The Old ‘Use A Foreign Language’ Trick

I haven’t had many ideas which I felt worthy of writing down in recent times. In fact, I more or less cringe at some of the posts already put up here; they were unnecessarily personal, and not particularly noteworthy in any way. So I figured I might as well drop the pretence and post a proper anecdote for once.

A while ago, I attended what could be loosely defined as a social event. It seems that any such events comprising mainly of youths would almost certainly involve some corny attempt at romance injected into its activities. During one such activity, a friend failed at some forgettable game and her punishment was to select a guy to sing a song to her, which had to meet everyone’s approval before she could be let off. She chose me.

It was probably a strategic decision on her part. I am not a competent singer by any means, but she knew I was unlikely to embarrass her by singing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” or something stupid like that. She could have picked a far worse candidate (or so my fragile self-esteem hopes). As a metalhead though, I didn’t really know many songs that were.. singable. Out of the few that were, I eventually crooned out this one:

The “oohs” and “wahhs” from everyone, despite my pitiful rendition, suggested that they assumed it was a love song of some sort. Social etiquette (admittedly not a strong trait of mine) seemed to indicate that I shouldn’t disabuse them of the notion, so I didn’t. The English translation of the lyrics can be found here.

I’m reminded of this because I’ve just found out that Nightwish is set to perform in Singapore for the first time ever as part of their Endless Forms Most Beautiful World Tour. Symphonic metal has always been more accessible than most of its counter-culture peers, and frankly its not difficult to be a fan of Tuomas Holopainen’s fairly unique musical creations, no matter whether you preferred the more orthodox and operatic vocals of the Tarja Turunen era or the more avant-garde nature of her replacements’ since then. Nightwish isn’t the biggest band in Finland for nothing.

As fate would typically have it, I probably will have resumed my self-exile out of the country by the time they arrive. But I fervently hope enough of my countrymen show up at their performance and convince them to return at some future point. **And the signs are encouraging; VIP and Presale tickets have only gone on sale yesterday but are already all sold out**

For a quintessential Nightwish song that can actually be counted as a love song, see:

Soothsayer

“I’m a lot less eloquent these days.”

“That’s good. You’re a lot less capable these days, you should talk less.”

Ouch.

I could have reminded him that I was capable enough to have saved his ass. But I didn’t. Because he didn’t need reminding.

And that is why I listen to him.

I have been wrong about so many things today. A wok that is on the verge of breaking may yet prove that its user has some serious violent tendencies, but that hardly counts. It is good to know these wrongs were committed in the presence of people who have other things to be concerned about than to harbour lasting resentment towards me. But I haven’t felt such guilt in quite awhile either. And I have a feeling I won’t be seeing any of them again for a long time.

A coupla long pitches and you’re a regular charlatan ain’t it. Pfeh, you haven’t even got an Aunt Suzie to dedicate your shit to.

The Incandescent Lines of Élan

Southampton was the only university I’ve visited so far that made me feel not only that my age wouldn’t be a disadvantage, but that it could actually be a benefit. They seemed to effortlessly boast a whole load of projects: collaborations with anything from local businesses to world-renowned companies, and inter-faculty efforts to make an impact on less-privileged parts of the world that really make the overseas community involvement programme from universities back home seem nearly arbitrary and insincere. They exuded a dashing vigour, and nobody wasted any time in exclaiming that a “mature student”, who has spent time outside the hallowed halls of academia, might perhaps be better suited to help drive a team forward in any project. Nobody talked about the night life in the city, or how much fun there is to be had (though that might be because there isn’t actually any fun to be had, I wouldn’t know really since it was my first time visiting the city as well). But the party line that everyone stood by was that if you wanted to achieve something, take your pick because the school is probably wayyy ahead of you in providing options.

I’m too old now to hold onto some grandiose ideals of being educated in an elite aristocratic milieu. It grants me no status at my age, and I wasn’t built for upper society anyway; the gritty real world out there is far too pragmatic to care about where you study. In any case I’ve been in limbo for too long these past few years. Learning is still important, but at this point in life so is action. Southampton doesn’t impress me greatly on the former frontier, but they hold a certain ranking and that should hold up well enough. And while other universities might indicate efforts in a similar direction on the latter, Southampton seemed to make me a promise before I even sought to ask. That as long as I dare to make the first approach, and have the ability to see things through, we can do some big things together. I like them. They’ve got style.

I don’t know if impressions about any organisation as large and multi-faceted as a university could ever possibly turn out to be accurate, rather than just being mere illusions brought on by an over-simplified interpretation of possibly insufficient observations. I am also not unaware that I am currently bereft of any of my initial, possibly more prestigious, options and a silver lining could be very gratifying to have. But I really think I can do much worse than Southampton.

The other entity whose élan I am currently admiring is someone who sadly passed away on my birthday last year. There is something surreal in getting to know about, and subsequently feeling quite dashed over, someone only after their recent demise. I remember being in a restaurant with Stelcya just a few months after his death when I first saw Mel Smith on the telly (is it just me or is there something quite uncomfortable about using British slang when you’re not actually British?). It was a documentary about his life that showed excerpts from Not the Nine O’Clock News amongst others, and I found those really funny. Stel didn’t quite get the humour, but I s’pose the British deadpan wit isn’t always easy to grasp, particularly for people whose native tongue isn’t English. But maybe because its not quite as satisfying to watch something that your companion doesn’t particularly appreciate, I filed him away in my mind and didn’t remember him until now.

He was brilliant. I don’t know why I always feel slightly pleased that a lot of famous British comedians actually went to Cambridge/Oxford, but there does seem to be something rather appropriate about someone brilliant enough to read experimental psychology at Oxford changing the comedy scene for the modern generation and co-founding one of the most successful comedy production companies. And by most accounts he was a cracking fellow (another term I now feel ostensibly British in using). I wish I had the chance to see him live in theatre. He was almost laconic in how relaxed and normal he could be in pulling off the wildest of characters, and that in itself is probably fascinating to watch.

Well, my birthday is approaching and so, I guess, is his first anniversary. I’m sorry I never got to appreciate your work when you were alive, but you were seriously cool.

Silence Teaches You How To Sing

Dao and Xyba managed to electronically disguise themselves as a random chinese restaurant I’ve been to in Brixton, and hoodwinked the BBC into allowing them to watch the UK live stream of the World Cup. So, one continent apart, we chatted and watched the World Cup together. Their lack of knowledge about football is underlined by Dao’s decision to support the Costa Rican team due to Costa Rica being a great exporter of bananas (though we later found out that the world’s largest exporter of bananas is actually Ecuador, which prompted a shift in allegiance). It meant that instead of concentrating on the football, they cheerfully commented on a wide variety of subjects, ranging from the hairstyles of the footballers to the advertising billboards of Yingli Solar, a solar energy company from China (“one of the biggest stars of the 2014 World Cup Brazil will certainly be the Sun”~!)

They are friends who can always comfortably insert themselves in my moments of solitude by their own initiative, and gawdknows I’m not the type of person who would ask them to. I realise it’s because we’re agreeable to inciting each other to do spontaneous things together, from playing stupid arcade games to exploring abandoned buildings to bokwa. Our interests don’t always necessarily align, but there is the unspoken acceptance perhaps, that the important thing is to experience some part of each other’s lives together. It didn’t matter that I am the only one amongst us who ever played amateur league football and who has any interest in the sport, it’s the weekend anyway and it’s the World Cup, why the hell not?

My gratification for friends like that is probably amplified by the lack of them here in my period of self-exile. I’ve declared right from the start my appreciation that the kids were comfortable, and for all the flaws my distracted state of mind can reveal to them, I’ve always tried not to impose. I’m thankful enough (I hope) for every moment spent with others who don’t pose a threat, as it can be a luxury at times given my past activities. Their shatterpoints, however, are constantly nestled between the outward expression of apprehension (“do you mind…?/are you actually interested in..?) and the internal monologue of utility (“is he useful in this situation, do I actually need him to come…?”). This is not a problem, and there is no blame to be appropriated. Companionship is simply not the sorta thing that can be forcibly arranged if it doesn’t occur naturally. But if I am feeling rather wistful these days I s’pose I must blame it on my departed house guest.

I don’t know if perhaps the London part of her overseas trip was underwhelming to her, maybe she was too preoccupied with her own anxieties to really take note. But I miss her terribly, which seemed perplexing even to me at first, seeing that we hardly did anything of note. I’ve come to realise though, that I miss her precisely because she was comfortable enough to be with without having to do anything in particular. The feeling might not be completely mutual, perhaps she was merely distracted. But she’s gone on to the serious part of her trip now, where there seems to be more serious fun but also maybe more serious emotional obstacles to face. I don’t know if I have the right to inquire into her world now that she’s detached herself from mine, and I knew I would never have mattered enough to stop the rain she bled beside the river Thames so I didn’t attempt to try, but I reckon she knows that if she wants my presence, even if only through the medium of words, she has it. And that is still a darn load more of a comfortable relationship than I have with anybody here.

I’ve started morning trainings, and there is a concerted effort to return to the books that I must master by the end of this 2 months. There is also Football Manager (which is the most time consuming game I’ve ever chosen to get addicted to), and long conversations with more old friends than I had dared to believe would still be around after I have left. That is enough. Maybe this is the process of growing old instead of up; you start to truly count your blessings before you run out of them.

You Might Wake Up One Day

The same old chase in between the seasons
To live your life like there is no reason

Having a house guest when you’re staying in a one-room dorm can be a bit stifling. Edna is a more comfortable room-mate than most for me, but sometimes it seems that even private emotional baggage requires physical space to be stored in.

I holed myself up in the toilet for a good half hour, reading old messages off my phone and asking myself old questions that I obviously had no new answers for. When I finally came out, it transpired that the lady hadn’t gone to sleep. She sat up, gave me a look, then took off her glasses and lied back down again. That amused me a bit. I can only imagine what she thought I was doing in the toilet.  (And if she reckons I need half an hour to do what she probably thought I was doing, she must have a pretty low opinion of me now.)

It struck me though, that maybe hiding myself in the toilet was just that: an act of hiding. I could have simply sat at my desk, looking at my phone silently while she drifted off to sleep; she has better things to do than to probe at my myriad unending niggles of life. I realised I chose to enclose myself in a separate area only because I wanted to. Because I was ashamed of wanting to indulge in the pain of old, inconsequential wounds. I s’pose that’s the thing about misery, some people get so used to it that it becomes comfortable. Without it, something doesn’t feel quite right with life.

It can be very tiring, having to constantly disengage from my own compelling negativity. But when my consciousness is aware of it, I owe it to myself to make an effort anyway. So I guess I’m grateful for this reminder, induced by the suspicious look of an old friend.

I hope it isn’t going to make things awkward between us now though. It probably won’t. I suspect our friendship has survived her suspecting me of far worse things in the past. The coiling double-helix of combined suspicion from our own individual strands of chromosomes is what makes up the DNA of our relationship. (No, I’m exaggerating of course. But it is an obscure innuendo referencing the replication of genes during sex, which is in line with the current joke so hey, I’m giving myself a virtual cookie.)

Some say it never makes sense
But you’ll find the truth, my friend

Still A Metalhead

I seldom talk about how proud I am of Zetalambmary. Its the product of what has been a very interesting journey. It started as a half-baked idea, and both Aloysius and I acknowledged that with a fair amount of humour. We couldn’t really find a suitable platform to express our opinions on what is predominantly a counterculture music genre, and simply decided to create our own. There was no real further ambition. It was hosted on blogspot, we gave it an utterly random name, and our initial attempts at publicity bordered on the ludicrous (we were both in the school journalism society back then and we shamelessly interviewed ourselves for an article in the school newsletter).

But somewhere along the way, we turned serious. We established contacts, locally and internationally, and now receive more promo material than we can possibly review. We attended gigs, and had the privilege to interact with bands face-to-face for interviews. Some even allowed us to have signed merchandise to use for promoting our site.

  

We created our début print edition, and made enough sales to break even. That coincided with an attempt to venture into the local metal scene, where we made a few mistakes and offended some important people in the community. We tried to make amends, failed and got backstabbed, and were forced to concede that the local scene was just too small for us to circumvent our haters and reach a different part of the market. Still, some PR work was successful, our magazines were on the shelves in a few stores, and we did make a coupla good friends along the way (not to mention owing a few favours from the many people who helped us). We’re not likely to go to print again, but this was certainly quite an experience.

Our dotcom incarnation has been up for less than a year and a half. Despite our lack of consistency in adding content, our viewership is healthy and we’ve garnered a small following. Its nothing to boast about, but looking back at when we’ve first started out, I think we’ve accomplished what we sought to do. Zetalambmary is a nicely comfortable place to express our views (some related to metal only by the thinnest of threads) to the few people who are interested. It has been with us as we’ve grown, first up then older, and its own evolution is indicative of that.

It has seen me through my own turbulent years, as I tried to quit being a juvenile delinquent of sorts, then struggled to come up with a proper vision and purpose in life, and now finally walking tentatively down a chosen path. It is the biggest tangible anchor rooting me to my musical tastes. It gave me an identity I have never lost throughout the myriad of obstacles, and that provided some measure of comfort.

What has made me most proud of Zetalambmary though, is that it crystallized my partner’s ambition. Since we began the site, I have seen Aloysius develop his own vision for the future, then working tirelessly towards it. He is only halfway through his university education in communication studies, where he has impressed me with his eagerness to learn, and yet he has already gathered up an impressive CV writing for all these different publications. Only time will tell if he’ll be successful, but being a music journalist is an indelible part of his life and at the beginning of it all, there was Zetalambmary. Being part of that is probably the most I can do for a friend.

There are times when I muse about whether I should have followed his path. It would have been much easier with the experience we’ve gained from Zetalmbmary. And if we had gone to university together, his presence might have helped me past my own struggles and maybe I’ll be doing alright too. Instead, I’m still struggling by myself now to get into law school, and my world watches to see just how far this ex-malefactor thinks he can go. But in any case every man chooses his own path, and either way I’ve made my choice and I’ll have to live with the consequences.

The choice to set up Zetalambmary though, despite not harbouring any intentions of truly being an authority on metal music, is one I will never regret. One day Aloy will outgrow the site as his own career develops, and that will be the end of that. But until then, I will continue to post what little I can.

Some would say I’ve been wayy behind the times, but I’ve just got twitter now as well. Its been set up predominantly to follow metal music news, but there’ll be other things as well. I have no idea who to follow, so if you’re a friend, leave a twit or something~

Fragile, My Crystal Ball

A dare is about obsession, it’s something inside
Wounds are bleeding in my hands, turning blind
No one will ever stop this self-made decline
Nothing really matters

My first visit to London was in 2008. It was a literature trip during my junior college days. Daniel and I were the only ones from our class who succeeded with our application, so we were s’posed to look out for each other. But early in the trip while we were travelling between destinations, I stepped out from the rest stop to find that the bus had departed without me. Everyone had left me behind. My buddy neglected to notice my absence, and the teachers didn’t really do the perfunctory headcount properly. It was, in fact, some time before the teachers even noticed that I was calling them repeatedly on their cellphones. By the time they turned back to retrieve me, there was quite a bit of distance between us.

I remember sitting on an outdoor table with my feet on a bench, silently fuming at everybody. I remember I ate a chicken sandwich that I bought from Burger King while I waited. But there are hardly any specific details about the man that I can still recall. His looks are a blur to me now. There is no recollection of what his voice sounded like when he first came up to ask me if I had a light, or when he later inexplicably asked me to buy a lighter for him. I can’t even call to mind the design of his tattoo on the arm that reached out to grab me, and that used to be the most distinct image in my head. I had caught sight of it during that split second before I made him bleed.

I was standing on the bench by then — I had the high ground — and there was a blade in my hand. He fled.

I calmed down enough while I was washing the blood off my blade in the toilet to reflect that I never actually knew what the man was going to do. His actions didn’t make any sense, but did that necessarily meant he was going to hurt me? Perhaps I sensed a threat, or maybe I was just looking for an excuse to let loose some of the anger that I was feeling towards my peers and teachers. Somebody was hurt, I had no real way of knowing how serious, and if I was to be brutally frank with myself, I had no idea why I had done what I did. That rankled me.

I told the teachers that someone tried to rob me, and they apprehensively asked if I wanted to make a police report. The irony was slapping me right in the face. Still, they never missed a head count again. And they didn’t dare to confiscate my blade. Daniel apologized on that day itself, and neither of us brought up the matter again.

Today, Daniel and I met up again in London. Six years can change a lot in people. He’s gotten skinnier, while I’ve put on weight instead. Perhaps as a result of that, he seemed more exuberant while I’ve mellowed down considerably since those aggressively turbulent teenage days. I have a lot less guilt on my conscience now; instead of a knife, its a padlock I carry around my chest these days. The symbolism is almost excessively profound. I still wield a blade from time to time, but the point is that I can put it down now. Its not about the fight. It is to defend, something the individual that I was when I previously stayed in London might never have imagined I could, or would, do.

Daniel, meanwhile, has become even cuter XD. He casually mentioned how, out of the 9 Singaporean students that have gone on exchange to Jönköping, the other 8 have been ostracising him. He simply extracted himself from the situation and found other international students, who were arguably more interesting and helped enriched his exchange experience even more anyway, to hang out with. I couldn’t help but contrast that to the social politics that everybody used to dabble in; that’s one stupidity that we’ve grown out of. Six years really do change a lot of things.

Perkele, aren’t we getting old now.

Learning is about rejection, there’s nothing to hide
Wounds are healing in my hands, turning blind
No one will ever scratch my own state of mind
Nothing really matters

canvas

today, you heard a story
unlike the one you’ve heard
in meta-narratives of
everydays

you envisioned
landscapes, in
black and white;
portraiture in
vivid sepia. colours
that don’t seem to fit
into that category:

photographs of
illusions that cease
to exist: vibrant
illustrations of landscapes,
all washed away
on canvas
gone, vacant
in memory

No Dream Can Heal A Broken Heart

“If I come to you for pity and sympathy, you must remind me that I don’t need it.”

She told me to stay, so I stayed. When she said I could go actually, I stayed anyway and stepped beyond my station instead. It wasn’t my right to deliver criticism, that was a radical decision (ah hah). But I s’pose if it induces some form of self-reflection, it might be worth my dishonour.

My own experience tells me it is not always the reminder that other beautiful things are still in our lives which ameliorates the pain of lacking something we desire. Sometimes it is the realization that we ourselves must be better in order to deserve what we want. Perhaps that was not gentle, or sweetly sensitive, I was always too rough around the edges to begin with. But it was honest. And what else can I give but plain honesty? I would cradle the world in my hands and call it heaven if I could, but I know my place. I was there, because I should be. And then I cease to exist again. I don’t challenge it, I only seek to do my duty.

That should be enough storytelling for now. Everyone has their own demons to fight. And I have other worlds to cross, if only to become better myself.

“And if I come to you for love and affection, you must remember that I don’t deserve it.”

These days it seems I am surviving purely on the energy of my metal playlists. The music awakens some latent aggression in me, and pushes me to keep moving, even when it gets hard to breathe (this is half a joke, pneumonia is a form of lung infection). I might wake up one day soon and realise that in my fatigue I’ve failed to notice a hundred different things and all the shatterpoints in the world have changed. But then some people can only keep moving. I s’pose it might be a form of weakness like that.

“No Dream Can Heal A Broken Heart” is the last song from Sonata Arctica that I can claim to have any liking for, and it really can’t compare to their earlier works. They’d steadily moved away from their power metal roots with every successive album since Reckoning Nights. Their declaration that Pariah’s Child will be a return to their old style, however, has given me some hope. I haven’t had a metal record that I really want to review for quite awhile now.

And Its All That We’re Fighting For

You and us, or I and them
There comes a time to take a stand
The wheel is watching all; it keeps on turning

I’m penning down a lot of thoughts recently. I s’pose that’s because I’ve been moving in so many directions, my thoughts linger on a bewildering combination of things. I’m communicating with people across 4 different time zones, a long-over due music album review has finally been completed, and I’m training a kid for her first outing without me, the prospects of which doesn’t altogether reassure me, considering that I was left hiding in my room for a week, nursing some bruised ribs, when I had to bail her out during our last excursion. All in all, February has passed by so quickly, I hadn’t even noticed that its already March. At least the effects of my pneumonia are finally going away.

It gets exhaustive sometimes. How much strength do you actually have to spare for other people? Then again, what better use could you possibly have with your strength? This isn’t an entirely rhetorical question, but I try my best not to delve too much, lest I get into another existentialist funk.

Nobody, I think, was particularly interested in the visit to the Royal Courts of Justice today. I slept at 5.30am the previous night (or rather, earlier in the morning) and I didn’t have the energy to muster up any real social concern about whether people cared anything for my oratory or debating prowess (or the lack thereof). Why the heck were we reading off scripts and organising pseudo-debates in a courtroom anyway? I only fully woke up when the tour was over, and all the disinterested students left, leaving only John and I to sit in with Sally at a real court case. Now that was an awesome experience.

A cardiac surgeon seemed to be appealing a case brought against him by the NHS for negligence. He had caused a patient to die while he was performing some heart surgery on him. The barristers were wrestling over the various experts’ analysis and coroners’ reports; the patient possibly died due to a bacterial infection transmitted from the surgeon via micro-perforations in his gloves. The surgeon was out of practice for some time, and had just underwent re-training through the hospital’s “re-entry programme”. Much debate ensued about the competence of this surgeon and the alleged shortcomings of the re-entry programme. It was a big case, and the atmosphere was nothing like what any legal drama or movie had portrayed. It was real, and extremely fascinating. I’m going to try and find the original case that led to the appeal if I can.

It struck me that my notions of being able to help people by becoming a lawyer were always quite vague. I assumed that I would find out more at university before deciding what would best suit my ideals. Seeing the barristers at work on this case made me feel that the fruits of their labour could be quite impactful. A person had died, and these people, no matter who they were representing, were the ones most directly involved in the process to ascertain the most credible cause, and to decide on adequate redress if necessary. The larger question of whether hospitals might need to uphold higher standards when re-training doctors is also an important issue. You can’t say that’s not meaningful. This is something good to take away while I prepare for double exams in the ensuing weeks.

**It appears I’ve gotten a lot of the facts of the case mixed up. Admittedly, we didn’t sit in on the trial for a very long time, and its difficult to understand what’s going on when you don’t have any prior knowledge of the context. Still, my feelings about the experience remains unchanged. And the case is still definitely very interesting..