerpiece of his narrative, in an acknowledgement of the setting as an integral part of an appreciation of the novel.
New Crobuzon is set to become a defining landmark in the techno-fantasy playland. With it Mieville conceives a whole new way to unite science fiction with fantasy, creating something so new and unique that it defies all current boundaries. In Mieville fiction refuses to conform to boundaries and bleeds cross-genre, something that perhaps only readers as modern as we are are prepared to accept. The defining thing about New Crobuzon and its world, Bas-Lag, is that magic becomes a scientific and technological curiosity, a plaything for engineers. It is a world where stuffy academics from established institutions mutter hexes with impunity and self-styled mediums use electrochemical cells. The chief theme seems to be fusion, and Mieville's work embraces the concept on all levels, especially in the deranged Motley and the phenomenon of the Remade. Mieville's world is overrun with strange forces of chaos that foster unity and disunity at will, and this allows him an excuse to set his imagination loose, filling the hundreds of pages with strange constructs (pun intended, don't even try to guess what this means if you haven't read the book), macabre creations of darkness and light, and the occasional non sequitur irrationality ala Douglas Adams. It is a world where eldritch realms share space with the physical and phantasmorgic entities roam before an incredulous science. Despite this seemingly fantastic realm, however, Mieville's characters are real and tangible, with real lives, insecurities, and attachments. And many of Mieville's ideas have real-world relevance, being metaphors of such issues as homosexuality, ethics in industry, and the dangers of unrestrained advancement.
All in all, Perdido Street Station is a testament to the power of grotesquerie and an unrestrained imagination. While I have yet to finish the book, its been a jolly disgusting ride through much filth and excitement.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
A Short Allegory
In my journey eastside I have encountered many things. As I emerged, face drinking the sun, just starting on my journey, I felt liberation and anticipation for what was to come. A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, as we are wont to say. It was good to stand tall after crouching for so long in my dark study. The first days were hard though, with me so unprepared and all. But walls crumble in time, even in ten years of horse-labour. After some time in dark tunnels (not so dark, light, after all, streams in from both sides), I emerged into a vast quilt of lands. I tell you, the landlords weren't too happy to see me walking without a care in the world, as if I would crush their flowers. Crossing the chess-board patchwork of parcel-estates is hardly fun, though, given that the sheer heads of the master-pieces are staring down stonily at you. I was glad to get out from there without starving as I was wont.
Casting down my sword and spear, for my need had passed, I went on to what I considered safer lands. The Mille fontaines were beauteous, as were the murals in the cavernous halls that I rested in. You must understand that vast tracts of the land lay fallow and uninhabited, the canvas of human life, being, as it were, heavily skewed towards centralization. But there was a man with donkey's ears, and he followed me silently for as long as I remained in those lands. I was disturbed at his quiet, fervent intensity, but I never went near him.
Further on was the place known as Krieglander, which I understood to have once been the fallen legacy of a god-empire of old, but, ironically, was neither divine or much of an empire. The Reicheroberer changed all that, of course. The land here was tilled and orderly, and folk greeted me with more vigour that I would have expected. Distant lands that carried sickness became distant lands that carried riches, and smoke, black smoke, appeared on the horizon. And, somehow, night never came for a long time.
I trudged through ditches and tar, all the way. And before long I came into a land of night, a night that wasn't, a night that was grim beyond despair and reeked of death. But suddenly, that too, disappeared in light, blinding light that I knew was a salve from heaven and hell.
East still lay a long way away, though. The road leads ever on, and I did not feel liberated as I laboured forth. But at length a vast wilderness lay before me, dotted by trees and a discarded parka here and there, crisscrossed by countless tracks and marked with craters. There was a bistro there, incongrously lighted in the long night. I was hungry, having braved much without so much as a bite, and I was cold, and tired, having no place to sleep. So I went in.
Inside was warm, but not as warm as I would have liked. An electric fire crackled merrily behind the bar. Two lights swung above the room, one above the bistro area, one in the bar area. I wondered where they got the electricity from. There were people inside when I came in, tall, gaunt fellows who sat around nursing clear spirits. The lone waiter and the restaurant manager, in contrast, looked mighty well-fed. Around the bare room were pasted posters, large coarse ones with messages like "GOOD GOING" and "ALL THE SAME TO US" imprinted in large block letters on them, and the bistro was creaking like a house in storm.
The waiter didn't budge. I knew he knew I had come. He lounged at the corner studying me. At length I could hardly stand my hunger and thirst and approached the waiter on weak legs. "Excuse me," I began. The waiter showed no sign of having heard. I went on anyway. "Some water, please, and a sandwich."
At length he turned toward me. "Scrawny looking thing, aren't ya?" Mystified and affronted, I said nothing. "I'll get'cha what ya want. Just be sure ya don't mess up the place, like, by pissin' all ovah the floor like. I know you. Ya do that all the bloomin' time."
I turned tail and headed towards the manager. Surely an explanation is not required. But the manager is already waiting for me, hefting an axe. "I most heartily express my disgust at your employee over there," I said, pointing to the retreating waiter. But the manager only smiles, walrus moustache bouncing away. "And why do you think he would rectify his behaviour, peon?"
I sputtered.
Menacingly, the manager grins at me. "You're all the same to us, see? Who cares about you, when we have so many others to use? Why should we extend services to you, you with your decadence?"
This is obvious to me. "Because you will have no customers. They will leave you for better alternatives. We deserve better than this!"
"Is it indeed? Look around you." The manager smiles. "Remember how you came. Look around you! Look at the wilderness of the world, lost among the uncaring universe. Do you honestly think, in all seriousness, that there are...alternatives?"
***
Casting down my sword and spear, for my need had passed, I went on to what I considered safer lands. The Mille fontaines were beauteous, as were the murals in the cavernous halls that I rested in. You must understand that vast tracts of the land lay fallow and uninhabited, the canvas of human life, being, as it were, heavily skewed towards centralization. But there was a man with donkey's ears, and he followed me silently for as long as I remained in those lands. I was disturbed at his quiet, fervent intensity, but I never went near him.
Further on was the place known as Krieglander, which I understood to have once been the fallen legacy of a god-empire of old, but, ironically, was neither divine or much of an empire. The Reicheroberer changed all that, of course. The land here was tilled and orderly, and folk greeted me with more vigour that I would have expected. Distant lands that carried sickness became distant lands that carried riches, and smoke, black smoke, appeared on the horizon. And, somehow, night never came for a long time.
I trudged through ditches and tar, all the way. And before long I came into a land of night, a night that wasn't, a night that was grim beyond despair and reeked of death. But suddenly, that too, disappeared in light, blinding light that I knew was a salve from heaven and hell.
East still lay a long way away, though. The road leads ever on, and I did not feel liberated as I laboured forth. But at length a vast wilderness lay before me, dotted by trees and a discarded parka here and there, crisscrossed by countless tracks and marked with craters. There was a bistro there, incongrously lighted in the long night. I was hungry, having braved much without so much as a bite, and I was cold, and tired, having no place to sleep. So I went in.
Inside was warm, but not as warm as I would have liked. An electric fire crackled merrily behind the bar. Two lights swung above the room, one above the bistro area, one in the bar area. I wondered where they got the electricity from. There were people inside when I came in, tall, gaunt fellows who sat around nursing clear spirits. The lone waiter and the restaurant manager, in contrast, looked mighty well-fed. Around the bare room were pasted posters, large coarse ones with messages like "GOOD GOING" and "ALL THE SAME TO US" imprinted in large block letters on them, and the bistro was creaking like a house in storm.
The waiter didn't budge. I knew he knew I had come. He lounged at the corner studying me. At length I could hardly stand my hunger and thirst and approached the waiter on weak legs. "Excuse me," I began. The waiter showed no sign of having heard. I went on anyway. "Some water, please, and a sandwich."
At length he turned toward me. "Scrawny looking thing, aren't ya?" Mystified and affronted, I said nothing. "I'll get'cha what ya want. Just be sure ya don't mess up the place, like, by pissin' all ovah the floor like. I know you. Ya do that all the bloomin' time."
I turned tail and headed towards the manager. Surely an explanation is not required. But the manager is already waiting for me, hefting an axe. "I most heartily express my disgust at your employee over there," I said, pointing to the retreating waiter. But the manager only smiles, walrus moustache bouncing away. "And why do you think he would rectify his behaviour, peon?"
I sputtered.
Menacingly, the manager grins at me. "You're all the same to us, see? Who cares about you, when we have so many others to use? Why should we extend services to you, you with your decadence?"
This is obvious to me. "Because you will have no customers. They will leave you for better alternatives. We deserve better than this!"
"Is it indeed? Look around you." The manager smiles. "Remember how you came. Look around you! Look at the wilderness of the world, lost among the uncaring universe. Do you honestly think, in all seriousness, that there are...alternatives?"
***
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
A Mun of Fun!
Apart from being the, and I quote, "largest collection of white tits and ass you'll ever find" (no prize for guessing who said it), SiMUN was actually quite a lot of fun. Especially because among the (very many) white asses were those belonging to our dear friends from RJ, who could quite possibly rank among the coolest Rafflesians on the planet.
Take this for example. In my committee (ECOSOC), we had to debate a resolution on indigenous peoples, which the delegate from the DPRK (pity it wasn’t assigned to Hwa Chong, haha) spoke against. Now, the delegate from the very...interestingly..named Democratic People'sRepublic of Korea
Anyway, so he walks up the podium, and begins his speech AGAINST indigenous rights, saying how they should all be left to rot because the resolution doesn't concernNorth Korea North Korea
At this point, most people in the auditorium are thinking: "Oh, shit, now he's dead". This guy, however, is absolutely unfazed, stares at the speaker for a while as if he just babbled something incoherent about Bill Clinton's continued moral impeccability, and goes in a perfectly even voice:
"The delegate of North Korea is not aware of this, as North Korea is only comprised of 100% loyal North Koreans."
Clearly t3h win. Especially because after that, Iran accused North Korea of wearing clogs and therefore having a poor human rights record (best link ever, right?), and North Korea ACTUALLY broke down on stage and sobbed "North Korea is ONLY trying to work with the worldddd!" in the most heart wrenching voice EVER, like Mike Tyson suddenly deciding to convert to the Jewish faith and spontaneously breaking out in Hebrew choruses, while spitting out half digested pieces of Evander Hollierfield's chewed off ear. Sweet.
Oh yeah, back to the point, this guy's from RJ.
So, anyway, my own experiences at SiMUN were pretty cool in themselves. It was surprisingly easy for a first timer, and you always know it’s a good thing when someone walks on stage within the first five minutes and makes an announcement that goes:
"Bee bee boom. Sorry for the interruption, but would all Anti-imperialists assemble here please?America
America Iran , Cuba and Libya ), but ALSO the UK , Japan , Australia , and Canada
Due to the incredibly large number of supporters (it's diplomacy, not whoring! I didn't buy them chocolate or promise them dates or anything, the latter of which would have been used as a mortal threat. I merely showed them off the floor (no one listens to debate) how truly l33t the resolution was!), our strategy for getting the resolution passed was this:
Chronology of events;
1. Toitle Reads Resolution
2. Toitle makes speech, and passes to other delegate
3. Other delegate yields to chair, FOR time begins
4. Fifteen delegates jostle to speak during FOR time, always yielding to another delegate, then back to the chair
5. Against time begins, BUT is rudely interrupted by a motion to move directly to open debate (where you can speak both FOR and AGAINST), which is seconded by about half the room.
6. Another twenty delegates jostle to speak during open debate, all of whom are For, effectively drowning out opposition.
7. Should opposition arise, almost every country raises its placards and pwns the speaker with POIs
FTW!
So yeah, it was pretty cool. The only problem being thatBolivia Bolivia
The only aberration was that Jordan DID decide to secede from my coalition in the end, the only reason being because he wanted his name as main submitter. For a resolution that benefitsJordan
"Recommends the UN led growth of the plant[long Latin name that probably just means Grapefruit] in African states, for the purposes of providing water."
He never got to hear the end of it, and we (Terence and myself) tabled his resolution indefinitely by a huge majority and got ours passed in committee. Whoops.
So anyway, after three days of constant speaking and haxxing, it finally paid off in the GA when we got it passed 39-5, DESPITEGreece US Greece
As for the previous post, the message by Nova was sent to me just before the vote, which was really really tense but rather anti-climatic in the end, because of the huge majority by which the resolution got passed.HELLenic Republic Greece breaking the mutual pact, your resolution really did have some problems (i.e, it tried to ban torture, zomg), and Bolivia
And good fun it was! At the end of the whole thing, because of the way we worked so closely together, I befriended about half the people, and got their contacts. (Haha if I didn’t, I'd be a political bastard. and I counted okay! 13 guys and 13 girls. So. Not. A. Flirt. Unless you're implying I'm gay, in which case I am So. Not. Gay. As well)
GA was actually pretty fun, particularly because we ended up playing proxy bingo. Now, for all of you unacquainted with the system, in a MUN you aren’t allowed to talk. Instead, you write messages on pieces of paper, and these little people (half of them called Igor, no doubt) scurry up to you and transmit them first to the chair (for censorship), then to your targets.
Proxy bingo goes like this. As with normal bingo, all participants write down numbers from 1-25 in a 5 by 5 square. One non participant, in this case some UWC girl, thinks up a number from 1-25, in this case say 21, and writes it on a piece of message paper. The message then goes to a bewildered securitariat and the chair, who wonders what on earth "21" is, and perhaps thinks that it’s actually half of the Ultimate Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything, and thereby has hidden significance somehow relevant to the conference (read about the cool messages that went around on Shivana's tagboard, lol). They then pass the thing to all the participants, who cancel out "21" on their pieces of paper, and the process continues.
Five in a row wins. Upon which, you write BINGO! backwards as !OGNIB, replete with click and all, and send it to everyone. Hurrah. The chair thinks you've just discovered the meaning of life.
In fact, it got so mundane at one point that I was about to initiate a vote of no confidence (which my coalition, now much larger, wanted to support) in the Sec-Gen for the heck of it when the conference closed abruptly! Daymn. It'd have been good to sit on that chair, and my agenda would essentially have comprised of have three items:
1. Creating a new voting system where every item of clothing removed by a delegate on the floor counts for ten votes.
2. Legalising the phrase "Tabletop Dancing is in Order", and motioning for that with immediate effect
3. Mandating within the UN charter a decree that every chair-in-training pass through the initiation right of chanting "Bolivia
After which I'd pass the floor back to the previous Sec-Gen for her closing remarks. Lawl. Oh well, there’s always next year :)
So anyway, to everyone who took part in SiMUN, great job!Bolivia
Congrats to Mun and Sam for special mentions, and to Mun for best res. Lol, you trix me, you said ALL of them were awarded to non-debated ones, so I thought that included yours! Never mind. Poor Augustin, brother of mangosteen, sorry you were the Chair, man.
To all my new SiMUN friends; you guys were awesome, really, some of the best orators I know! Thanks for your support, let’s keep in touch!
Finally. For EVERYONE else who didn’t take part, DO COME NEXT YEAR! It’s an unbelievably great experience. SiMUN says, JOIN NOW. Now. NOw. NOW. (Notice the varying tones of voice to gradually hypnotise you into believing me. Yeah, SiMUN's that effective. :))
Nowwwww.
Actually, join ThiMUN. At least it’s not held at the Lychee Franchise.
Take this for example. In my committee (ECOSOC), we had to debate a resolution on indigenous peoples, which the delegate from the DPRK (pity it wasn’t assigned to Hwa Chong, haha) spoke against. Now, the delegate from the very...interestingly..named Democratic People's
Anyway, so he walks up the podium, and begins his speech AGAINST indigenous rights, saying how they should all be left to rot because the resolution doesn't concern
At this point, most people in the auditorium are thinking: "Oh, shit, now he's dead". This guy, however, is absolutely unfazed, stares at the speaker for a while as if he just babbled something incoherent about Bill Clinton's continued moral impeccability, and goes in a perfectly even voice:
"The delegate of North Korea is not aware of this, as North Korea is only comprised of 100% loyal North Koreans."
Clearly t3h win. Especially because after that, Iran accused North Korea of wearing clogs and therefore having a poor human rights record (best link ever, right?), and North Korea ACTUALLY broke down on stage and sobbed "North Korea is ONLY trying to work with the worldddd!" in the most heart wrenching voice EVER, like Mike Tyson suddenly deciding to convert to the Jewish faith and spontaneously breaking out in Hebrew choruses, while spitting out half digested pieces of Evander Hollierfield's chewed off ear. Sweet.
Oh yeah, back to the point, this guy's from RJ.
So, anyway, my own experiences at SiMUN were pretty cool in themselves. It was surprisingly easy for a first timer, and you always know it’s a good thing when someone walks on stage within the first five minutes and makes an announcement that goes:
"Bee bee boom. Sorry for the interruption, but would all Anti-imperialists assemble here please?
Due to the incredibly large number of supporters (it's diplomacy, not whoring! I didn't buy them chocolate or promise them dates or anything, the latter of which would have been used as a mortal threat. I merely showed them off the floor (no one listens to debate) how truly l33t the resolution was!), our strategy for getting the resolution passed was this:
Chronology of events;
1. Toitle Reads Resolution
2. Toitle makes speech, and passes to other delegate
3. Other delegate yields to chair, FOR time begins
4. Fifteen delegates jostle to speak during FOR time, always yielding to another delegate, then back to the chair
5. Against time begins, BUT is rudely interrupted by a motion to move directly to open debate (where you can speak both FOR and AGAINST), which is seconded by about half the room.
6. Another twenty delegates jostle to speak during open debate, all of whom are For, effectively drowning out opposition.
7. Should opposition arise, almost every country raises its placards and pwns the speaker with POIs
FTW!
So yeah, it was pretty cool. The only problem being that
The only aberration was that Jordan DID decide to secede from my coalition in the end, the only reason being because he wanted his name as main submitter. For a resolution that benefits
"Recommends the UN led growth of the plant
He never got to hear the end of it, and we (Terence and myself) tabled his resolution indefinitely by a huge majority and got ours passed in committee. Whoops.
So anyway, after three days of constant speaking and haxxing, it finally paid off in the GA when we got it passed 39-5, DESPITE
As for the previous post, the message by Nova was sent to me just before the vote, which was really really tense but rather anti-climatic in the end, because of the huge majority by which the resolution got passed.
And good fun it was! At the end of the whole thing, because of the way we worked so closely together, I befriended about half the people, and got their contacts. (Haha if I didn’t, I'd be a political bastard. and I counted okay! 13 guys and 13 girls. So. Not. A. Flirt. Unless you're implying I'm gay, in which case I am So. Not. Gay. As well)
GA was actually pretty fun, particularly because we ended up playing proxy bingo. Now, for all of you unacquainted with the system, in a MUN you aren’t allowed to talk. Instead, you write messages on pieces of paper, and these little people (half of them called Igor, no doubt) scurry up to you and transmit them first to the chair (for censorship), then to your targets.
Proxy bingo goes like this. As with normal bingo, all participants write down numbers from 1-25 in a 5 by 5 square. One non participant, in this case some UWC girl, thinks up a number from 1-25, in this case say 21, and writes it on a piece of message paper. The message then goes to a bewildered securitariat and the chair, who wonders what on earth "21" is, and perhaps thinks that it’s actually half of the Ultimate Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything, and thereby has hidden significance somehow relevant to the conference (read about the cool messages that went around on Shivana's tagboard, lol). They then pass the thing to all the participants, who cancel out "21" on their pieces of paper, and the process continues.
Five in a row wins. Upon which, you write BINGO! backwards as !OGNIB, replete with click and all, and send it to everyone. Hurrah. The chair thinks you've just discovered the meaning of life.
In fact, it got so mundane at one point that I was about to initiate a vote of no confidence (which my coalition, now much larger, wanted to support) in the Sec-Gen for the heck of it when the conference closed abruptly! Daymn. It'd have been good to sit on that chair, and my agenda would essentially have comprised of have three items:
1. Creating a new voting system where every item of clothing removed by a delegate on the floor counts for ten votes.
2. Legalising the phrase "Tabletop Dancing is in Order", and motioning for that with immediate effect
3. Mandating within the UN charter a decree that every chair-in-training pass through the initiation right of chanting "
After which I'd pass the floor back to the previous Sec-Gen for her closing remarks. Lawl. Oh well, there’s always next year :)
So anyway, to everyone who took part in SiMUN, great job!
Congrats to Mun and Sam for special mentions, and to Mun for best res. Lol, you trix me, you said ALL of them were awarded to non-debated ones, so I thought that included yours! Never mind. Poor Augustin, brother of mangosteen, sorry you were the Chair, man.
To all my new SiMUN friends; you guys were awesome, really, some of the best orators I know! Thanks for your support, let’s keep in touch!
Finally. For EVERYONE else who didn’t take part, DO COME NEXT YEAR! It’s an unbelievably great experience. SiMUN says, JOIN NOW. Now. NOw. NOW. (Notice the varying tones of voice to gradually hypnotise you into believing me. Yeah, SiMUN's that effective. :))
Nowwwww.
Actually, join ThiMUN. At least it’s not held at the Lychee Franchise.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Frustration
Here it comes again.
It's strange, but I have a predilection for being immersed in bouts of frustration at painfully intermittent periods of my life. Simply put, I'm pent up in frustration and a sense of mental claustrophobia, as if walls were closing in on me. At the same time there's that constriction and senselessness and that feeling of being cut loose, adrift on a wide sea, to borrow the oft-used metaphor.
Right now some worries gnaw at the back of my head. There is, for example, the SRP conundrum. SRC on Friday managed to paint a rather grim, unfriendly atmosphere for us prospective researchers - as if we are inmates being thrust into hard labour with unfriendly and reluctant supervisors to monitor our activities. The first part of SRC was fairly interesting sans the deliberately abstruse project presentations, but the latter half performed admirably in its capacity as a wet blanket. Or perhaps sour grapes. Based, as it were, on less than spectacular performance from preceding batches, whose majorly uninspiring antics galvanized the blase coordinator to lambast we unsuspecting few with a preemptive "scolding", as he put it, of our future misdemeanors, taking out his frustrations on us. I don't fancy mentors that don't want my untrained faculties poking into his research. Much less being watched with eagle-eyes by a cynical, jaded authority.
There is that enduring problem of EE and my inability to decide on what I want or can do. Posthumanism? Political, social, ethical, stylistic considerations? Subbranches of posthumanist literature? Case-studies? Dune? How shall I structure the EE? How shall I talk about the enduring themes of mere fiction? (Note the irony.)
Then there are the holidays. Which are ending. A puerile consideration, perhaps, but irritating nonetheless.
***
I'm reading Ilium by Dan Simmons, which worries me because nowhere on this good Earth have I yet seen the sequel Olympos. Ilium is a strange book built on strange premises - that of Homer's Iliad being performed by hapless pawns on Mars, of sentient machine-cyborg beings no doubt inspired from Dyson's astrochicken, that for once copy human linguistic patterns and swear liberally, of postliteral humans trapped in an Eloi-like state of society, ignorant of even te most elementary things. Ilium is engaging because of its sheer novelty and complexity, and for now, although I haven't finished, it has already offered several fascinating thinking points.
It's strange, but I have a predilection for being immersed in bouts of frustration at painfully intermittent periods of my life. Simply put, I'm pent up in frustration and a sense of mental claustrophobia, as if walls were closing in on me. At the same time there's that constriction and senselessness and that feeling of being cut loose, adrift on a wide sea, to borrow the oft-used metaphor.
Right now some worries gnaw at the back of my head. There is, for example, the SRP conundrum. SRC on Friday managed to paint a rather grim, unfriendly atmosphere for us prospective researchers - as if we are inmates being thrust into hard labour with unfriendly and reluctant supervisors to monitor our activities. The first part of SRC was fairly interesting sans the deliberately abstruse project presentations, but the latter half performed admirably in its capacity as a wet blanket. Or perhaps sour grapes. Based, as it were, on less than spectacular performance from preceding batches, whose majorly uninspiring antics galvanized the blase coordinator to lambast we unsuspecting few with a preemptive "scolding", as he put it, of our future misdemeanors, taking out his frustrations on us. I don't fancy mentors that don't want my untrained faculties poking into his research. Much less being watched with eagle-eyes by a cynical, jaded authority.
There is that enduring problem of EE and my inability to decide on what I want or can do. Posthumanism? Political, social, ethical, stylistic considerations? Subbranches of posthumanist literature? Case-studies? Dune? How shall I structure the EE? How shall I talk about the enduring themes of mere fiction? (Note the irony.)
Then there are the holidays. Which are ending. A puerile consideration, perhaps, but irritating nonetheless.
***
I'm reading Ilium by Dan Simmons, which worries me because nowhere on this good Earth have I yet seen the sequel Olympos. Ilium is a strange book built on strange premises - that of Homer's Iliad being performed by hapless pawns on Mars, of sentient machine-cyborg beings no doubt inspired from Dyson's astrochicken, that for once copy human linguistic patterns and swear liberally, of postliteral humans trapped in an Eloi-like state of society, ignorant of even te most elementary things. Ilium is engaging because of its sheer novelty and complexity, and for now, although I haven't finished, it has already offered several fascinating thinking points.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Totality
Walking in the whispering wood
Past the fallen leaves
A boundless mist upon the mood
Settles unbereaved
Brushing past the moonlit trees
I came upon a clearing
And then I sank upon my knees
Filled with awful yearning
For dancing stars above the night
And vasty spirits beyond my sight
And knowledge, for which no man knows
But yet strives still, long and slow.
Past the fallen leaves
A boundless mist upon the mood
Settles unbereaved
Brushing past the moonlit trees
I came upon a clearing
And then I sank upon my knees
Filled with awful yearning
For dancing stars above the night
And vasty spirits beyond my sight
And knowledge, for which no man knows
But yet strives still, long and slow.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Web
It is interesting how music can have such a profound effect upon memory. The sounds spin webs in your mind and it isn't easy to disassociate them from impressions once they have settled into your brain.
I myself have not been immune to this, although I would hardly call it a liability. It just gives music an added poignancy, you know? Music is not just a collection of sounds that are pleasing to the ear. It has a capacity to subconsciously foster order where there is none. Music is a stimulus for action. It galvanizes powerful emotional reactions. For that reason it is very much a testament to the emotive power of the mind.
I tend to associate songs with times, or even with books and other forms of media. In end 2004 my mind was inundated with Vertigo by U2 as a result of overexposure to iPod ads. I vaguely remember a dash of LOTR music in the mix as well. Early 2005 is indelibly associated with KOTOR. As a result KOTOR music was impressed upon my consciousness. Angel by Gavin Friday and Prince of Egypt (more notably Humanity and When You Believe) , which I acquired after March 1, were powerful evocative symphonies, not least because of Lurhmann's Romeo + Juliet. As the OM drudge began to set in I start to associate this period with extreme Revenge of the Sith mania, culminating in obsessive partaking of Blue (Da Ba Dee) and the Phantom theme from Schumacher's 2004 movie, as well as I Shot the Sheriff and far too much Enya for good measure. After the end of OM I return to what seems a blank time - June 2005, which is quite empty for some reason. I think, though, that I was listening to I, Robot at the time, as well as snatches of the Beatles heard from Mediacorp Gold 90.5. Before June I was also listening to The Dream Within, sung by Laura Fabian, from the Spirits Within.
July came and with it a powerful dose of Heaven and quite a bit of Euro-techno music like Fairy on the Lake. I like to think of this period as the photoshop period. Following the IB Symposium I was also caught up in weebls-stuff, lots of Matrix parody flash, clay animation videos, and the Matrix music. Neodammerung and Navras from The Matrix Revolutions in early July and August, the whole deluge of Romeo + Juliet music in August, around the cross-country, especially Lovefool by the Cardigans. Additionally, nascent Potter mania influenced my music tastes in John William's music from the Harry Potter movies. After this, I started to try drawing faces, which led to Hey Jude by the Beatles and Little Star in the Romeo + Juliet soundtrack, as well as Mandy Moore, notably I Wanna be With You.
With exams comes a curiously null period again, although the Little Star period lasted till late September. When the exams finished Hayley Westenra came into the scene, with My Heart Belongs to You, whereupon I began to listen to Odyssey and Mariah Carey for the rest of the month. In work attachment I have a powerful impression of Vision of Love and i dont wanna cry by Carey as well as pseudo-operatic ballads sung by Hayley Westenra, like Dark Waltz and Dell'amore non si sa. I continued listening to Hayley Westenra, eventually diverting to more mainstream music such as Never Saw Blue and I Say Grace. After this came a portion of the FFAV soundtrack, like Water, and more Carey, and Everlasting Love by Jamie Cullum. When I went to Europe I discovered Michael Buble on the bus, and was amused by Quando, quando and Nelly Furtado, as well as Home, and Have a Little Faith in Me by Mandy Moore. Afterward it was Narnia. After Orientation I became enamoured with Michelle Branch, Josh Groban and Geisha. Then Pure and right now, After the Love Has Gone.
Some books also have strong associations with music. The Ender series with several intermeshing melodies that I can't remember. KOTOR with Humanity and Angel, Harry Potter with Harry Potter music, Narnia with Narnia, and others. Music is truly a unique human impulse. Like other types of art it deals with the raw impulse of the human spirit, that primality inherent in humans. Music merely refines it into recognizable constructs while preserving the pure emotive force.
I myself have not been immune to this, although I would hardly call it a liability. It just gives music an added poignancy, you know? Music is not just a collection of sounds that are pleasing to the ear. It has a capacity to subconsciously foster order where there is none. Music is a stimulus for action. It galvanizes powerful emotional reactions. For that reason it is very much a testament to the emotive power of the mind.
I tend to associate songs with times, or even with books and other forms of media. In end 2004 my mind was inundated with Vertigo by U2 as a result of overexposure to iPod ads. I vaguely remember a dash of LOTR music in the mix as well. Early 2005 is indelibly associated with KOTOR. As a result KOTOR music was impressed upon my consciousness. Angel by Gavin Friday and Prince of Egypt (more notably Humanity and When You Believe) , which I acquired after March 1, were powerful evocative symphonies, not least because of Lurhmann's Romeo + Juliet. As the OM drudge began to set in I start to associate this period with extreme Revenge of the Sith mania, culminating in obsessive partaking of Blue (Da Ba Dee) and the Phantom theme from Schumacher's 2004 movie, as well as I Shot the Sheriff and far too much Enya for good measure. After the end of OM I return to what seems a blank time - June 2005, which is quite empty for some reason. I think, though, that I was listening to I, Robot at the time, as well as snatches of the Beatles heard from Mediacorp Gold 90.5. Before June I was also listening to The Dream Within, sung by Laura Fabian, from the Spirits Within.
July came and with it a powerful dose of Heaven and quite a bit of Euro-techno music like Fairy on the Lake. I like to think of this period as the photoshop period. Following the IB Symposium I was also caught up in weebls-stuff, lots of Matrix parody flash, clay animation videos, and the Matrix music. Neodammerung and Navras from The Matrix Revolutions in early July and August, the whole deluge of Romeo + Juliet music in August, around the cross-country, especially Lovefool by the Cardigans. Additionally, nascent Potter mania influenced my music tastes in John William's music from the Harry Potter movies. After this, I started to try drawing faces, which led to Hey Jude by the Beatles and Little Star in the Romeo + Juliet soundtrack, as well as Mandy Moore, notably I Wanna be With You.
With exams comes a curiously null period again, although the Little Star period lasted till late September. When the exams finished Hayley Westenra came into the scene, with My Heart Belongs to You, whereupon I began to listen to Odyssey and Mariah Carey for the rest of the month. In work attachment I have a powerful impression of Vision of Love and i dont wanna cry by Carey as well as pseudo-operatic ballads sung by Hayley Westenra, like Dark Waltz and Dell'amore non si sa. I continued listening to Hayley Westenra, eventually diverting to more mainstream music such as Never Saw Blue and I Say Grace. After this came a portion of the FFAV soundtrack, like Water, and more Carey, and Everlasting Love by Jamie Cullum. When I went to Europe I discovered Michael Buble on the bus, and was amused by Quando, quando and Nelly Furtado, as well as Home, and Have a Little Faith in Me by Mandy Moore. Afterward it was Narnia. After Orientation I became enamoured with Michelle Branch, Josh Groban and Geisha. Then Pure and right now, After the Love Has Gone.
Some books also have strong associations with music. The Ender series with several intermeshing melodies that I can't remember. KOTOR with Humanity and Angel, Harry Potter with Harry Potter music, Narnia with Narnia, and others. Music is truly a unique human impulse. Like other types of art it deals with the raw impulse of the human spirit, that primality inherent in humans. Music merely refines it into recognizable constructs while preserving the pure emotive force.
Friday, February 24, 2006
A Whimsical Tale
So I was hanging out at my ranch in North County. The place swarms with bears and other critters. But I don't hunt 'em. I hunt trees because I'm a vegetarian. So one day I'm hanging out at the ranch, and out comes the sheriff of the county. He says to my face, "Ehhh, cello,", and I'm like "What?" Sheriff's a right nice guy, I mean, he's old and all, and his leather strip has met the hides of a thousand philandering horsethieves. He has these long white moustachios that hang to his knees a gold earring in his ear. He has a Colt 9 that's older than his grandaddy and that's saying a lot.
So he walks up to me, boots a-clinkin', and says "cello". "Sheriff," I say, "you're drunk." He starts to mutter under his breath. So I grab his arms and walk him to the edge of the wood. "Sheriff," I say, "You gotta get back. Sundance is out again." So he says, "What?" and grabs onto his moustachios. He runs a circle in this position with his Colt banging against the holster and it drops out. Serious. The leather just gives way. So he picks it up. An' he says, "Your time is over and you're gonna die bloody, and all you can do is choose where," he actually screams it at the top of his Sheriff's Voice and it echoes off the mountains.
Then he shoots me.
So I'm in hospital, wishing I'd kept my mouth shut. The sheriff shot me. Then the deputy had to shoot him. In the foot. So after some days I decide to write a song about it. But it won't be what really happened, of course.
Two weeks later, would you believe it, I got shot again. This time it was by another old coot who told me he was goin' hunting them critters in the forest. Apparently he thought I was a bird. The geezer says his name is Dick. He also seems to think he's famous. And he loves pretzels.
So he walks up to me, boots a-clinkin', and says "cello". "Sheriff," I say, "you're drunk." He starts to mutter under his breath. So I grab his arms and walk him to the edge of the wood. "Sheriff," I say, "You gotta get back. Sundance is out again." So he says, "What?" and grabs onto his moustachios. He runs a circle in this position with his Colt banging against the holster and it drops out. Serious. The leather just gives way. So he picks it up. An' he says, "Your time is over and you're gonna die bloody, and all you can do is choose where," he actually screams it at the top of his Sheriff's Voice and it echoes off the mountains.
Then he shoots me.
So I'm in hospital, wishing I'd kept my mouth shut. The sheriff shot me. Then the deputy had to shoot him. In the foot. So after some days I decide to write a song about it. But it won't be what really happened, of course.
Two weeks later, would you believe it, I got shot again. This time it was by another old coot who told me he was goin' hunting them critters in the forest. Apparently he thought I was a bird. The geezer says his name is Dick. He also seems to think he's famous. And he loves pretzels.
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