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jue_jun
Dec. 12th, 2005
08:43 am - Reflections at LAX
It's been an exhausting, and sobering quarter. I've thrown myself headlong into projects I've scoped out for myself. PanAsia, developing the possiblities of a human rights internship, working out my serious interests in terms of research and, also, trying to find that right balance between work, friends, family and Chheng. At the end of a trying 10 weeks, I've gained a little bit in maturity, and in handling my own affairs. I've learnt as well the importance of friendships, of those ties that give meaning to my life, and also of my own fallibility in failing to be there for my friends and hearing their problems out. I've become weirdly lost to their words and friendly banter, a by-product of cutting across so many different worlds all at once, and becoming distant from people at times when I shouldn't. My pride has often gotten better of me, and I've seen and pre-judged people in ways that should not be. A lack of openness, a lack of generosity has made me feel that, ironically, the more I've thrown myself into social causes, the more I've lost sight of the importance of being human and really stopping to listen to others.
It's something I'll like to change, with some additional discipline in working out my affairs. It's a lot less about just me, but a lot more about my friends, their lives and concerns. growing up...a tough but worthy process indeed.
Nov. 13th, 2005
12:04 am - Movement, Building, and Making.
Just as I've been probably one confused child for the longest time, ever since I wrapped up writing that one paper in summer, I've struggled to regain my speech and writing. For I've been lost in the mirrors of perspective all showing different images at different angles, and I've stopped too often to try to figure and to try to state what this is, and where I am. There's only been the moving on and surging forward of my ambition to try to push myself onto find ways and means to hear and be heard, to converse and understand. It's brought momentary moments of clarity, but more often than not, just a silence of my previously overly-eager thoughts. I guess this is how I've lurched from wanting to work out where is my home country, Singapore;what is Asian America; what it means by "Asian Values". If you know me (or have known me), you probably cannot know and understand my description of my mind and thoughts now. They have fortunately lost that idealism of the past, and have become hardened by present realities, and are seeking to reach, clarify, and speak clearly in the future.
I'm still fighting, and am prodded on by my passions, and my willingness to submit to the rigors of an education system that I wish to argue with and negotiate. It's notjust resistance because it's not a negative opposition.
I just wanted to leave some words by Heraclitus here before I go on, before I work, fight, and hopefully find my place again. And, what a process indeed...
"Just as the river where I step
is not the same, and is,
so I am as I am not"
"Since mindfulness, of all things,
is the ground of being,
to speak one's true mind,
and to keep things known
in common, serves all being,
just as laws made clear
uphold the city,
yet with greater strength.
Of all pronouncements of the law
the one source is the Word
whereby we choose what helps
true mindfulness prevail."
"People ought to fight
so as to keep their law
as to defend the city's walls."
"To be evenminded
is the greatest virtue.
Wisdom is to speak
the truth and act
in keeping with its nature."
Sep. 11th, 2005
12:10 am - Auf Wiedersehen, Berlin.
Berlin, Berlin...Es ruft mich, zu schreiben, zu denken, zu fuehlen.
Aber ich will rennen, weg von diese Bilder des Berlins, die in meinem Kopf bleiben werden. Eine Frage stellt sich jetzt: Warum spreche ich? Ich habe jetzt weder erklaerende Gedanke, noch lauternde Gefuehl. Ich weiss nicht warum,aber ich will schreiben. Es ist einfach so...
SO 36:
I pass by her begging hands every time I step out of the Kottbusser Tor U-Bahn Adalber/Skalitzer Strasse Ausgang. There have been times, when I've stopped, away from her, asking myself if I should have given her something, my change, my time, some words, anything. Then I get caught up again, in a sidewalk ballet, as I weave my way through an oncoming bicycle and the varnished wooden tables outside of Hasir Restaurant. The posters on the "besetztes Haus" (occupied house) have caught my attention, another meeting, against Capitalism, against deportation, against racism. The word "Der Widerstand" (The Resistance) rings loudly in my head, and I forget myself in this whirl of movement.
It's soon evening, and I wait to get home outside this dingy little Kneipe (bar) along Adalbert Strasse, wondering again exactly when the next bus is arriving. He comes up to me, Bier in hand, and a big smile on his face. It's indeed not too early to be drunk, I think. "You know Jackie Chan, or Wang Yu? I really like them. I would die for them." It's the first time I've heard such amusing lines about these two Hong Kong action movie actors, and I respond to this half-drunk man, who had thought I was Japanese. At least he did not do the "Konichiwa" greeting. Well, another case of mixed identities. Who is he, anyway? Well, an Ethiopian engineer who really admires Hong Kong martial arts movies. I love how cheesy this sounds.
Bergmann Strasse:
I wait patiently behind him, who's just met someone who was probably really close to him. He embraces him, and looks at him intently, while exchanging greetings like we all do normally. Maybe they were a couple, I'm wondering, while the guy in the Currywurst stand calls for their attention. "Currywurst mit Pommes, ohne Darm.""Ja wohl, mit Mayo oder Ketchup.""Beides bitte". It's 1 am, and I'm counting the coins in my pocker. I've just enough for a Currywurst at famous Curry 36, where there is always a queue, and always a chance to people-watch. The rapper, 50 Cents, starts blaring loudly in this car that's just pulled over. Another midnight snacker steps out; a consumer just like everyone else here standing under this huge sign with a big Wurst and "CURRY 36" screaming out loud on a typically noisy Berliner night.
Abba's been playing here all night. "Money, Money, Money..." I'm straining to actually read despite the dim lighting, and cheerful music that's threatening to drown any thoughts with a good dose of pop. My coffee comes, which is all I really want now. It pays to keep awake at these hours, when you stop bothering about where you need to go, or be. It's just nice to sit and talk, as the many folk here with me will agree. I decide I need a Doener and head off to one of the many Imbiss around here. I'm not too optimistic about my chances of finding a good bite now, not when they microwave their Doeners. I raise my eyebrows and pay reluctantly. I return to the streets, walking alone, and wishing perhaps that I had stayed on at that club my friends and I were at earlier. I make my way to an internet cafe, and read about Singapore through those "alternative" email newslists. More about the "farce of an election"; more about "state censorship"; more about "Captain Planet", another cartoon that I watched years ago in my HDB flat, through the wry comments of a friend. I decide that I've been surfing aimlessly for far too long, though something in me makes me linger about longer, and sigh...
Aug. 11th, 2005
11:10 pm - Dear Chheng...
Dear Chheng,
I’m sitting here silently in this empty space, aptly named “We heart Coffee”. Underground in Potsdamer Platz, I’m nestled here away from the busy streets above, separated from other strange travelers by this glazened glass. Typical, typical, typical. I could be anyplace really, and still do the same things. I am:
faraway from street German, as spoken in this sometimes half-rushed and almost-resounding manner by a variety of Berliners;
cocooned within this “world music” that is a bit more like a reminder of a faraway Singapore, or Chicago;
a little bit comfortable, and a little bit edgy, because I know I’ll soon be on the move;
and a little quiet, because I am thinking about you.
After a month, Berlin has been more than a place to learn German, and appreciate this “culture”. More so than ever, “culture” has meant more than this process of production and consumption of signs (or Bier ;o) ), or this idea of “me” and “them”. Standing outside these scenes of representation, perhaps, has been a withdrawal from this process of “cultural appreciation/exchange” into the darker place of contemplation, and rationality. “Dark”, because I’ve sometime said little beyond clichés in response to questions about my feelings about this place to other people. Yet, there arises simultaneously this motivation to move beyond Berlin, the image, and to try to understand Berlin, this riotous cacophony of peoples behind the images constantly at play in relation to each other. It’s been my strongest motivation to learn this language, so that I can see this dramatic interplay of expressions at work as I move from learning literature to sitting quietly at this Turkish Döner place looking upon the grafitti that marks the walls of a gentrifying neighborhood.
[Graffitti, “our” symbolic marker upon the petrified products of Capital and History, gradually disappears as places are reworked and re-constructed. What was the petulant rage of a peripheral community is remade into another symbol belonging to the New York Hipster. Of course, we’re always selling out. And yet, it’s not just that. This isn’t the tagging of the ills of “Late-industrial Capitalism”. Rather, it’s the recognition of this inevitable process of “change”, whether we call it “globalization”, “market capitalization”, or whatever.]
As I walk the streets of Berlin, it’s the places I stop at that really mark a place in my memory. I’ve made friends at the weirdest of places; people whom, surprisingly, understand my experiences and can understand what “placelessness” means. It’s also true, that the most “placeless” of people fight the hardest to keep a place they know, and love alive. I was talking to this lady, who’s been to China and different parts of Germany, and lived away from her “hometown” for a significant part of her life. This same lady is fighting to keep alive this community/arts center in Kreuzberg, where she lives now. She’s resisting a process of privatization, within a community that badly needs more than just the inflow of capital, but needs the dedication and devotion of people to solve social problems of poverty and drugs occurring within this gentrifying neighborhood. Capital, when pursued blindly for short-term gain, is ultimately self-defeating. What’s needed in a “place” is more than just investment, but investment with social awareness. Otherwise, it’s downward spiral determined by this interplay of power and resistance.
My letter to you has started with this long personal expression of a mosaic of thoughts, mixing my own feelings with thoughts that have crystallized in me as time passed. Coming to Berlin this summer has been indeed a wonderful experience that has allowed me to stay at a distance from my crazy devotion to work. It’s held me from looking only at the details without seeing the larger picture. It’s also given me this time and distance to reflect on my decision to stay together with you on this shared journey that has made my life into more than a selfish endeavor...
Jul. 27th, 2005
11:00 am - Mitternacht Berlin
Miiternacht Berlin:
Potsdamer Platz, the Berliner spectacle
long taken over by fibers carrying
light;
the S-Bahn, running through
the constantly lit public spaces of
this reconstructing city;
Ostbahnhof, where travelers meet
an insomniacal people;
one of them, "me", whose constant thinking
of a love, family, and friends has kept him up together with them;
them,
who make his life and dreams.
Jun. 13th, 2005
04:06 pm - Writing is such sweet sorrow
To put words down:
a concrete distillation of thought,
a process of making,
of shaping, giving form, articulating.
In writing this moment...
writing in the imposition of the present,
i need to remember the past,
to seek beauty, clarity
and the power to move.
To move you, me, and others,
those whom I've had the fortune to see and touch.
Her vicissitudes sometimes shakes me.
Fortune's words occur like a thunderbolt, unfogiving in its striking.
To play on her words, and be strong enough to resist her blinding
logic,
requires courage,
a certain foolhardiness,
and an ability to overpower her strength with guile.
I stand with my pen,
shaking as I write,
awaiting that fateful strike to call me
so I can act with clarity, precision,
and grace.
I await thee.
Mar. 7th, 2005
12:28 am - to: Chheng, on her birthday.
like how raindrops mark their presence by incessant drip-drops, fragmented worrying thoughts enter my consciousness. These thoughts, perhaps an accurate reflection of past irresolutions, precipitate upon me, like rain...Perhaps it's you, your calming presence, and your assuredness, perhaps it's just you, that makes me quickly forget these unnecesary fragments. Fragments that i cast away in movement, in actively pursuing this constant rush we call life.
Mar. 3rd, 2005
12:08 am - Forgetting that i'm from Singapore
Forgetting that i'm from Singapore
I was perusing the Panasia Website a while ago. I came across the archives where the programme for past years were listed. Naturally, I was searching for events that would interest me, and my eyes settled on a few words from past SAMSU events. "Kopitiam", "Air-conditioned nation" were terms that triggered a whole range of other images, and thoughts. I'd not been lost to a place I called home for 20 years of my life after all.
The peculiarity of this experience perhaps came from the sense that I was losing touch with a little island in South East Asia. For the past few weeks, I'd been involved in calling for Asian/Asian American writers to step out and express themselves in the public sphere. It has been like adopting a new identity that I had not known before. I was never "Asian" till I attended the University of Chicago. I had felt that this "Asian" identity was somewhat dissonant with the notion that I was a Singaporean in the US. After all, the category of "Asian" had sometimes just been used as a broad generalization, and little beyond that. To be an "Asian", I would need to relate it with being Singaporean.
Perhaps, another experience may elucidate what it has meant to be Asian in the U of C. I was watching the Singaporean movie, "15". It had a scene where a middle aged english-speaking woman was staring disapprovingly at this young group of Chinese/Hokkien-speaking gangsters. Their so-called verbal exchange gripped me. I can't quote it exactly, but I will try to reproduce it loosely here.
Youth(in Chinese/broken English): "eh...auntie! what you looking at? We weren't born for you to look at, okay!"
Woman(in standard English): "Excuse me, but I don't know what you are talking about. "
In that moment, the problems of language, culture, and subjectivity were played out, just as it would have in everyday life. What place did these group of deviant youth gangsters stand in society? Why were they not approved of? Did the woman understand the youth gangsters, and their displeasure with her unfriendly gaze?
In an analogous manner, the same situation could have played out between an American and myself. If I'd ever been loudly speaking Singlish, which most Americans, even Asians, never understand, I am sure the same gaze would have been cast on me in public. I'll be honest, I don't talk like I used to in Singapore. I've somehow assumed this slightly americanized accent, which I use here in the states. I've forgotten terms like "kopitiam", "lar", "lor", "makan", "wah lau" among others. I like to avoid the gaze that we cast on others whom are different. I like to blend in. An irony, since I can never escape being Singaporean. (self deprecatingly, i'll like to add in Singlish: Wah lau...i'm being drama here sia!)
So what does it mean to be "Asian"? It is a identity issue marked by the difference that we feel in our everyday lives. We can't simply be at home all the time; our public and private lives are set apart by distinct cultural worlds. There is this two-fold pressure to want to be accepted for who we are, but yet knowing that to be accepted in public means to adopt a different set of mannerisms. It is perhaps easier for others to ignore our distinct notion of identity, and simply label us as "Asian"; I think that "Asian" means little beyond this stereotyping process.
Before I assume this discourse of Asian/Asian American identity, I hope that you will listen to me, that I am not simply Asian. I am Singaporean, which I will never forget.
Jan. 12th, 2005
10:38 pm - Old Chinese Songs
A friend gave me a karaoke Vcd recently. It was sentimental to me, because it contained songs that I had been hearing from my childhood. Many times, it would be images of my father which would surface when I played the songs. They were his mode of expression; and also a common language amongst his friends, and his business clients. Who would forget nights of always coming home late from work, to sleeping wife and children. I imagine that these songs said it for him: his worries; his determination; and his purpose in his life. Like the wanderer whose song he sang, he had to keep on moving. Like a wanderer, he always had another place to go to; it was always somewhere better, and someplace more comfortable for those whom he loved. His steps, when traced, maybe told of a man set on his path; which i think are unlike the meandering ones i've made. Maybe one could talk of the "false consciousness" of such a life, and maybe one could capture this as the results of capital. Capital was but a means to his end. And so, I find it difficult to tear apart this belief. Of course, the exploitation cannot be negated in this context, but it still can be understood within its workings in specific contexts. Right/wrong fail as they remain binary perceptions, unable to give meaning to human life.
And so, why does "Old Chinese Songs" appear as my title. They are a means of memory firstly, and a way for me to reflect upon an upbringing that has been similar in its content. I am chinese singaporean, a child who grew up in an increasingly modernized nation that would need to be open to the workings of capital to maintain its survival. Likewise, these songs speak of a generation who had to work through the industrialization of their societies, and maintain their older notions of self and meaning. These were men, upright in their morals because they knew not what it meant by being deceitful. It was their word that counted. And yet, i see that in time, their values were also commodified. The Karaoke, the epitome of our commodified aesthetic and moral expression.
Dec. 19th, 2004
02:06 am - murmurings
I need to write before i rest tonight.
To sum up a day,
an unit quantifying experiences
seemingly connected across markers of time
what would I wish for:
her love; my family to be happy;
that my friends stay strong;
that I live in the world, and not fade away.
There's but a choice, a fickle moment,
before Time tells us outcomes.
All happening,
regardless of our happiness.
Yesterday,
the train of events
hit.
the impact of the rush,
the abrupt murder of Intoxication,
the subsequent search for sight,
and for rapid expression.
Can I even wait any longer for my ending?
It's almost as if I believed
that I was a character in a novel.
The book was false,
but my deception real.
______________________________________
I saw,
that people aren't as nice as they seem sometimes.
western civilization and thought,
half-assed ideology when we cant see.
haven't we learnt from the violence we wrecked upon ourselves?
when one can turn a blind eye to humanity,
one loses a place in the world,
thereby surrendering oneself to a lifetime
of loneliness that one is delusional about.
Some still maintain their place,
some simply think the world for themselves.
A world,
A stage,
many actors,
many pseudo-directors.
cameras, lights, action!
yet,
we're blind to others sometimes,
since we can barely bear the fact:
that Meaning is fluid;
that there isn't The script to be found.
The copulation of voices,
and their chorus,
that's our "unity".
________________________
Nov. 29th, 2004
12:22 am - Wien: Brief Zwei
Wien:
memories always of
Another friend who taught me so much in thought,
whose hopes I hope to live up to;
family, who have always stood by in support of the
meandering me i'm becoming;
new buddies in life,
in front of whom I don't need to dissemble;
and of course, the solitary bliss I find
in a melange, in the words of those of whom possess the greater courage
to write in brutal honesty.
I love this city,
where I've come close in my struggle
to realize myself.
I love her, love her, love her.
END
Oct. 12th, 2004
12:51 pm - Wien - Brief Eins
To: My Journal, where I hope to mark my thoughts.
And so, three weeks have gone by in this pretty city of Wien: Amidst the many domes of culture; the marble statues frozen, as a testament to what greatness they thought had been; the ironical masks of the Opera that we see so often in our everyday; the caskets of dead kings that reside in the jewels of the Old Empire; and, maybe, the ignorant tourist that very well could be me.
Being the self-indulging sight-seeker that I usually am, when I tear myself from the illusory world of the Ideal Life so carefully laid out but poorly understood, I have been poking about corners within her grand insides. I am sorry to say that I havent found any treasures for myself. Maybe the antique bookstore, with remnants of Bestsellers of their time. Still on this hunt for Wien's secrets, I am still searching: for Adorno, Horkheimer, and Marcuse. They're a gift to a friend, who has probably given me the most precious gift of thoughts. I think I will also like to immerse myself more deeply within this labyrinth of Beauty, and revel in this sea of Possibilities floating as fleeting words, and imagined concepts. I thank the amazing collection of books, and Culture here. I am also in love with the Lady of Philosophy, except that I find no means of talking to her yet.
I can't speak of "her" directly. The reason is something I shall clarify, and elucidate: Language is our barrier. I would think the aesthetics of beauty only mask the real problems behind my troubles; I am taken by the presentation of temporal beauty, without linking it to how I may be terribly misled. I fail to find words yet to make sense of my sensuous desires, all horribly conflated as of now. Now, did someone say that I forgot to be an average Singaporean tourist already? I would think so, since I find little reason to buy myself back into that plastic notion of existence. But, let's go back to my indulgent expressions.
I am speaking about many things here. Placing words onto dreams, and the present. I'm sorry about your confusion as you read this. Confusion is inevitable, when the writer is unable to adhere to the structures of ideal prose, when he needs to speak from his heart. Hence, I think i need to leave behind something I am ready to say here.
As much as I am in denial, I am in love with Wien. With her arrogant High Culture, mixed with petty concerns of life, She is an enigma I'm thinking of, constantly.
Aug. 8th, 2004
02:19 am - The Fisherman (written in Chicago)
A Fisherman (edited by: Gabriel)
Sometimes I caught
A glimpse of this fisherman:
Lonely sitting on a dock,
Furrowed brows,
Chapped lips tightly sealed,
Faded “Sunday’s best”,
Rough hands bound together
As if he was praying.
I guess, the cold,
salty air sustains his thirsty wait,
this silent staring into space.
In his intent patience,
he forgot, forgets, and is forgetting.
Everything replaced
By the relentless trust
In Lady Luck.
Then, I saw him last.
Out he rowed one night,
Oars singing
Ode to his fateful catch,
Vowing to be gone
till he wins his prize.
True to his words,
He had bid goodbye.