monoceros blogsTerri Schiavo died today and her husband and parents continue their long feud. I was writing to M. about the case, mentioning how it boils down to what the individual thinks about euthanasia. Here I am, a GSI teaching writing, getting my students to write arguments but I can't seem to build a strong one for or against euthanasia because I can't decide how I feel about it. My own mother though, told me that she would not wish to be kept living artificially. She wouldn't want to be a burden.
What came of my letter to M. were simply memories of an aunt of mine who had an aneurysm and fell into a coma after a major operation. When her liver failed the night after surgery, her sister and mother decided to take her off the respiratory machine. I didn't think much of it then. I couldn't understand. She was 18; 15 when her own father passed away from heart failure. She was the relative closest to me in age and spirit. I was 13 and by then, I'd attended many funeral wakes and cremations of relatives. I should have been used to it, but I couldn't deal with hers. The two of us had gone through several of these together - my grandmother's, her father's - and I couldn't bear her funeral on my own.
When I turned 19, I couldn't believe that I had gotten older than she had been. Now I am far past 18 and I wonder what her life would have been like had she lived. She might have married the boy who was so broken by her death. They'd been dating secretly and we only met him after she'd been admitted to the hospital. I wonder too what his life is now. Perhaps he's married with children. Does he still remember her? He cried at her death, saying he wanted to go with her.
I am sure only of my thoughts of her. She's still 18 to me, and still the older one. I haven't thought of her in a long time and remembering her makes me yearn for the June holidays at Sentosa bungalows when she taught me how to play mahjong. Would my memories of her be changed if she were alive for longer years, hooked up to a machine? Would I remember her more as silent, still body in a hospital bed; instead of her long arms lifting me when I was a child, her laugh that sounded like...no, I don't remember how it sounded anymore.
Elswhere in the world, the Pope lies dying. He too is being fed by a tube, though he has a living will. If he should not last the night or the next few days, I hope he slips away quietly, without pain. God is with him, and I hope, with every one of us too.
Twilight: After Haying
Yes, long shadows go out
from the bales; and yes, the soul
must part from the body:
what else could it do?
The men sprawl near the baler,
too tired to leave the field.
They talk and smoke,
and the tips of their cigarettes
blaze like small roses
in the night air. (It arrived
and settled among them
before they were aware.)
The moon comes to count the bales,
and the dispossessed -
Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will
- sings from the dusty stubble.
These things happen...the soul's bliss
and suffering are bound together
like the grasses...
The last sweet exhalations
of timothy and vetch
go out with the song of the bird,
the ravaged field
grows wet with dew.
~ by Jane Kenyon
Nothing beats getting presents, particularly when it's something you'd set your sights on. My friend, M., from the MFA program met me at the weekly tea today and gave me a book, which strangely enough, I had added to my wishlist just three days before! I'd read the review at NY Times and thought I might get it next month. She knows I've been teaching poetry for the past few weeks because of a little discussion we had on the readings I selected, and M. said she thought of me when she read the review for Break, Blow, Burn. It features 43 rather varied poems and analyses of them. Perfect for reading pleasure.
Horrid days. Another earthquake in Indonesia and more deaths. The latest or impending death on this side of the world will be Terri Shiavo's.
I'm not sure whose side I would take, though for now, I'm leaning slightly towards saving Terri Shiavo's life if it were possible. She collapsed from brain damage caused by heart failure when she was 26 years old. She is 41 today and on the road to death since her feeding tube was removed 13 days ago. Who knows what she really wished - her husband claims she would want her life to end; her parents say she would live on if she could articulate her desire.
Either way, the idea of depriving the woman of food and water - even if she feels no pain - so that she can die is horrific and inhumane. Isn't there some other way? I feel for her parents, especially after reading her mother's plea. This was her message to Michael Shiavo, Terri's husband, and his live-in girlfriend, who is the mother of his two children - "Michael and Jodi, you have your own children. Please, please give my child back to me."
Read more here.
Perhaps I was a little harsh on our Angus Ross Prize winner. It's a wonderful achievement for Singapore and for Candice Wan, and she does encourage students to "be adventurous; be excited about taking education into your own hands and venturing out into the vast oceans of knowledge out there."
But - there's always a "but" - I hold my ground on the issue of reading novels.
I'm a huge advocate of reading, and for years, the National Library has been urging people to read, so I truly hope these few lines from our Angus Ross Prize winner won't undo a huge part of that work. Candice Wan had a perfect opportunity to speak up for reading and literature, but she blew it. She might have even set a bad example for younger students and readers. They could very well assume that you don't need to read to do well for the English Literature paper. Maybe it's partially true, but not reading will set you back in the long journey of becoming a better writer, which is more important than the grade you get for Literature at "A" Levels.
Reading Lolita in Tehran, a memoir about literature, reading, and the risks people will take to keep reading splendid novels, is a testament to the enduring value of fiction. It's a huge disappointment that someone who's as gifted as Candice Wan very quickly brushed aside a whole genre.
We study English Literature in schools, but we don't always know why we do it. I had to figure out for myself why the subject is so important. Too many teachers are eager to help students score well in examinations and forget to explain why we're in such classes in the first place. What's worse is that many schools have dropped Literature from the syllabus. Perhaps we need to slow down a little and teach the love of words and knowledge alongside the study of Literature.
So the latest Angus Ross Prize winner read only three novels in two years (from mrbrown and Nicholas Liu). And they were Dan Brown novels, which are less literary than mass market fiction. From what I've read and heard, mass market fiction is more entertainment than anything else. Okay, perhaps you learn a couple of things too - that some people out there believe Jesus got married and that if you look hard enough, you can find hidden secrets in Rome's famous sculptures and paintings.
It's been some 10 years since I was an Arts student in Singapore, but from what I recall, you don't really need to have read a whole bunch of books to write a damn good Literature paper. You need to know the required texts really well, possess excellent critical reading skills, and write smooth prose in a timed examination.
I couldn't read the main article in The Straits Times (because I refuse to pay for it), but according to Nicholas Liu, Ms. Wan says, "As I've grown older, I've developed my own style of writing poems and short stories, and no longer need to read novels for ideas or to emulate techniques." Good for her that she's developed her own style at age 17 or 18. After all, Jane Austen wrote her first novel at 14. My beef is with her statement about not needing to read novels for ideas, which reeks of arrogance and indifference. Surely the reasons for reading aren't limited to ideas and emulation. Literature allows us to learn and to know - to know others, the past, the present, and possibly the future. How will she understand other peoples and cultures if she doesn't appreciate the literature that they create? And perhaps she doesn't realize that it's still important to care about ideas and questions that aren't her own.
Susan Sontag wrote in her essay, "Writing as Reading" - "If the reason (for reading little) is anxiety about being influenced, then this seems to me a vain, shallow worry." She quotes another great writer, Virginia Woolf - "the state of reading consists of the complete elimination of the ego." Though Sontag admits it is hard to lose the ego, "that disembodied rapture, reading, is trance-like enough to make us feel egoless." Even if both writers use "ego' to mean "the self," the theory still works if "ego" also refers to "a great feeling of your own importance and ability"; if Candice comes across as arrogant, it's because she's read only three novels in two years!
Candice may think there's no further need for emulation but even Saul Bellow believes that "A writer is a reader moved to emulate." In any case, reading is still very much a part of learning and writing. In writing classes at all levels, we read as we write. Learn to write; write to learn. Read to write; write to read. Here again, I must quote Sontag - "Reading usually precedes writing. And the impulse to write is almost always fired by reading. Reading, the love of reading, is what makes you dream of becoming a writer. And, long after you've become a writer, reading books others write - and rereading the beloved books of the past - constitutes an irresistable distraction from writing. Distraction. Consolation. Torment. And, yes, inspiration."
Too, I'm not sure how much of a literary writer Candice is - whether she writes stories and poems that she hopes will be read one day - but if she does expect the public to read her work, she should at least be courteous enough to read novels by other authors. Imagine an interview -
"So what do you think of Edward P. Jones' latest novel?"
"Don't know. Didn't read it."
Or worse, "Who's that?"
I had Easter brunch with one of my favorite couples, Leslie and Noella. It was Polish and Hungarian fare at a small eatery called Cafe Amadeus. We talked about weddings, rooms at the Beaufort in Sentosa, dowries, future plans, Leslie's book that's due in 2007, the kinds of dogs we'd like to have. I'll miss them, and I'll certainly miss lazy brunches like the one we had today. Pretty soon, we'll all be starting new lives elsewhere - Peiming will start a position at the Yong Siew Tong Conservatory back in Singapore, Leslie has a tenured position at Melbourne, Noella will find work there soon, Jake is auditioning all over the world, and I'll either be in Michigan for another year or move home in August.
I hope Noella keeps performing after she moves to Melbourne. Her recital at University Commons last Saturday reminded me what a spectacular musician she is. My friend, Irene, and I were late, of course, since I was the designated driver. We arrived in time to hear half of Bach's Adagio from Toccata in C Major. I enjoyed Peteris Vasks' Das Buch "Dolcissimo", for which Noella had to sing while playing the cello. The last piece, Tangoella, was composed for and dedicated to her by Andre Myers, a DMA student at the music school. It was a beautiful piece, perfect for Noella.
The GEO - the Graduate Employees Organization - went on strike yesterday for fairer wages, better healthcare, and equality for international GSIs, among other issues. I cancelled class since I don't believe that picket lines should be crossed. I also volunteered to join the picket line for two hours, a feat for me since I'm usually apathetic. However, I am a GSI, after all, and this may also be my one chance to be part of a picket line.
My MFA program-mate, Derek, was planning to picket as well so we met in the afternoon and got ourselves two pickets. Derek made his own sign but I was a little late so I chose one made by someone else. We posted ourselves at one of the smaller entrances outside the Language building. The four main corners were rather crowded and we could hear the GSIs chanting and cheering. Pickup trucks and cars drove by honking and cheering, and spirits were high. A small group of GSIs played bongo drums, walking from building to building - something I wish I could do. Derek and I shook our picket sticks, waved at folks, shouted the occasional, "Support your GSIs!" but mostly, we talked about graphic novels, writing, agents, and his upcoming trip to Chicago with his girlfriend. I forgot to bring my camera so I could only rely on the little camera-phone to snap a picture of him with both the picket sticks, and one of me holding mine. We both didn't feel very strongly about most issues, and even disagreed with one, but we wanted to show our support, our solidarity, so those two hours weren't wasted.
Perhaps we were the only two who didn't burst into loud cheers every few minutes - we were, after all, just a party of two - but I'm sure the students noticed the signs. One Gothic-looking girl, replete with nose ring and kohl-lined eyes, asked me, "Isn't your sign rather ironic? Don't we have a right to learn too?" The person who made my sign had written "Give us the right to teach, to learn, to live." I wanted to say that I didn't make the sign, but I replied, "All of us do, that's why we're on strike." It was a poor answer; I shoud have told her that we weren't against the students, just the powers of the university, and that going on strike is the only way to force them into negotiations. In any case, she turned away and said, "I want my money back." And I couldn't help but shout back, "Get it from the university." As far as my class is concerned, the students don't really miss a lesson. I'm making it up next week since one of the lessons was scheduled to be cancelled for individual conferences. So now I'm teaching that day and having conferences too.
We didn't stop any students from entering the building since they can't help having professors who don't care a whit about GSIs or who couldn't reschedule tests. In any case, Derek and I had to enter a building ourselves because the MFA prospective students were visiting and waiting to meet other writers at the Hopwood tea. So Derek and I trudged into the Hopwood room with our pickets and everyone greeted us with amusement. The director was just pleased we showed up since the picket lines were keeping many away from school.
And now I'm staring at my picket, which is leaning upside down against my living room wall. I'm glad I went to the lines yesterday. I'm grateful to the university for an opportunity to teach and a means to support myself; but I've never been part of a union before and am grateful too to the people passionate and courageous enough to fight for mine and other instructors' rights.
The latest object of affection? A Mogu Corgi. Impossible to find in the US, it seems. Anyone know where to find one in Singapore?
I've been napping and dreaming too long on my little blue Mogu cushion, a Christmas gift from sister-in-law, Christine.
Men See You As Desirable
"Men often find you immediately attractive and sensual.
You're honesty is refreshingly beautiful ... it draws guys in.
You are also able to be open with your feelings with no emotional baggage.
Packing light means you enjoy new relationships easily."
DimSumDolly took this quiz recently, and since we've done a few things together (rock-climbing, tennis, gossiping), I thought I'd give it a go too.
Result is...hmm... . *squints skeptically* And the grammar isn't terrific either.
Yesterday evening, my friend, Irene, and I went to a baby shower thown for two former MFA-ers who were visiting (a poet and a fiction writer who entered the program together in 2002).
It was a surprise party with plenty of good food. I love cous cous with garlic! I brought a couple of fruit flans and Irene made a cucumber salad. Wine and beer; orange juice and three exuberant kids (the shower took place at Elizabeth's home). Kiril's hair is very short now. It's Bulgarian tradition for little boys to grow their hair long but when they reach a certain age (in this case, four and a half), they have to get it cut. So little Kiril is now looking boyishly handsome. He turns five next week.
Since this was a baby shower for a fiction writer and a poet, we decided to give books instead of clothing and blankets. We emailed our choices to each other to avoid duplicates. Now, the couple, who call their little one "the peanut" (the peanut is due August 1), have a growing library of children's books, well-loved titles from all of us. And the parents get to enjoy them first before the baby!
I wanted to get them some Brambly Hedge books, which I adore, but I couldn't find them easily (they're British publications), so I got them Nancy Willard's Pish, Posh, Said Hieronymus Bosch, a book with wonderful illustrations. Hieronymus Bosch was a fifteenth century Dutch painter whose work featured much symbolism and many strange and peculiar creatures.
I hope that when LK and I have our own little peanut, we'll get to build an amazing collection of books too. Not that I haven't already begun. I probably have as many children's books as I do essay collections!
Something I discovered - hospitals in the U.S. gift new parents with the following titles:
Goodnight Moon
Stellaluna
Guess How Much I Love You
Love You Forever
I wonder if hospitals in Singapore do the same. If the government aims to encourage reading at a young age, surely there's no better way than to give books to babies - it lures babies and parents into the world of books, something particularly important since not many adults read themselves. As far as I'm concerned, reading together creates a bond as special as the one made when mothers breast-feed their babies!
It's been a year and a half since Lost in Translation appeared on screens. I rented the DVD last year to see what all the hype was about. The film didn't appeal very much to me though I understood why several of my friends liked it - the humor, the strange, urban beauty, the familiarity of alienation and struggling to live in a foreign city. I didn't dislike it but I didn't like it a whole lot either.
This morning, I was reading about the new Harry Potter film, The Goblet of Fire, particularly the debate about Katie Leung, the young Scottish actress of Chinese heritage who will play Cho Chang. People claim that Cho Chang is Korean and should be played by a Korean actress, not a Chinese one, even if she's from the U.K. The debate then shifted to whether "Cho Chang" is a Chinese or Korean name; and finally to a who-can-tell-the-difference-between-Chinese-and-Koreans. Someone provided a link to a test - do Chinese, Korean, and Japanese people look alike or can one tell them apart?
I took the test and I failed miserably - 7 out of 18. Shame on this Chinese girl, I suppose. In any case, I looked round the site and found an interesting take - two reviews - of the movie Lost in Translation. One review found the film racist and unfair to Japanese people. The other writer wrote his review in light of this article and suggested that Sofia Coppola shouldn't be expected to depict the Japanese people and culture fairly. I found both sets of arguments very compelling.
When I get rankled by displays of ignorance or indifference, I usually check myself and wonder, is it me? Am I being too sensitive? Then again, the infuriating people I encounter don't check themselves; they don't care if they're being insensitive, so why should I bother if I'm judging them unfairly? They've judged and labelled me, as it is. Eh, I'm so indecisive. But I have met customs officers at airports and university officials who think Singapore's in China. These are the two places I'd have expected folks to know better - after all, their work deals with travelers and international students.
I was reading Franz Kafka at the Media Union tonight - a break from grading poems. Peiming sat opposite me, working on the lecture about American composer George Crumb that she will deliver a week from Wednesday. Because I am a compulsive email-checker, I stopped reading midway through "A Little Woman" and went to the nearest computer.
It was a pleasant and strange surprise, receiving a message from my junior college classmate and friend, Sloth. Pleasant because I haven't spoken to him in a year. Strange because six or seven years ago, over email, he confessed to me how much he liked Kafka's "The Metamorphosis" and I bought for him The Diaries of Franz Kafka from the Borders store here in Ann Arbor. Strange too because he mentioned in this email that upon spying the book on his shelf he decided to send me a message. I had to write back immediately, saying how I was reading Kafka two minutes before reading Sloth's own message.
It's also rather funny how several nights ago, while selecting poems from my old collection to give to my students, I found a sestina I wrote years ago about my friendship with Sloth, how we used to meet up and talk about our school days and feel depressed about our futures. Or rather, Sloth was often sad and I'd listen to his woes. And then I would get depressed after listening.
I hope he's a happier person these days. Though it sounds as if he's still as broke as before.
How shall I put it? Noob is an evil influence, but I'm still grateful that he supplies me with excellent music and graphic novel recommendations. Latest music in the player - Howie Day, a twenty-something song-writer, singer, and guitar-player from Maine. He's very good with the writing and singing, and remarkably adept at looping and mixing in live shows. With two sets of complicated dials, pedals, buttons and what-not, he creates percussions and layers guitar and vocal parts all on his own.
You'll have to watch the splendid DVD and see for yourself the ease and style with which he loops phrases, echoes, guitar strumming etc. And the songs are very, very good. "Ghost" and "Madrigals" are my favorites, and of course, the very addictive "Collide" that got me started on Howie Day's music, which is a little more haunting, a little more rock than John Mayer's own stylings but still terribly listenable.
After some badgering from my students, I finally relented and distributed two poems I wrote as an undergraduate. I was surprised that the poems are still around, no doubt a result of my sentimentality. Naturally, I cringed when I re-read them two nights ago.
I hope they give my students some hope - they should know that budding poets will produce rather cheesy and inane lines in the process of creating Art. Not that I ever truly succeeded. I haven't written a poem since graduation!
Now that my next graduation is nearing, I'm reminding myself that I must keep writing even though I'm leaving this wonderful writing community. A few of my friends have promised to exchange work with me, even after I've moved back to Singapore.
This week - attended a lecture and roundtable by Ian Jack, long-time editor of Granta, the literary journal of Cambridge University. More later.
Next week - meeting another agent. Banana Yoshimoto's American agent!
It was so warm and sunny yesterday. In the Midwest, 5 degrees celsius with the sun out is beautiful winter weather. In fact, as long as the temperature hits 1 degree celsius, I'm happy to be outdoors.
Sping is coming - tulips, green lawns, flowering trees...and then graduation!
I know the cause of that crazy tongue infection I had last month. It's stress. I can feel it happening again. A tingling sensation which will change to burning soon.
BBC's three-episode Daniel Deronda is perhaps the one production that combines my love of film, music, and literary fiction. George Elliot is more famous for Middlemarch but her interest in Zionism is showcased in Daniel Deronda. Burgeoning zeal for one's community, self-discovery, self-loathing, finding meaning in life - these are running themes in the novel, which is equally divided between Daniel Deronda and Gwendolyn Harleth.
Will they or won't they - the question of whether they will find lifelong companionship in each other simmers in the BBC production. Daniel Deronda is played by Hugh Dancy, recently seen in Ella Enchanted and King Arthur. This is perhaps his best role, although one of his least-known as well. Very dashing fellow. Okay, I'll confess I'm impressed that he chose to read English at Oxford University instead of going to drama school, and he still managed to emerge a decent actor; more than decent really.
Romola Garai plays the female lead. She acted splendidly in I Capture The Castle and is quite enchanting here, particularly since her character has an expansive emotional arc in the novel and TV series. Both her roles have managed to break my heart.
The music - it's so beautiful that I can't believe they didn't release the soundtrack commercially. "Cavatina" from Mozart's Le Nozze di Figaro; excerpts from Mendelssohn's On Wings of Song and Beethoven's Ah! Perfido, Op.65. A Jewish lullaby sung by Mirah, the character played by Jodhi May, is a haunting tune composed by Rob Lane, who provided the score for the series. It's so haunting that I was humming the melody for days. I'll have to sit down one day, play the DVD over and over again until I learn the Hebrew lyrics phonetically.
At least four of the characters sing, two of whom are professional singers, so music is a huge part of the production. So is sculling, and Italy! Beautiful shots of Genoa and palazzos. The costumes are also very lush. I wouldn't mind donning a long coat with tails and a black tophat. The gowns are lovely, but seem a little hard to walk in.
If you're in Singapore, and you love jazz/classical tango music, I recommend you attend the concert by Quadro Nuevo, an Austrian quartet, at the Esplanade. And if you purchase tickets with a Citibank credit card, you get a souvenir CD. I've got an album of theirs - Canzone Della Strada (Song for the Road) - and it's lovely work.
I am never home at the right time.
"A creative writer is one for whom writing is a problem."
~ Roland Barthes, from Writing Degree Zero
"June 7. Bad. Wrote nothing today. Tomorrow no time."
~ Franz Kafka
"You don't know what it is to stay a whole day with your head in your hands trying to squeeze your unfortunate brain so as to find a word."
~ Gustave Flaubert
After the Webster reading and party, I decided to go grocery shopping at 12:30 in the morning. It may be difficult to find good supper in a small university town, but it certainly is possible to buy milk, toilet paper, or even a lawn-mower at three in the morning if that's what you want. As a bug-eyed, midnight-oil-burning graduate student, I certainly appreciate the convenience of these large grocery stores that operate 24 hours a day. Fewer customers, friendly (imagine that!) employees, and fresh products.
I ran out of milk, and I need to have milk with my cereal every morning. People function on caffeine; I function on lactose. Milk, cheese, half & half, whipped cream - my essentials. I get squirmish if I don't have cheese in the fridge. So I picked up milk and a bunch of other things that weren't originally on my list.
I seem to be awake in the middle of the night more often now. Two nights ago, I woke up to the sound of the fire alarm. I thought at first that I'd set the clock for a pre-dawn working session. It was about four in the morning and the alarm went on for a while, then stopped, then went on again. I tried sleeping, thinking it was just a malfunction. Ten minutes later, I heard doors banging. Were people going out of the building? Should I? And then the sirens. I stared out the window; the fire engines were coming. I groggily dug out my fleece and ski pants and walked outside. I didn't smell any smoke and I didn't see anyone else outside, but I did see apartment lights on. The firemen were on the third floor so I didn't bump into any of them, but I could hear them working. Walkie-talkies; someone exclaiming there are a lot of locked doors and they need keys; sliding sounds. I was in busybody mode, but not so much that I wanted to walk up to one of the busy fireman and ask what was going on.
I just went back to bed and stared at the ceiling. Later, I heard some vacuuming sounds. Maybe someone had been smoking weed and they set off the alarm. Maybe someone had left the stove on by mistake and then went to bed. At any rate, my sleep was truncated, and I doubt I'll be catching up on that very soon. It's Friday night, I had my two hours of party-mode, and now I'm going to read some prose for Monday's workshop.
Five and a half more weeks to end of term. Eep.
Zathura is a new movie from the makers of Jumanji. The producers clearly love the work of Chris Van Allsburg, the author of these two titles and The Polar Express.
I have only one book of his, The Mysteries of Harris Burdick, which reminds me very much of the art of M.C. Escher. Peiming and Lim Jia bought me a book by Mr. Escher two years ago and I've been a fan since.
But back to Chris Van Allburg. He uses pencil drawings to create a peculiar, melancholic mood in many of his books. Many of the images are great for engaging the imagination and you can write whole stories based on one picture - very good for young children who enjoy creative writing.
In the trailer for Zathura, I noticed a familiar face. It's Ice Bat, one of the UglyDolls whom I featured earlier. Watch the trailer and see if you can spot him. He appears for just a split second before getting zapped to smithereens by the meteor shower. Poor fellow.
For the past two semesters, I've been teaching freshman composition and introduction to creative writing (just one course each term). As I wait to hear from the powers that be - on whether or not I'll continue as a lecturer upon graduation - I've been daydreaming about moving home this year and leading the good life with the husband. Still, both scenarios are tempting.
If I get hired as a lecturer, I could avoid teaching essay-writing again (which the freshmen resent) by switching to English 124, Writing and Literature (students who take this class actually want to be there), in which case, here is a tentative list of books:
1. Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi
2. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
3. Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi (or maybe Maus)
4. Persepolis 2 by Marjane Satrapi (or maybe Maus II)
5. How to Be Alone: Essays by Jonathan Franzen
6. Population: 485 by Michael Perry
7. New and Collected Poems by Wistawa Szymborska
Whichever course it is, it'd be interesting if I got one or two Singaporeans in my classroom. They'd probably be thinking, fwah, come all the way here to America and get stuck with a GSI from Singapore. Or they could seek me out during my office hours and say, we're fellow countrymen, just give me an "A" can or not? Last year, at a Singapore Students' Association free-pizza night, I met a few seniors who expressed regret for not knowing me earlier when they had to fulfill their writing requirement. I hope I don't have to face either situation!
Hmm, best that I get back to preparing for the course I am teaching now. Poetry. And here is today's poem from The Writer's Almanac:
Ode to My 1977 Toyota
Engine like a Singer sewing machine, where have you
not carried me-to dance class, grocery shopping,
into the heart of darkness and back again? O the fruit
you've transported-cherries, peaches, blueberries,
watermelons, thousands of Fuji apples-books,
and all my dark thoughts, the giddy ones, too,
like bottles of champagne popped at the wedding of two people
who will pass each other on the street as strangers
in twenty years. Ronald Reagan was president when I walked
into Big Chief Motors and saw you glimmering
on the lot like a slice of broiled mahi mahi or sushi
without its topknot of tuna. Remember the months
I drove you to work singing "Some Enchanted Evening"?
Those were scary times. All I thought about
was getting on I-10 with you and not stopping. Would you
have made it to New Orleans? What would our life
have been like there? I'd forgotten about poetry. Thank God,
I remembered her. She saved us both. We were young
together. Now we're not. College boys stop us at traffic lights
and tell me how cool you are. Like an ice cube, I say,
though you've never had air conditioning. Who needed it?
I would have missed so many smells without you?
confederate jasmine, magnolia blossoms, the briny sigh
of the Gulf of Mexico, rotting 'possums scattered
along 319 between Sopchoppy and Panacea. How many holes
are there in the ballet shoes in your back seat?
How did that pair of men's white loafers end up in your trunk?
Why do I have so many questions, and why
are the answers like the animals that dart in front of your headlights
as we drive home from the coast, the Milky Way
strung across the black velvet bowl of the sky like the tiara
of some impossibly fat empress who rules the universe
but doesn't know if tomorrow is December or Tuesday or June first.
~ by Barbara Hamby, from Babel
I wish I'd started reading mr brown's blog long ago instead of all the silly entertainment news I'm addicted to. He's whip-smart and funny. If you live in Singapore or know of its peculiar policies, habits, and mindsets (and people), you'll find this post very entertaining. Entertaining and very spot-on.
It's 1:26 in the morning and I suddenly feel homesick.
"...no one is able to produce a great work of art without experience, nor achieve a worldly position immediately, nor be a great lover at the first attempt; and in the interval between initial failure and subsequent success, in the gap between who we wish one day to be and who we are at present, must come pain, anxiety, envy and humiliation. We suffer because we cannot spontaneously master the ingredients of fulfilment."
~ by Alain de Botton from the chapter "Consolation for Difficulties" in The Consolations of Philosophy
I have succumbed at last to self-help literature, but at least it's in the form of philosophy (Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Montaigne, Socrates, Epicurus, and Seneca). I've mentioned before how I scorn self-help books, and here I am in need of some mental propping, some assistance for the churning soul.
Spring Break is over - I expect to see students several skin shades darker. Cancun, Miami. Where else does one go during the break?
For my part, I read 700 pages of prose (as in required reading, grading, and critiquing), watched zero movies, got my car washed, attended a workshop to apply for a 12-month work-visa, panicked a lot about the writing I haven't done, met up with friends, marked the beginning and end of the break with chocolate fondue, did research at the university's historical documents library, despaired and rejoiced that the semester will end in six and a half weeks' time.
Seven Tuesdays left before I turn in my thesis. I have nine short stories, about 150 pages, and I am burned out at this point. Job applications, grading, doing lesson plans, churning out more pages for my travel writing class - I'm close to the end. Really close, but I'm not sure how I'll survive the next few weeks.
Apart from writing and teaching duties, there are other literary events going on. Ian Jack, the editor of Granta, is coming for a visit next week. My friend Elizabeth is holding a panel on writing with two other writers who've recently sold their novels. Two more Mark Webster readings.
And another wedding on the horizon - my friend, Peiming, the lovely pianist, is officially engaged. She provided the piano accompaniment at my wedding a year and a half ago. I wonder who'll be playing at her wedding. Certainly not me.
On the bookfront - literary novels about 9/11 are appearing on bookshelves. I've put in an order for Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. It's been only three and a half years since 9/11, yet several writers feel that sufficient time has passed. Has it really?
I've been reading a fair bit of mr brown's blog lately because it's so damn funny, and because he puts a nice spin on current issues in Singapore. From there, I hopped over to a nice foodie site called AromaCookery, something that may interest Miss DSD.
Anyway, at AromaCookery, I read about this booklet created by MCYS or the Ministry of Community Development, Youth and Sports. Another make-a-baby campaign. This one runs similar to the Romancing Singapore one. The goverment who knows us so well is offering ideas and tips (even free gifts!) to help couples increase the romance quotient in their marriages, so that they might fulfill their "national duty," as aptly expressed by the writer of AromaCookery.
I can understand if the falling birth rate is a problem, but give us some credit! The way the goverment chooses to handle the problem is insulting and insensitive. Apparently, Big Brother must have detailed records of married couples - how long they've been married for, their fertility years, whether or not they have children. They then select couples to whom they send these wonderful (read: cheesy and horrendously transparent) booklets. But what if they send the booklet to a couple who wants to have kids but are biologically unable to? Salt to the wound. And having children isn't as simple as a have-or-have-not case. Many factors go into deciding to have a child, what gives the goverment the right to reduce it to an issue of have-one-and-have-one-now? Or perhaps they think that when two people don't have children, their marriage must be getting dull and in need of help. Besides, this should be a decision left to the couple and nobody else. That is, if you're not involved in the everyday raising of the child, you don't get a say in whether I have one or not and how I raise the child. Also, aren't they aware of the case of telling someone (particularly children, and this goes to show how much they know about children) to do something and they almost always do the opposite?
If the government wants to do something about the issue, make people aware of it - have their newspaper columnists write about it, encourage journalists to feature it every now and then. But don't presume that Singaporeans are little sheep who need instruction booklets to carry out their duty to the country. If they're going to have babies, they will; and at the time of their choosing, and certainly without the need for government intervention. 364 tips on how to spice up the marriage? Since when was the government an expert at romance? Stick to international relations, economic improvement, and education; leave our marriages and parental choices to us (and while we're at it, leave off censoring movies and telling us what art should or shouldn't be).
Crouching Tigger, Hidden Pooh - courtesy of the great TV show, Whose Line Is It, Anyway?, a half-hour display of pure comedic talent.