Symptoms and Superheroes

Something strange is happening to me. I think I might be becoming Spiderman. For starters, I've been developing an extraordinarily strange rash on my upper body. It suddenly appeared last night like a tsunami of red spots. But they're barely noticeable even at close distance because each spot is so fine and so small. The rash is also annoyingly fickle. It can appear and disappear within hours. At least it doesn't itch at all. Now it's sort of like a faint pink constellation across my very confused skin. Also, my temperature has been hovering at some ridiculously foreign temperature of 37.2 degrees. Honestly, what is 37.2 degrees? Has anyone ever had that before? I don't feel particularly hot, but definitely more than I do feel cold - clearly not a feverish symptom.

Most interestingly, I have what seems to be a steadily improving insect bite on my left wrist. It's bigger than the typical mosquito bite, but about as large as the average pinky nail would grow to become before you decide to trim it. It has a wrinkled, stubby scab sitting on top of it as if it were wearing a maroon turban of some sort. Otherwise, there's absolutely no pain and no itch, like the rash. Or maybe it's actually part of the rash, I don't know.

Sadly, no superhuman capabilities have manifested themselves as of now. It is quite disappointing. I know I used to dream about being Spiderman a lot not too long ago. Like literally dream about it at night, not in the sense of having actual aspirations. But then again the movies about him always have struck me about the same thing. I mean, with all that web coming out of his body can you imagine how much protein he would have to consume in one day?

Perhaps the last thing to grouse about is that if indeed I were to become some sort of superhero suddenly, the transformation would have come a little too late. As it appears on my clock, I've got two hours of Halloween left. Of course one possibility is that the superhero I turn into is Superman, which will enable me to turn back time by simply flying around the earth. But not a chance I suppose. As of now I think I still look very much like the same bloke when I wear my glasses. Shame.

Not So Easy Listening

Listening to U2 makes me wish I had the time to get the Red One serviced. The circuitry is still faulty and the strings are as brittle as dead leaves. The frets are pretty worn out too the last time I touched it. But I think the fact that I was reminded of it keeps me wanting to make more tunes as soon as I get the time.

Music drags out memories when your life has a great soundtrack. I think mine has a pretty decent one. Listening to The Script now reminds me of my stint at D&N earlier this year, and the stateliness of the Supreme Court; I played their album front to back on the way to the office every morning. Listening to Powerspace reminds me of classroom life in Year 4; there was a time we ceaselessly tried to sing Right On, Right Now. We failed of course, and eventually ran out of breath. But even that sense of comic futility was evoked with a mere play button.

It's interesting how the brain generates these associations. Daniel Levitin has much to say on this, and hopefully I will read of it soon. Meanwhile, I should probably expand my repertoire. I suppose in theory, listening to the same song over and over again would continue to 'attach' new memories to the same tune as the days go by. Perhaps I'll be overwhelmed with a chronology of sentiments if I hear that particular track a long time from now. Otherwise, I might simply be left feeling very confused.

The Things That Count

Perhaps the weight of experience from life in the army can never ethically justify the way in which it is gained, but it can reveal some deep realities. It is said that experience is a difficult teacher because she administers the test before giving the lessons. I think it's just like how absence makes the heart fonder.

There is not a day here where at any one point I am devoid of frustration, anger, grief and a list of other melancholic emotions you can name. I've come to realise that after working so hard for the smallest of things, suddenly they don't seem so small anymore. And the hard part now lies in adjusting my words and actions in accordance with the people and the things whose preciousness I've come to see with brand new eyes, because there's almost no time to do so.

You could say that the purpose of every human being is to find out for himself what are the things that really count. Only upon such a discovery can one confidently take the next step with a well of joy or motivation that undergirds a life buffeted by seasons of emotions. Unfortunately, that discovery itself is usually the result of some heroic journey that also involves a lot of suffering. Well, viva la vida - the life lives.

Smitten At Sunrise

I woke up at the doorsteps of dawn

And waited for yesterday’s sinking sun
Rubbed my eyes twice or thrice, I can't quite surmise,
Waiting for the pretty soul
For whom I’d suffer more than a broken nose

There I sat on the curb
Where I tripped and fell head over heels
When I saw her on two wheels
With her ponytails prancing and dancing,
A ballet around her peachy pink helmet

So I said to me,
“Why, now’s not the time to simply be waxing lyrical
About a faraway miracle
So how about
A shiny surprise in something small and cylindrical?”

But I don’t even know her name
Only that she’ll be riding by again
Maybe next time it won’t be the same
We’ll play the giggling game
And see the sunset by the end of the day

So as I savoured my ice-cream dream
The squeak of brakes sounded right in front of me
She was off the seat
My heart raced at pedal speed
And she said, “Well, aren’t you going to let me in?”

In sweet shock I had the door unlocked
And we stepped through without the tiniest clue
What we could do before we’d even said “Hi”
So I took her to my rocket science room
Waiting for a carnation chance to bloom

And there we saw me, curled up like a baby
Floating on the folds of my bedsheet
With glowing stars on the ceiling
Encyclopedia cities and a wooden box with steel strings
I could feel her looking at me

Then I woke up again with a sunnier start
My limbs sprawled like a renaissance work of art
And I heard from outside a bicycle ring
Like how a songbird would sing
The sound of the doorbell to my heart

The Efficiency of Inefficiency

We have become so efficient at doing inefficient things that this paradox deserves some elaboration.

As much as the rationale eludes us, we have been presented with a need to stencil our four-digit numbers onto every little piece of equipment we have. You ask, why not simply handwrite? Wish I knew.

Maybe it's because we want to give our aggressors the impression that we are really, really neat soldiers; it might actually scare them. Maybe it's because we want to use penmanship to boast of our robotic philosophy. Maybe it's because using stencils elicits within us a measure of kindergarten reminiscence that never deserves to be forsaken no matter how much innocence we may think we've lost ever since we stepped through these doors! Oh, my Wilfred Owen!

Nevertheless, we are not daunted. We must demonstrate our fighting spirit. We must be thinking soldiers. And so we divide the labour, and valiantly sacrifice our period of self-study for the noble and divine sake of nattiness. (Indeed, we found a way to do it quite quickly nonetheless, which is really the point of the title.)

And so it goes, another day to be laughed at in retrospect, another day that re-affirms the wise and practiced adage – Do or die, don't ask why.

Second Hand Thoughts

The passage of time in the army is a familiar journey. Like an ancient vessel, winds and waves of instruction and command do much to dictate how her seamen experience the voyage. The occasional return to her port of call is shortlived but treasured; every departure is but for the sake of preserving the coast.

Sometimes I imagine a day passing by like how you reach for a handful of sand with your bare palm – that's dawn. As the sun rises and surveys the horizon, you slowly release your fingers and the grains of sand explore your knuckles like khaki waterfalls. Most of them fall to the ground by nightfall, but a few hazel specks remain stuck to your moist hand – these are the moments you catch. The rest fade into the shore of your subconscious.

I type this as I sit in a training shed, surrounded by friends, guns, grass, and the sound of raindrops that have since field camp lost a measure of their melodic quality. It's supposed to be our 'self-directed learning' period. But hey, boys can multi-task! But genuinely, I just think it's encouraging that such flights of fancy still materialise even now. In some sense, they're too precious not to pen down.

Which brings me back to the currency of events. What's interesting to note is that time seems to pass at a different speed here compared to the outside world.

On one hand, the general sentiment is that time passes as slowly as how a mouse would drag a hippopotamus across a football field. On the other hand, we are called to observe a sacred form of punctuality, in which a second of tardiness would result in elbow-buckling consequences; we end up always asking for extensions (which, by the way, brings back fond memories of my old life). So on one level, time passes too slowly, but on another level, it teleports.

Then, through an even wider lens, the rest of the world seems to be zooming past while everyday here feels like every other day. Because we live out the week in such great anticipation for the weekend, we scarcely realise that a month has already passed when we see our moms for the fourth time.

Like sailors, we learn all these things the hard way, the choppy and homesick way. But then again, who knows what will happen tomorrow? *grin*

There Is A Leaf

there is a leaf

that falls from branches who

were praying to the sky

it swims through the air and lands on

kneeling roots

there is a leaf

that is not yet a leaf but a tree

for it receives blood still

from legs that are being

severed at this moment

there is a leaf

that arrives at a concrete forest overrun by

hasty metal beetles with

granite logs smudged by giant silver cobwebs

it is disposed of quickly

there is a leaf

who is a passenger of the winds

like many who merely hope to tease the sky

and gracefully descend

only to become dirt again

there is a leaf

that is painted across

a pearly gown

its underside caresses a damsel's soft ivory skin

it cannot be destroyed

~tc