Happy news!

I am now one step closer to my writing dreams! Two days ago, my article on air-purifying houseplants for the blog of an online wellness magazine went live. Seeing my work published somewhere else other than on this blog is indeed gratifying and the joy is beyond description. Okay, it is not an earth-shattering kind of literary work which I have always dreamed of, but I am immensely thankful nonetheless for the chance given to me. And turth be told, I enjoyed writing every single word of it. Another affirmation that it's the journey that matters.

So yeah, I can officially call myself a contributor now! *beaming*

So do pop over to the website and find out what amazing plants help to cleanse toxins from your indoor air. Go now. You know you want to. :)

Winter

Winter. It spins me round and round with its icy fingers and then tosses me carelessly into its winter slump. All I want to do is hibernate and eat, hibernate and eat. But then in order to eat, I have to bloody cook! Poof! There goes my hibernation dreaming...

Winter. Cut to the bone coldness which spells one of the most exciting part of the season: change of wardrobe! Time to dig out those warm and cushiony jackets/coats, chunky woolly scarves, boots, boots and boots! All manner of it! Long boots, riding boots, ankle boots, biker boots, cowboy boots, fur-lined boots, slouchy boots.... I get heady just listing them. Where and how does one find that one perfect pair of boots? You don't. You buy a few pairs for different outfits and occasions. Just like the many dresses, sweaters, trousers, skirts, shirts you stash in your bursting cupboard. I present the same argument to the man. Even though he would not be persuaded, he grudgingly relented.

The quintessential casual-chic autumn statement

Winter. Despite the gloomy grey skyline, my face is beaming brightly because something exciting is brewing in the pipeline. I won't reveal the details just yet but I promise to do so when the time is right. So watch this space!

Winter. This year marks my turning four decades old in this Middle-earth. I hope the large numbers won't cause me to confuse reality with fantasy and be wise for a long time to come.

Photo credit: here

Tonic for the soul

I've been wandering on music desert recently that the soul is about to die of thirst. A raid for that droplet of water turned up a gem. An old gem which I used to be very fond of and still am because the words resonate especially with the maternal state in me.

And those outfits! Years later, they don't seem to go out of style and still manage to look fabulously modern. It must be the attitude wearing the clothes and not letting the clothes walk all over you.

 

A little post-holiday blah

Instead of writing regularly, I took off without a word on a month-long trip. Once home, the post-trip me was reeling from jet-lag and withdrawal symptoms of the lion city. Before I could pause to breath, the little one began her kindergarten while her second set of molars threaten to push through. Therefore, sleep has been rather wanting for all of us at home lately. So yes, it's been a crazy few weeks.

I can't believe I just said that, calling Germany my home. Or to be more precise, calling this little cosy pad my home. Singapore is where I was born and grew up in while Germany is where I start my family. The old familiarity and easy intimacy with my home country is of course undeniable the instant I touched down in Changi Airport. But, to be back in my own apartment, my own bed, my own bathroom and not living out of a suitcase, that is equally unbeatable too.

Talk about stuck between two worlds and the odd occasional feeling that I belong to both worlds and yet, at the same time, not belonging anywhere.

I'd rather be handsome than pretty

The hair was chopped off yesterday. It features such severe undercut which serves to further accentuate my already androgynous inclination that for a fleeting moment I contemplated a more feminine wardrobe to strike a balance. No sooner had the idea taken form than I disgustedly cast the stereotypical thought into the toilet bowl. Instead, these came to mind. Brogues. Shirts. Suit jackets. Tuxedos. Masculine pants. Tilda Swinton.

Photo credits: here

 

Fashion victim

What do you think?! I love how the different hues make my feet look so happy! And the best and fun part of it? Making a fuss over which toe gets which colour. Once the colours were sorted, my very own home manicure began. I am admittedly lazy when it comes to polishing my nails. This time was however a little different. It strangely became a source of enjoyment and I attacked my nails with such gusto that I was done within minutes! Pleased as punch with the results, these rainbow nails are certainly here to stay.

 

Of non-meat, treated meat and chest meat

It's everywhere. Anywhere I turn, I see, read or hear people trying consciously to eat more healthily and be more aware of their food source. Many are either abstaining from meat, are vegans or raw foodies. My admiration for them is undeniable. The commitment and the determination to be green despite having to constantly deal with weird looks from waiters and strangers and having to explain time and time again the reason behind it, all requires immense strength. It is especially difficult when family members, friends or partners do not understand why the sudden drastic change of diet. Hence, hats off to these brave souls!

Having said that, I am probably one of those sad unconverted, an almost-extinct species which is adamant in chomping down high fat, high protein, highly processed food and succumbing wilfully to food cravings while shoving the thought of diet-related diseases to the dark dusty alley of my mind. I am such a fast food junkie that I need my shot of burgers, fries, nuggets on a regular basis to obtain that sugar high, no matter if it is a placebo effect or not. Yes yes, it is all quite contradicting to my recent obsession of getting rid of cottage cheese skin. But I obstinately cling to the outdated motto: live to eat.

Speaking of imperfect body, I finally watched Atonement the other day. A vision of green, Keira Knightly was absolutely stunning in her flowing emerald charmeuse. What affected me most was seeing a celebrity unafraid and unabashed to flaunt her flat chested state to the public. It's a rather refreshing sight as opposed to the now-accepted norm of huge breasts and cleavages. I must say I, as a fellow flat chested sista, feel somewhat comforted and reassured by her courage. Being flat chested has never been as celebrated as the well-endowed, causing some females to feel inadequate and less feminine. Even a definition for such a seemingly innocent term whiffs of prejudice, 'A chest in which the anteroposterior diameter is less than the average.' We just can't please everyone now, can we?

Photo credit: here

Feeling the summery mood despite the scorching heat

Summery weather calls for sunny colours. Not too long ago, I chanced upon a cheerful medley of nail colours in a fashion magazine (not unsimilar to the one below) and I've been musing ever since if I would be bold enough to pamper my pallid nails with these pretty hues. The purposeful musing seems eager to end its job when I caught myself searching for pops of colours in the little beauty compartment in the bathroom and found none! I am really an earth tone person. That immediately ensued a mental note to self to get some new shades in the stores. Alas! It appears I will soon fall victim to yet another fashion fad. Not ungrudgingly though, if I may add.

Photo credit: here


 

Highlights of the day

Headlining the technical front: iOS5

Finally dug out the dusty dinosaur that is our rusty laptop, started up the squeaky machine and crossed our wrinkled fingers the upgrade would work. It did and we could finally start breathing again. I need time though to get acquainted with some of the new features. But for now, I am quite excited about the iMessage.

Headlining the writing front: A stab in the heart

With the upgrade, several drafts saved in a blogging app meant for submission all vanished into thin air. Hours of mental labour and best efforts to squeeze out from my heart colorful lyrical words which faintly smell of publishable worthiness. All wiped out in the name of convenience, comfort, fast and faster.

Oh, my bleeding heart! Thou shalt not ache because thou wilt write anew!

Pep talk to myself

The head was groggy from the nap and I was busy wiping the sleep from my eyes when the electrifying rejection jumped at me, stupefying me into a brief wide-awakeness which immediately dissipated once I've registered the blow. I slumped. For a while, I couldn't seem to shake the cobwebs off my head.

His exact words were, 'The premise here doesn't reel me in enough.' As much as it's his kindest rejection so far, it still feels like a punch in the face and deflates the ever shrinking ego. Not that it's unexpected. In fact, I'm rather spot on that I would receive a reply today and it's most probably going to be a no. The silver lining is he has at least read the whole piece from start to end and thankfully it no longer belongs to the this-is-not-a-good-fit category. I like to think it's a positive far cry from my very first crap piece which I suspect the editor didn't even bother to finish reading after the first sentences and of course it wasn't a good fit, as he called it.

Ok, I am groping wildly for a lifeline, however fragile it may be, to keep the pride afloat in this rough and challenging waters. Lately, I cant help but imagine the editors wondering perplexingly to themselves, 'Who the hell is this unknown who incessantly spams my inbox with her less-than average submissions?' They, friends included, may think I have, for want of a better word, overestimated my own abilities (不自量力). And they could be right. Like you, I am just a mere mortal who suffers from emotional insecurities every now and then and who cares immensely about how other people perceive me.

While these emotions are very real and I will not try to repress them and pretend they do not exist, it is also vital that I do not hand them any chance to shackle my feet and to prevent my recovery from the smallest defeat and from moving forward with my dreams.

No, I will not give up.

The banality of a couch potato

The summer sun is relentlessly bright. It illuminates things meant to be hidden in the dark dusty closet, things meant not to see the living daylight. Things such as yellow-hued jellying flabbiness that is cellulite-infested thighs and sagging belly skin.

Donning a pair of shorts or bikinis requires a well of courage these days. My braveness surprises me despite being dreadfully conscious of my involuntary scantily clad state. Dispirited aside, I just have to get off my wobbly butt and go on the offensive. I am my own knight in my shining orange peel armour.

The punishment for an overdue workout? Sore achy muscles. The reward, a cup of hot coffee and a piece of leftover muffin to starve away the post workout hunger, while watching a rerun of The Big Bang Theory.

It's a quiet yet fulfilling afternoon without the little one for a couple of hours.

Signs and symptoms of Compulsive Addiction - Online Shopping

1. Neglecting your responsibilities
The poor child has been eating the same tasteless porridge, insipid stir fried meat and veg for lunch everyday and retches at the mere mention of the word porridge.

2. You've built up a tolerance
More dosage is progressively needed to experience the same high.

3. Withdrawal symptoms
Restlessness, spacing out, shaking, depression...

4. Life revolves around the addiction
A lot of time is spent using and thinking about it and figuring out how to obtain it.

5. Incessant need for money or unexplained financial problems
Every addiction is expensive.

6. Unexplained change in personality and attitude
Lying without batting an eyelid about the real reason being online and over justifying the act when the cover is blown.

5. Secretive and suspicious behaviours
Hiding spoils and bills from the man of the house.

6. Appears fearful, anxious and paranoid
That spoils and bills will be discovered.

7. Improvement of physical appearance
Is self-explaining.

I am not in the mood

Most people think Capricorns lack a sense of humour. If we unexpectantly possess it, it is often dismissed as oddball humour which very few will get it. And even when these people do catch on, we most probably won't see them die laughing.

So what am I, a true blue Capricorn going to do about that? Rather than meekly accepting my innate talentlessness, I am striving to be suicidal and write humourous pieces, killing readers (if any) and editors (if they bother to finish reading) softly but surely with my murderously boring writing. And that would be so funny!!!

See. I told you. You won't be able to get this dry sense of humour. I did warn you.

Why the sudden inspiration to try to be facetious when I am not? I can't say this enough to drum it into my unfunny self: to get out of my comfort zone!

What Jack White said really resonates with me:

Inspiration and work ethic — they ride right next to each other…. Not every day you’re gonna wake up and the clouds are gonna part and rays from heaven are gonna come down and you’re gonna write a song from it. Sometimes, you just get in there and just force yourself to work, and maybe something good will come out.

That perhaps has very little to do with my disturbed determination to be witty. But it certainly drives home the point that I have to force myself to work and not, as Tchaikovsky said, "... fold my hands on the pretext that I am not in the mood."

If the mountain goat in me truly aims to reach that mountain top, I will need to be rid of the slothful vice.

Not exactly the best game plan

I have been busy hurling myself out there, expecting at the same time to get chewed up so thoroughly that there isn't any morsel left of my dignity. I have been spared so far and am tapping my still positive feet while holding my breath.

I even invited friends to pick me apart just so I could improve. Though more importantly so that I could get used to the criticism. Other than imparting me with wiseness, experience and insight (you know who you are), none has risen to occasion. They are all too kind and I can't help but love them for that.

The reality is it's a ruthless world out there and I do not have stars (or dollars) in my eyes. The warpaint has been airbrushed and the armour deployed. I am ready to battle.

High street fashion

The pin stripes injected a faint sense of sartorial elegance to the otherwise casual baggy pants that I couldn't tear my eyes away from the charming salesgirl who was donning it. Despite her petite frame, she carried off the big pants in an understated grace. I was instantly sold, without pausing to think for a moment whether my androgynous body which lacks sorely in height would be drowning in those resplendent bagginess.

And then the mirrors in the fitting room cheated. I delusively thought the reflection was a manifestation of my newly-discovered fashion icon. The purchase was thus gleefully made.

The enlightenment revealed itself in the guise of harsh white light and a true mirror. I was struck speechless for I looked very much like this:

Photo credit: here

Idly Idling Idler

The question is:

To do something I absolutely detest for the sake of keeping the stagnant mind occupied;

To bide my time to demonstrate my abilities while letting the mind idle further; or

To have jam-packed days to keep the lazy mind busy while bidding my time to demonstrate my abilities?

The answer is crystal clear.

Photo credit: here

My default fried rice

Fried rice is one of my favourite comfort food. It is tasty yet easy to whip up. It is also my fallback dish when I run out of ideas for the next meal. I like my fried rice flavorful and spicy. Through countless (and failed!) attempts in the past years, I've somehow bastardized it into a fairly acceptable version which is a cross between Chinese and Malay flavours. Think Yangzhou fried rice and Nasi Goreng (I adapted loosely from here).

Unless I have leftover char siu ( barbecued pork) which is rarer than rare, I almost always only use ham (or luncheon meat but it's canned) because it is savoury and also juicy enough to add a little moisture to the otherwise dry dish. Other farmyard friends such as chicken or pork, I try to steer clear from as they tend to further lend an aridity which ensues in the seasoned rice tasting like sand. Okay, I exaggerate but you get my drift. While peas are a common sight in this stir fry, I find it a bully. Its sweetness too dominant. As replacement, green beans are roped in to provide that healthy extra crunch and I proudly announce they do their job damn pretty well.

The next ingredient is the backbone of this dish: sambal chilli paste. Blend fresh chilli, garlic, shallots, dried shrimps (only when I'm up to it to dash to the basement to grab a handful) and oil to get the blades moving. Stir fry the mixture over medium low heat, add a small amount of sugar to balance out the flavours and season with salt. The robust paste infuses such mouth-watering piquance into the rice that it's hard to stop at just one bowl of spicy fluffiness. The absence of it becomes unthinkable: the rice doesn't pack a punch and lacks layers of depth.

If you prefer a more fancy-pants and substantial kind of fried rice, add prawns. Its succulent and firm flesh adds a right amount of oomph that makes you go hmmmm.... Oh, and don't forget those eggs!

Disconnected

The idea of vacationing without the iPad appealed strongly to me, so much so that when the man very sweetly reminded I should bring along the charger, I curtly retorted, 'Nope, am not bringing the iPad!' In reply, he gave me a quizzical look.

Just minutes before we were set to leave, a quick last check on the emails and Facebook was most imperative but also proved to be deadly to the adamance which started to waver ever so slightly... 'It's a holiday and it's all about being free from the humdrum of everyday life,' I put my foot down!

A last caressing touch and a lingering look, I left with a slight despondence which very quickly dissipated once I got into the car.

Up to the mountains we went. The heavy snow didn't dampen our high spirits one bit. In the next days we basked merrily under the clear blue skies, revelled greedily in the spanking breeze and drank heavily in the majestic looming mountains.

Oddly, I didn't find myself hankering after the iPad or suffering from withdrawal symptoms of not being online. In fact, it felt good being disconnected and peace found me.

On our way back, I began to dread my powerlessness to resist getting sucked back into the whirlpool of social media. Then my mind conceived a quick post-trip's resolution: To be offline a day per week.

This is the second week since we're back and as before, I've been online everyday. Seems like I still care more about what the world is eating, buying, thinking than my own inner peace.

Someone, please take away that iPad and get me out of this black hole for the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

Discomfort creativeness

The last post on my afterthought of a book was something which I've been wanting to undertake for a long time but didn't have the courage and determination to do so, simply because I have never done it before. Or more accurately, the fear of plunging into unknown territory has kind of paralyzed me into a frozen state.

Until this article. Like a copycat, I decided to emulate the author and to finally get out of my comfort zone. How true when she wrote, 'Going outside your comfort zone is—and this should have been obvious--uncomfortable. Even painful.'

Indeed, it was terribly agonizing writing the review despite my strong feelings for the book. The thoughts didn't flow and the thread of argument didn't have a leg to stand on. Fits and starts, fits and starts... Frustrations built and self-doubts kicked in. With gritted teeth, I laboured on, muttering gruntingly to myself not to give up.

Word by word, sentence by sentence, painfully pieced-together trains of thoughts led me at last to the finished article.

As I scrutinized the final product, I thought gleefully, 'It's actually not too bad.'

Rising up to your own challenges is rather gratifying. I should really do this more often to keep me on my toes and to get the creative juices flowing.

My first book review

Parenting is an immensely rewarding yet demanding and energy-draining job. While it doesn't exactly have to be rocket science, there is most certainly nothing child's play like about it. The constant nagging ambivalence whether I am a good mother, role model, teacher, friend, safe habour, coupled with tormenting anxieties if we are making the right choices for our daughter make me ponder ceaselessly if my limited imagination and wit will ever lead me to pull off this whole breeding stunt successfully. However you want to define 'successfully'

When Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, a parenting memoir, was offered to me by the friend, I thought the timing couldn't be better.

Despite waves of negative reviews about the unusual style of child rearing, I find the book a fitting read for someone like me who is still grappling with the whole concept and idea of parenthood. Sure, it is not exactly a how-to guide but who cares? Plus I needed some dosage of humor to dispel my parenting anxiety.

A candid and self-mocking coming-of-age memoir, it is the third book written by Amy Chua, a Chinese-American Yale law professor, whose traditional and incredulously strict and harsh Chinese parenting method did not always sit down well with her two daughters, especially her younger one.

To prepare her girls for their future, she imposed math and spelling drills, piano and violin practice for hours on end each and everyday. The girls were not allowed to go on playdates or sleepovers, no television and computer games. And the Tiger Mother's punishingly high expectations do not accept any grade lower than an A. She declared, 'What Chinese parents understand is that nothing is fun until you're good at it.'

Her child nurturing journey is naturally not without difficulties. With an inevitable clash of cultures, many drilling sessions manifested into screaming and bitter episodes. Even her usually obedient and submissive elder daughter did not hold up well to the crushing authoritarianism. Her husband's well-meaning but feeble interventions only served to further resolved Chua's determination to do the parenting job her way. Until her 13 year-old daughter rebelled.

Many are indignant and left speechless by Chua's extreme child rearing techniques. One went as far as to calling her a monster. True, she is extremely hardcore and her sometimes-cocky maternal ruthlessness and confidence maybe hard to swallow. But like all parents, she only wants the best for her children.

Rather than nitpicking, I decided instead to concentrate on the positive aspects of the book. Throughout the book, it didn't fail to strike me that mere mortals like me would have taken the easy way out and let the girls be so as to avoid all the inconveniences of 'epic battles' or 'showdowns' Yet, despite her busy work schedules and commitments, Chua's unflagging strength, brutal determination and clever resourcefulness to plod on against all odds; her fierce dedication to relentlessly push her girls to practise, practise, practise just so they could achieve mastery in any subjects of study; and her unnatural little requirement of sleep, have all but inspired my awe and respect for this tough woman.

There are no questions that these qualities were results of her own strict upbringing which she sees as 'a great success story' Therefore, it's only natural for her to want to instill these attributes of strength and perseverance in her girls in order for them to reach their full potential in life's work and that giving up halfway is never the answer.

Chua's elder daughter, Sophia, sums it up best:

'To me, it’s not about achievement or self-gratification. It’s about knowing that you’ve pushed yourself, body and mind, to the limits of your own potential. You feel it when you’re sprinting, and when the piano piece you’ve practiced for hours finally comes to life beneath your fingertips. You feel it when you encounter a life-changing idea, and when you do something on your own that you never thought you could. If I died tomorrow, I would die feeling I’ve lived my whole life at 110 percent.

And for that, Tiger Mom, thank you.'

In spite of my admiration for the author, I can never and will never be a Tiger Mother. Like Chua, I do wish my daughter greatness and success too. But I just can't ignore the compelling feeling that while achievements maybe great, they are not everything and certainly not the endgame in life. There is more to life than that and that is for her to find out when she grows up.

I strongly believe as a mother, my role is to ensure my child has a happy and fun childhood and at the same time to guide and help her grow up as a well-rounded, well-adjusted, responsible, compassionate, happy, honest and good person. Looks like someone has got herself a full plate....

Well, whoever says parenthood is easy?

The End of Me

I have finally fallen into the evil clutches of the highly infectious plague: the Internet television.

TV-watching has become such a sporadic event ever since I live in this let's-dub-every-foreign-film/tv-serie land. The sheer pleasure of being entertained by the google box or the big screen has all but been brutally murdered because the auditory sense is appalled by the voice-overs which are often frightfully incongruous with the acting humans on screen.

Therefore, I resort to other more productive and stimulating activities like posting trying-hard-to-be-cool updates/pictures on Facebook for the sole narcissistic purpose of garnering approvals or nods from online friends, liking their status/pictures (oh, that's very meaningful surprisingly because clicking that 'like' button is not unlike a good deed which will almost always satisfy the friends' similar urge for endorsements. Now, isn't that for a good cause?) and checking out these online friends checking out my check-ins. And whatever spare time may be left of it, I then engage in mundane and uninspiringly pursuits such as writing or reading.

Given that my time has been so well-occupied, I hardly have the chance to miss watching TV until this happened:

iPad + TV Apps = The End of Me

With a mind-boggling range of channels to choose from, it's suddenly transformed my pitiful plight from TV drought to overwhelmingly spoilt for choices.

Not that I am complaining. It's a much-needed change from the often thought-provoking yet heavy and depressing German television to the glitz and glamour of American shows which can be terribly entertaining but at the same time reek of implausibility and too-perfect superficies.

Now that the couch potato is back at wallowing in television-ing, you can expect the already-lack-of-colours imagination taking a backseat even further back. Heh.

A good day

So I finally decided to jump on the bandwagon of H&M's guest-designers collaborations. It's Marni x H&M this time. I am very taken to its quirky designs and the use of clashing colours and prints. With rather friendly prices, so what if I look like just another girl on the street?

As I was a few shops away from the store, the absence of a helter skelter crowd confirmed my premonition that I was too late. True enough, the few unwanted pieces that were left haphazardly on the shelves seemed to be enjoying their moment of peace after all that frenzy. Admittedly, I secretly heaved a sigh of relief that I was spared from a face off with a mob of frantic females of the species.

To my delight, however, the men's collection was not totally sold out. The man is in luck. Easter comes early for him this year.

Pleased with my shopping and new haircut, I was literally bouncing in my step as I made my way.

Then I saw him. A guy in his wheelchair, stretching out his hands, asking passers-by for money. My pace slowed as my mind raced: How often do I actually walk over to the needy and give out money to them? Almost never. Shame on you, hoonie! What kind of lousy human being are you?!

I stopped in front of the guy and put a €5 note in his hands. As he was thanking me gratefully, I could only smile at him. It may not be much but I do hope it had somehow made his day a little easier. Now I wish I had given him more.

Anyways, that single act alone made my day, not the shopping, not the haircut.

Giving is receiving. Indeed.

Literary pursuit gone a little awry

I just won't let myself have the satisfaction to state I have been so busy lately that I couldn't find the time to blog. Busy is such an overrated excuse these days that I sternly remind myself not to succumb to its delusional madness so easily. The true excuse is, quite simply, the inspiration missing and the words wanting.

In my hopeful but miserable attempt to draw much-needed motivation from one of Time's 100 best novels, Brideshead Revisited, I fell embarrassingly flat on my face. Painfully, I plodded through the book and having not seen any sparks of light at the end of the tunnel, I yielded yet again to the sloth monster, without putting up much struggle.

Then occasions for some self-justification to a respite from the unceasing preoccupation with the hunt for new writing materials thankfully arose. The girlfriend was visiting with her little one and hubby. I didn't forget the promise I made to cook her beef rendang. So beef rendang it was, as a form of silent encouragement, acknowledgement and support in her long path of motherhood. It didn't matter at all if she understood my intention. One thing is for sure, she is coping exceedingly well with her little beauty and with all the new changes. I am extremely proud of her.

Days later, Chinese New Year was literally knocking on the door and of course, a violent storm was cooked up in the kitchen for the reunion dinner with enough food to feed this family of three for days on end. Plenty of favourite home-cooked food = full stomach = comforted happy soul!

Together with the brief break, it instantly added new vigour to my pursuit of literary inspirations. Which's how I discovered Poskod. Much time is spent reading, digesting and liking their beautiful albeit sometimes-too-lyrical articles. Then along the course, rather than focusing on the on-hand objective, I stumbled upon and got distracted by the controversial novel called Once a Jolly Hangman which is about the capital punishment in Singapore. Its author, Alan Shadrake was arrested and jailed after the publication of the book. Incidentally, the book is not available in Singapore. With so much controversy surrounding it, I simply had to get hold of a copy, don't I? My comment after reading it? Let's just say, where there's smoke, there's fire.

Through the book, I did a little research on people like, Singaporean film-maker, Martyn See (whose films such as Singapore Rebel and Zahari's 17 years are banned in Singapore), Francis Seow, JB Jeyaretnam, Chee Soon Juan etc. Countless related articles, books and videos turned up in my search. And I am glad to be able to read all these and watch these banned films, all of which I believe I wouldn't have the possibility to do so if I were still living in my beloved country.

It is indeed an eye-opener for me and to quote our former President Devan Nair, 'for those whose eyes still require to be opened.'

A sudden recollection

It suddenly came to the idle mind (thanks to the abundance of festive grubs) that the first buds of aspiration to write didn't occur just recently. In fact, it was some fifteen years ago when that spark of fire to scribble, to compose, to write was ignited.

Each morning while waiting for the bus to arrive, I would be greeted without fail with the image of a father, carrying his handicapped young daughter over his shoulder, on his way to the market. His daughter was probably about 8 to 10 years old. As they passed the busy bus-stop, he must be terribly conscious of the unseen emotional flutter their atypical presence had stirred which led to either gazes being swiftly averted or curious stares fixated unbashedly at them. For I sensed, rather than saw, his already straightened back became ever so slightly stiffer. The feeling was no doubt an unnerving and awkward one, so I thought then. Of course he had the choice to leave his daughter to her own devices in the flat while he could go about his marketing in peace and without any public scrutiny. Instead, the knowledge that it would do his little girl good to be out and about, had possibly propelled him to disregard society's often unwanted and embarrassing pity for the invalids.

This powerful picture of a doting father whose love knew no bounds etched deeply into the mind of a then hoonie who didn't quite have many cares in the world. The impact on me was frightfully great that I felt documenting it in the form of a dairy was in order. I could hardly contain my enthusiasm.

I believe I merely did a few entries on my thoughts of the pair and the ego in me was already itching for some sorts of commendation. Boldly, I showed the unpolished and clumsy writings to the ex. Upon finishing reading, he returned the dairy to me without a word. I looked at him expectantly and waited. Oddly, there was no response from him. A slow realization gradually transgressed. It was clear that he wasn't going to share with me his take on my maiden attempt. I must have sucked awfully. The wounded vanity kept me from pressing him for further blows.

The earnest aspiration was nipped so completely in the bud by his wordless reservations that I never again inked any word in the pages of that dairy.

We moved shortly after and I never see the father and daughter again.

And the dairy was strangely nowhere to be found.