Sinfonia da Vita, Op. 1
Monday, September 27, 2004
I've developed a phobia for moon cakes.
Eating one or two is sufficiently satisfying. But not when you have to eat like ten or so pieces.
Perhaps we shouldn't have bought moon cakes, and in addition ask each person to bring a moon cake to contribute to the feast. A moon cake from every pioneer is sufficient to fill us up.
The last resort to finish all the moon cakes: the secret number game. Whoever who guesses the number (i.e. the loser) will eat up a certain number of moon cakes.
Although I like Chinese tea, I'm giving this one a miss. Why? Two reasons: (1) I'm afraid I will not be able to sleep tonight; (2) They used a pillowcase as a strainer for the leaves. Hello, isn't that unhygienic? The pillowcase has been in the dusty old storeroom for like how many days or weeks, and they actually take it out and use it as a tool for human consumption? Yes, army boys and men are dirty, but that goes too far. The scene of people opening the dispenser to find the pillowcase inside is almost like a gag from Just Kidding.
The opening of the mess to all the men is a historical event, so historical that it should probably be written down on a plague for remembrance and hung up outside the mess door:
The cohesion night is planned with two activities after the moon cake feasting: you can either watch a movie or the pool tournament. Turns out that most people opt to watch the pool tournament, theory being the mess is a new thing like a kid's Christmas present, so everybody wants to have a feeling of what it's like in there. Anyway the laptop in the Lecture Room is screwed - it is so old that it has no DVD-Rom, so we can't watch "Saving Private Ryan" on it because it was brought here in DVD format; the VCD of "Gladiators" seems to have problems and causes the laptop to hang every time we try to run it; we have no choice but to watch "2 Fast 2 Furious". Barely five minutes into the show, I leave because it's boring, and I want to sleep.
Not before grabbing a bite of Taiwanese Sausage. The Muah Chee Man has arrived again. Unfortunately his fare fails to whet my appetite, because I'm dangerously overloaded with moon cakes.
¶ 9/27/2004 11:12:00 pm 0 comments
Eating one or two is sufficiently satisfying. But not when you have to eat like ten or so pieces.
Perhaps we shouldn't have bought moon cakes, and in addition ask each person to bring a moon cake to contribute to the feast. A moon cake from every pioneer is sufficient to fill us up.
The last resort to finish all the moon cakes: the secret number game. Whoever who guesses the number (i.e. the loser) will eat up a certain number of moon cakes.
Although I like Chinese tea, I'm giving this one a miss. Why? Two reasons: (1) I'm afraid I will not be able to sleep tonight; (2) They used a pillowcase as a strainer for the leaves. Hello, isn't that unhygienic? The pillowcase has been in the dusty old storeroom for like how many days or weeks, and they actually take it out and use it as a tool for human consumption? Yes, army boys and men are dirty, but that goes too far. The scene of people opening the dispenser to find the pillowcase inside is almost like a gag from Just Kidding.
The opening of the mess to all the men is a historical event, so historical that it should probably be written down on a plague for remembrance and hung up outside the mess door:
The cohesion night is planned with two activities after the moon cake feasting: you can either watch a movie or the pool tournament. Turns out that most people opt to watch the pool tournament, theory being the mess is a new thing like a kid's Christmas present, so everybody wants to have a feeling of what it's like in there. Anyway the laptop in the Lecture Room is screwed - it is so old that it has no DVD-Rom, so we can't watch "Saving Private Ryan" on it because it was brought here in DVD format; the VCD of "Gladiators" seems to have problems and causes the laptop to hang every time we try to run it; we have no choice but to watch "2 Fast 2 Furious". Barely five minutes into the show, I leave because it's boring, and I want to sleep.
Not before grabbing a bite of Taiwanese Sausage. The Muah Chee Man has arrived again. Unfortunately his fare fails to whet my appetite, because I'm dangerously overloaded with moon cakes.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
From Min Ru via Friendster:
SINGLE'S QUIZ
1. Still single?
Yes
2. Ever fell in love with someone you've never seen?
No
3. Ever had a crush?
Yes
4. Are your friends also single?
Some are, some not
5. Describe being single in two words.
Shiok arh!
6. Favourite colours
Black, Blue, Brown
7. Did it ever reach a point when you really, really wanted to have someone as your boyfriend/girlfriend, then suddenly you switch your thoughts to leaving him or her instead?
What a ridiculous and far-fetched thought . . .
8. What do you do when you're sad?
Walk alone (fatefully it always seems that I will have no companions at times when I am feeling down), sit alone on the bus and look at the floor all the time
9. What do you do when you're mad?
Go to the piano and thrash the keyboard
10. How does it feel seeing the person you like with someone else?
Extremely depressing and demoralising
11. Are you single now because you were dumped?
No.
12. Are you single now because you love to dump?
I'm not such a bastard.
13. Message to the other singles:
Stay single to avoid the troubles that arise out of relationships. And you can enjoy your men's night-out
ARMY HALF-MARATHON / SHEARES BRIDGE RUN
12KM ROUTE
START: Esplanade Bridge (just outside the Esplanade - Theatres on the Bay)
1. Collyer Quay
2. Raffles Quay
3. Shenton Way (turn left at the Singapore Conference Hall)
4. Maxwell Road
5. ECP / Benjamin Sheares Bridge (leave the expressway immediately after the Waterplace condominium)
6. Tanjong Rhu Place / Suspension Bridge outside Singapore Indoor Stadium
7. Stadium Road (under Merdeka Bridge)
8. Kallang Riverside Park
9. Sir Arthur's Bridge
10. Kallang Road
11. Crawford Street
12. Republic Avenue
13. Marina Promenade (past Esplanade - Theatres on the Bay, then under Esplanade Bridge, where the End Point is)
I probably transformed the Army Half-Marathon aka Sheares Bridge Run into the New Paper Big Walk - the T-shirt that I wear to the company's meeting point proves it, for I am wearing the 2001 New Paper Big Walk T-shirt.
Anyway what the hell: we didn't do warm-up (nobody could be bothered to perform aerobics on the steps of City Hall), and our feet failed to recover from the intensity of two days' worth of topography (where we brisk-walked most of the torturous distances just to cover a few checkpoints) and last Thursday's final AHM training - a run of 5km. Besides, when Teo Chee Hean flags us off, there are so many people (the emcee announces a crowd of 60,000 at the time we are running) that it takes ages for us to get started. Even as we begin moving, 60,000 people cramped into one single lane is as good as manoeuvring about the horrific mass of people in the Orchard Road underpasses. Some people are running; some jogging; others taking a nice Sunday morning stroll like Zhiwei and myself. You'll find that the runners will weave in and out of the slow walkers just to be able to get forward. It's very scary; you'll never know when somebody might collide into you - you can't possibly turn your head back constantly to watch if there is anyone tailgating you, or attempting to overtake you. I got elbowed in the waist by one runner - either he didn't realise what he had done, or he was too busy running to even be bothered, let alone reply to my muttered curses. I have experienced an ever worse accident during one of the National Cycling events in the past. As a filtered left on the Esplanade Bridge, another cyclist from behind failed to anticipate my actions, and crashed into me as I made my move. I fell off; the bicycle dropped onto the road and missed me by inches; my spectacles were broken into a clean half; blood leaked from the burst skin on my knee. Even today, I have had several near-misses, including tripping over a broken barrier on the Sheares Bridge that was left lying against the railing of the bridge with no warning signs for the runners - or walkers.
Along the way, there are water points run by various units from differing formations. These units design their stations in the most creative - and sometimes outlandish - fashions. Nevertheless, they are quite fun, and are a welcome, except that we arrive too late to catch the cold water and the Gatorade, the latter which we drink only at one station. I can't remember which one had the oceanic theme - they had a 3D mural of the underwater landscape. They created the background out of some kind of net. They used inflatable toys and those Mylar balloons to represent the sea creatures. They even have personnel dressed up in costumes to cheer us on. Another one, whose mascot is the cobra, had a huge, painted statue of a cobra just before their station. In fact, lining the road up to their water point at the Marina Promenade are large Chinese fans and blossoms, making you wonder if you'd run into the Chinese Garden by mistake.
We find ourselves being one of the last few already by the time we arrive back at the Esplanade. The crowd at the back is thinner; everyone has gone ahead and finished the whole thing. By the time we run past the Esplanade towards the bridge where we had started, there are people milling about carrying goody bags. Even by the time we reach the Padang, Teo has finished giving out the prizes and everyone has fallen out already.
At the end of the day, my calculations have been correct. 10 minutes per kilometre. We finish with a time of two hours and twenty-minutes by pure walking, with the exception of a kilometre's worth of jogging.
¶ 9/26/2004 04:54:00 pm 0 comments
12KM ROUTE
START: Esplanade Bridge (just outside the Esplanade - Theatres on the Bay)
1. Collyer Quay
2. Raffles Quay
3. Shenton Way (turn left at the Singapore Conference Hall)
4. Maxwell Road
5. ECP / Benjamin Sheares Bridge (leave the expressway immediately after the Waterplace condominium)
6. Tanjong Rhu Place / Suspension Bridge outside Singapore Indoor Stadium
7. Stadium Road (under Merdeka Bridge)
8. Kallang Riverside Park
9. Sir Arthur's Bridge
10. Kallang Road
11. Crawford Street
12. Republic Avenue
13. Marina Promenade (past Esplanade - Theatres on the Bay, then under Esplanade Bridge, where the End Point is)
I probably transformed the Army Half-Marathon aka Sheares Bridge Run into the New Paper Big Walk - the T-shirt that I wear to the company's meeting point proves it, for I am wearing the 2001 New Paper Big Walk T-shirt.
Anyway what the hell: we didn't do warm-up (nobody could be bothered to perform aerobics on the steps of City Hall), and our feet failed to recover from the intensity of two days' worth of topography (where we brisk-walked most of the torturous distances just to cover a few checkpoints) and last Thursday's final AHM training - a run of 5km. Besides, when Teo Chee Hean flags us off, there are so many people (the emcee announces a crowd of 60,000 at the time we are running) that it takes ages for us to get started. Even as we begin moving, 60,000 people cramped into one single lane is as good as manoeuvring about the horrific mass of people in the Orchard Road underpasses. Some people are running; some jogging; others taking a nice Sunday morning stroll like Zhiwei and myself. You'll find that the runners will weave in and out of the slow walkers just to be able to get forward. It's very scary; you'll never know when somebody might collide into you - you can't possibly turn your head back constantly to watch if there is anyone tailgating you, or attempting to overtake you. I got elbowed in the waist by one runner - either he didn't realise what he had done, or he was too busy running to even be bothered, let alone reply to my muttered curses. I have experienced an ever worse accident during one of the National Cycling events in the past. As a filtered left on the Esplanade Bridge, another cyclist from behind failed to anticipate my actions, and crashed into me as I made my move. I fell off; the bicycle dropped onto the road and missed me by inches; my spectacles were broken into a clean half; blood leaked from the burst skin on my knee. Even today, I have had several near-misses, including tripping over a broken barrier on the Sheares Bridge that was left lying against the railing of the bridge with no warning signs for the runners - or walkers.
Along the way, there are water points run by various units from differing formations. These units design their stations in the most creative - and sometimes outlandish - fashions. Nevertheless, they are quite fun, and are a welcome, except that we arrive too late to catch the cold water and the Gatorade, the latter which we drink only at one station. I can't remember which one had the oceanic theme - they had a 3D mural of the underwater landscape. They created the background out of some kind of net. They used inflatable toys and those Mylar balloons to represent the sea creatures. They even have personnel dressed up in costumes to cheer us on. Another one, whose mascot is the cobra, had a huge, painted statue of a cobra just before their station. In fact, lining the road up to their water point at the Marina Promenade are large Chinese fans and blossoms, making you wonder if you'd run into the Chinese Garden by mistake.
We find ourselves being one of the last few already by the time we arrive back at the Esplanade. The crowd at the back is thinner; everyone has gone ahead and finished the whole thing. By the time we run past the Esplanade towards the bridge where we had started, there are people milling about carrying goody bags. Even by the time we reach the Padang, Teo has finished giving out the prizes and everyone has fallen out already.
At the end of the day, my calculations have been correct. 10 minutes per kilometre. We finish with a time of two hours and twenty-minutes by pure walking, with the exception of a kilometre's worth of jogging.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
From Min Ru via Friendster:
1. What makes you happy?
Booking out!
2. Would you change yourself to make someone like you?
No way
3. If you knew the truth was going to hurt you, would you still want to hear it?
Yes, hiding it would be worse
4. Do long-distance relationships work?
Only on the condition that the two people are very close, and not going through surfaced relationships.
5. How many people do you know that share your birthday?
So far Cher only . . . from a keychain I bought from Australia.
6. Is there anyone that you would risk your life for?
Yes; my best friend
7. The person that other people say you look like?
Mr Bean aka Rowan Atkinson
8. What animal would you not want to be turned into?
Chicken . . . one of the first to get chopped if eggs are not laid . . . think "Chicken Run"
9. Do you spend a lot of time on the computer?
Yes . . . from the moment I book-out to the moment I'm about to book-in
10. Do you spend a lot of time on instant messaging?
Not so nowadays
11. Do you realise that most things are temporary?
Yes. Quite terrible the rate things change, it pressurises people to keep up or fall behind.
12. How long has it been since you went to town?
One week ago.
13. Do you like to write poetry?
I prefer writing song lyrics
14. Do you like to read poetry?
Not really, too idealistic - I prefer prose
15. What is your favourite colour of ink to write in?
Blue
16. Would you rather write in pen or pencil?
When writing words - pen
When composing - pencil
17. How tall are you?
When standing absolutely straight: 171cm
When hunched: about 167cm
18. Who do you always talk to online?
Gerald aka Proko
19. Do you like rain?
Yes, because it means dislikeable activities like SOC are cancelled
20. Do you think lightning is awesome?
Yes . . . such a beautiful sight, when I saw it that Wednesday while outfield. It's also a good sign: means we're going to be kept indoors and whatsoever outdoor training is going to be cancelled.
21. Do you have glow-in-the-dark stars?
What's that?
22. Do you miss someone now?
My best friend.
23. What was the last song you downloaded?
I can't remember
24. Do you smoke or drink?
No.
25. Have you ever been in a life or death situation?
Yes . . . refer to the entry on 21 July 2004
26. Who's the last person who wrote a testimonial to you?
Shazwani; classmate in 35/02
27. Life is?
Uncontrollable
28. On a scale from 0 to 10, how happy are you?
2
29. What's in your mind now?
The orchestration of "Now That I've Seen Her" from Miss Saigon.
30. What do you want to do after this?
Write my blog
31. Have you ever been in a jungle?
Yes of course . . . to cheong suah (I just hate it)
32. Do you hate anyone? Who?
Yes.
33. What do you want to say to yourself?
Sleep early tonight! AHM tomorrow.
34. Have you ever loved someone so much you'd die for him/her?
No . . . that is so maddening.
35. Do you swear?
Incessantly
36. Do you know your goals in life?
More or less
37. Are you a hard worker?
Yes!
38. You just can't live without . . . ?
Music!
39. What's your Chinese astrology sign and the element?
Ox . . . can someone enlighten me on what's my element?
40. What did you do yesterday?
Area-cleaning and stand-by bed
¶ 9/25/2004 11:26:00 pm 0 comments
1. What makes you happy?
Booking out!
2. Would you change yourself to make someone like you?
No way
3. If you knew the truth was going to hurt you, would you still want to hear it?
Yes, hiding it would be worse
4. Do long-distance relationships work?
Only on the condition that the two people are very close, and not going through surfaced relationships.
5. How many people do you know that share your birthday?
So far Cher only . . . from a keychain I bought from Australia.
6. Is there anyone that you would risk your life for?
Yes; my best friend
7. The person that other people say you look like?
Mr Bean aka Rowan Atkinson
8. What animal would you not want to be turned into?
Chicken . . . one of the first to get chopped if eggs are not laid . . . think "Chicken Run"
9. Do you spend a lot of time on the computer?
Yes . . . from the moment I book-out to the moment I'm about to book-in
10. Do you spend a lot of time on instant messaging?
Not so nowadays
11. Do you realise that most things are temporary?
Yes. Quite terrible the rate things change, it pressurises people to keep up or fall behind.
12. How long has it been since you went to town?
One week ago.
13. Do you like to write poetry?
I prefer writing song lyrics
14. Do you like to read poetry?
Not really, too idealistic - I prefer prose
15. What is your favourite colour of ink to write in?
Blue
16. Would you rather write in pen or pencil?
When writing words - pen
When composing - pencil
17. How tall are you?
When standing absolutely straight: 171cm
When hunched: about 167cm
18. Who do you always talk to online?
Gerald aka Proko
19. Do you like rain?
Yes, because it means dislikeable activities like SOC are cancelled
20. Do you think lightning is awesome?
Yes . . . such a beautiful sight, when I saw it that Wednesday while outfield. It's also a good sign: means we're going to be kept indoors and whatsoever outdoor training is going to be cancelled.
21. Do you have glow-in-the-dark stars?
What's that?
22. Do you miss someone now?
My best friend.
23. What was the last song you downloaded?
I can't remember
24. Do you smoke or drink?
No.
25. Have you ever been in a life or death situation?
Yes . . . refer to the entry on 21 July 2004
26. Who's the last person who wrote a testimonial to you?
Shazwani; classmate in 35/02
27. Life is?
Uncontrollable
28. On a scale from 0 to 10, how happy are you?
2
29. What's in your mind now?
The orchestration of "Now That I've Seen Her" from Miss Saigon.
30. What do you want to do after this?
Write my blog
31. Have you ever been in a jungle?
Yes of course . . . to cheong suah (I just hate it)
32. Do you hate anyone? Who?
Yes.
33. What do you want to say to yourself?
Sleep early tonight! AHM tomorrow.
34. Have you ever loved someone so much you'd die for him/her?
No . . . that is so maddening.
35. Do you swear?
Incessantly
36. Do you know your goals in life?
More or less
37. Are you a hard worker?
Yes!
38. You just can't live without . . . ?
Music!
39. What's your Chinese astrology sign and the element?
Ox . . . can someone enlighten me on what's my element?
40. What did you do yesterday?
Area-cleaning and stand-by bed
From Liwen via Friendster:
IF I WERE . . . (Nothing to do with the army song!)
If I were a month I would be . . .
AUGUST!!!
If I were a day of the week I would be . . .
Saturday, because I can stay at home!
If I were a time of the day I would be . . .
10:00pm, because I can finally go to sleep (inside camp)
If I were a planet I would be . . .
Jupiter, because that's my favourite movement in Holst's "The Planets" Suite, Op. 16
If I were a sea animal I would be . . .
Blue whale . . . I'm always very slow . . .
If I were a direction I would be . . .
East . . . I'm an Eastie!
If I were a sin I would be . . .
A workaholic
If I were a liquid I would be . . .
Coffee
If I were a tree I would be . . .
Rain tree . . . my favourite tree as it provides a lot of shade
If I were a bird I would be . . .
Crow . . . because my music is like their squawking
If I were a tool I would be . . .
The humble mine prodder . . . engineer's indispensable equipment
If I were a flower I would be . . .
Jasmine flower . . . whose song I have arranged successfully for solo piano and string quartet
If I were a kind of weather I would be . . .
Rainstorm
If I were a musical instrument I would be . . .
Piano!!!
If I were an animal I would be . . .
Elephant . . . Armoured Engineer's mascot
If I were a colour, I would be . . .
Black
If I were an emotion, I would be . . .
Melancholy
If I were a vegetable, I would be . . .
Tomato
If I were a song, I would be . . .
Thank You for the Music by ABBA
If I were a book, I would be . . .
Who Moved My Cheese . . . it's time I learn how to deal with change
If I were a place, I would be . . .
Home!
If I were a thing, I would be . . .
Steinway and Sons Piano
If I were a taste, I would be . . .
Salty
If I were a scent, I would be . . .
Stink. That's what army boys smell of.
If I were a word, I would be . . .
Skive!!! (commonly called "Chao Keng")
If I were a body part I would be . . .
The ears
If I were a facial expression I would be . . .
Screwed up
If I were a subject in school I would be . . .
Music!!!
If I were a cartoon character I would be . . .
Mr Mammoth in "Cats Can't Dance" . . . because he plays the piano
If I were a shape I would be . . .
Round . . . I like rounded tones
If I were a number I would be . . .
7
From Min Ru via Friendster:
64-QUESTION QUIZ
1. What is your cellular phone model?
Nokia 3310; still going strong after all these years
2. What will you do if you see your girlfriend or boyfriend hugging another guy/girl?
"Kill the man/Kill the girlfriend!" Ha-ha, just quoting from the lyrics of "Purple Light" (See Op. 3). Anyway I won't get a girlfriend so such incidents won't happen to me.
3. Your favourite songs?
Lots of them!
4. Do you have a girlfriend/boyfriend?
Nope.
5. Do you have your own room?
Yes
6. Hates:
Being in the army
7. What are you doing now?
Doing this quiz (duh!) and listening to (The Complete Symphonic Recording of) Miss Saigon
8. One thing you can't live without
Music!
9. What would you do if someone tells you he or she likes you?
Stare at him/her with wide eyes and ask: "Excuse me, are you okay?"
10. How are you feeling now?
High . . . from the music of "Miss Saigon"
11. Where do you hang out?
Library@Esplanade
12. What are you good at?
Making music . . . ?
13. What is it about a person you can't stand?
KP too much
14. What do you want?
ORD to be brought forward!
15. A word that describes you
Sucked-up
16. What is your dream?
To become a composer and conductor and music educator without anybody telling me that what I'm doing is wrong.
17. Day or night?
Night; that's when the best inspirations arrive
18. Sunset/sunrise?
Both
19. Like a romantic boyfriend/girlfriend?
No . . . too mushy
20. What is it about the opposite gender that attracts you?
Same interests
21. Are you an independent person?
Half-half . . . well my laundry and food are not done by me alone . . .
22. Do you like school?
I MISS IT!!!
23. Are you stubborn?
I can be, yes
24. Do you believe in God?
Not really . . . I'm a freethinker
25. Your favourite physical feature?
The hair
26. Do you believe in fate?
Sometimes
27. Do you get pissed off easily?
Yes.
28. Do you like your parents?
Yes
29. Are you a materialistic person?
Not really
30. Believe in love?
Yes.
31. How many piercings do you have?
None
32. Will you get a tattoo?
No
33. Do you smoke?
No. I hate the smell of cigarette smoke
34. Would you go to a club or pub?
A jazz bar
35. Clubbing?
No way! I disliked my experience at Angel's Reborn during our Unit's Anniversary.
36. Will you forgive your girlfriend or boyfriend if he cheats on you?
I won't even have a girlfriend so it doesn't affect me at all.
37. Will you expect your girlfriend/boyfriend to forgive you if you cheats on him/her?
Look at the answer to the question above. In fact, I'd be so busy with my work that I'd forget to go for a date.
38. Were you on a trip recently?
To the Great Outdoors outside our camp?
39. Favourite country?
UK!
40. Are you impatient?
I can be
41. Which brands do you prefer?
Anything, as long as it works well and I can get results from it
42. Do you organise parties often?
No way! Logistics nightmares
43. Do you think you are good-looking?
No way.
44. Do you care about looks?
No.
45. Do you think that you are a good stead?
Very poor; often self-obsessed in my work
46. Do you use vulgarities?
Yes, a lot
47. Do you quarrel with people easily?
Yes
48. Are you forgiving?
Sometimes
49. Do you get hurt easily?
Yes.
50. Do you prefer guys with long/short hair?
Doesn't apply to me
51. Do you prefer girls with long/short hair?
Long hair
52. Is your hair coloured?
Duh . . . it's black
53. Are you a romantic partner?
Absolutely not
54. Do you wear a watch?
No. I put the watch in my pocket in camp. Outside I depend on the clock on my cellular phone.
55. What colour clothes do you like?
Black
56. Will you choose love or money?
Love
57. Do you prefer sleeping or eating?
Sleeping
58. White or black?
Black
59. Pink or red?
Red . . . it's the Communist colour!
60. Favourite flower?
Jasmine flower . . . because it's one of the most successful pieces that I've written so far.
61. Do you like to receive flowers?
No . . . a nuisance to handle
62. Favourite perfume?
None
63. Favourite type of music?
Classical music (I hate using this term . . . can someone find another way of describing this type of music?); English oldies
64. Favourite past time?
Composing!!!
¶ 9/25/2004 11:25:00 pm 0 comments
64-QUESTION QUIZ
1. What is your cellular phone model?
Nokia 3310; still going strong after all these years
2. What will you do if you see your girlfriend or boyfriend hugging another guy/girl?
"Kill the man/Kill the girlfriend!" Ha-ha, just quoting from the lyrics of "Purple Light" (See Op. 3). Anyway I won't get a girlfriend so such incidents won't happen to me.
3. Your favourite songs?
Lots of them!
4. Do you have a girlfriend/boyfriend?
Nope.
5. Do you have your own room?
Yes
6. Hates:
Being in the army
7. What are you doing now?
Doing this quiz (duh!) and listening to (The Complete Symphonic Recording of) Miss Saigon
8. One thing you can't live without
Music!
9. What would you do if someone tells you he or she likes you?
Stare at him/her with wide eyes and ask: "Excuse me, are you okay?"
10. How are you feeling now?
High . . . from the music of "Miss Saigon"
11. Where do you hang out?
Library@Esplanade
12. What are you good at?
Making music . . . ?
13. What is it about a person you can't stand?
KP too much
14. What do you want?
ORD to be brought forward!
15. A word that describes you
Sucked-up
16. What is your dream?
To become a composer and conductor and music educator without anybody telling me that what I'm doing is wrong.
17. Day or night?
Night; that's when the best inspirations arrive
18. Sunset/sunrise?
Both
19. Like a romantic boyfriend/girlfriend?
No . . . too mushy
20. What is it about the opposite gender that attracts you?
Same interests
21. Are you an independent person?
Half-half . . . well my laundry and food are not done by me alone . . .
22. Do you like school?
I MISS IT!!!
23. Are you stubborn?
I can be, yes
24. Do you believe in God?
Not really . . . I'm a freethinker
25. Your favourite physical feature?
The hair
26. Do you believe in fate?
Sometimes
27. Do you get pissed off easily?
Yes.
28. Do you like your parents?
Yes
29. Are you a materialistic person?
Not really
30. Believe in love?
Yes.
31. How many piercings do you have?
None
32. Will you get a tattoo?
No
33. Do you smoke?
No. I hate the smell of cigarette smoke
34. Would you go to a club or pub?
A jazz bar
35. Clubbing?
No way! I disliked my experience at Angel's Reborn during our Unit's Anniversary.
36. Will you forgive your girlfriend or boyfriend if he cheats on you?
I won't even have a girlfriend so it doesn't affect me at all.
37. Will you expect your girlfriend/boyfriend to forgive you if you cheats on him/her?
Look at the answer to the question above. In fact, I'd be so busy with my work that I'd forget to go for a date.
38. Were you on a trip recently?
To the Great Outdoors outside our camp?
39. Favourite country?
UK!
40. Are you impatient?
I can be
41. Which brands do you prefer?
Anything, as long as it works well and I can get results from it
42. Do you organise parties often?
No way! Logistics nightmares
43. Do you think you are good-looking?
No way.
44. Do you care about looks?
No.
45. Do you think that you are a good stead?
Very poor; often self-obsessed in my work
46. Do you use vulgarities?
Yes, a lot
47. Do you quarrel with people easily?
Yes
48. Are you forgiving?
Sometimes
49. Do you get hurt easily?
Yes.
50. Do you prefer guys with long/short hair?
Doesn't apply to me
51. Do you prefer girls with long/short hair?
Long hair
52. Is your hair coloured?
Duh . . . it's black
53. Are you a romantic partner?
Absolutely not
54. Do you wear a watch?
No. I put the watch in my pocket in camp. Outside I depend on the clock on my cellular phone.
55. What colour clothes do you like?
Black
56. Will you choose love or money?
Love
57. Do you prefer sleeping or eating?
Sleeping
58. White or black?
Black
59. Pink or red?
Red . . . it's the Communist colour!
60. Favourite flower?
Jasmine flower . . . because it's one of the most successful pieces that I've written so far.
61. Do you like to receive flowers?
No . . . a nuisance to handle
62. Favourite perfume?
None
63. Favourite type of music?
Classical music (I hate using this term . . . can someone find another way of describing this type of music?); English oldies
64. Favourite past time?
Composing!!!
Friday, September 24, 2004
Kids nowadays are getting funnier - and weirder - by the moment.
When I arrive back from camp, the first thing that my brother requests of me is to write a song for him and his friend to perform for their school music project.
"Okay," I tell him.
"The song must be about love," he adds.
My eyelids momentarily shoot up. What is this eleven-year-old kid talking to me about writing a love song?
My father advises me to write it easy so that they can handle the parts. My brother is playing the piano - interest only re-surfaced when the piano arrived back at our house about two weeks ago. He gave up his piano classes almost two years ago - he lost interest in it too quickly. Now he's in swimming and scouts. I guess he's the more sporty and outdoor, adventurous type. And he likes to draw, which makes me wonder why my parents want him to go the same path as me - developed in music, undeveloped in art. I personally feel that my brother should develop in art, and not music, since he lost interest in both the piano and erhu.
But my brother irks me by telling me to add A's and B's and "perhaps some B-flat here and there". Hello, music is not like cooking. You don't add notes into a song like ingredients. Of course you can do that with instruments, like how cymbals and triangles are spices in European orchestras during Mozart's and Beethoven's time, culminating in a craze for all things Turkish.
So now I'm wrecking my brains over what to write for a couple of kids to sing. One thing everybody misunderstands is: can the friend read staff notation? If not, HOW ON EARTH IS HE GOING TO LEARN THE SONG AND SING IT? Anybody thought of that before? And my whole family keeps telling me when I raise this concern: just write something simple for them to sing. Yes, I can write a simple song, as simple as Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, but can he even learn the song in the first place by reading the score? Because I won't be there to personally sit down and spend a whole day coaching them.
¶ 9/24/2004 10:57:00 pm 0 comments
When I arrive back from camp, the first thing that my brother requests of me is to write a song for him and his friend to perform for their school music project.
"Okay," I tell him.
"The song must be about love," he adds.
My eyelids momentarily shoot up. What is this eleven-year-old kid talking to me about writing a love song?
My father advises me to write it easy so that they can handle the parts. My brother is playing the piano - interest only re-surfaced when the piano arrived back at our house about two weeks ago. He gave up his piano classes almost two years ago - he lost interest in it too quickly. Now he's in swimming and scouts. I guess he's the more sporty and outdoor, adventurous type. And he likes to draw, which makes me wonder why my parents want him to go the same path as me - developed in music, undeveloped in art. I personally feel that my brother should develop in art, and not music, since he lost interest in both the piano and erhu.
But my brother irks me by telling me to add A's and B's and "perhaps some B-flat here and there". Hello, music is not like cooking. You don't add notes into a song like ingredients. Of course you can do that with instruments, like how cymbals and triangles are spices in European orchestras during Mozart's and Beethoven's time, culminating in a craze for all things Turkish.
So now I'm wrecking my brains over what to write for a couple of kids to sing. One thing everybody misunderstands is: can the friend read staff notation? If not, HOW ON EARTH IS HE GOING TO LEARN THE SONG AND SING IT? Anybody thought of that before? And my whole family keeps telling me when I raise this concern: just write something simple for them to sing. Yes, I can write a simple song, as simple as Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, but can he even learn the song in the first place by reading the score? Because I won't be there to personally sit down and spend a whole day coaching them.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
I never expected that my entry in the platoon's Occurrence Book (dated 16 September 2004, about the scolding incident) would stir up so much trouble.
Sergeant Elson read it, felt it was unfair, called me down after lunch and berated me for writing such things, telling me not to be a "reporter" when it comes to writing the occurrence book. Then some people in the platoon are angry that Sergeant Elson is behaving like this - his personal ego is so high that he refuses to take such a beating, they feel.
So it results in conflict, with many broken people.
Thanks go to Ronald for persuading Sergeant Elson to speak to us in the evening to clear up all misconceptions that have arisen due to the entry. On that very evening, we are enlightened as we find out more about Sergeant's personality and the reasons for the things he does, and he hears our side of the story about the entry on him.
What exactly is the role of the occurrence book? Is it merely a log book, where the events of the day - hard, cold facts - are merely stated as a reminder of what the platoon has done for the day? Or is it the platoon's diary, where thoughts are written down after the day's training, with the hope that a commander will come and read it and understand how we feel about things, emotions which we are unable to relate to our commanders in the course of training. And perhaps the commanders will write a word or two based on their "side of the story". For example, when I wrote that Sergeant Dexter once made us march what seemed to be endless after breakfast, and eventually knocked us down outside Battalion HQ, he himself put onto the book that a minority of us refused to heed his instructions to sing loudly and march properly. Therefore he punished us. When I wrote the account of last week's incident, I very much expected the same thing to happen: Sergeant Elson would probably state his reasons for being so confrontational and for scolding us out of the blue. No: instead he becomes angry and confronts the platoon again.
We can see that words in the occurrence book merely tell one side of the story, and may not please the other party, because there is no place for him to counter-argue within the paragraphs already printed on paper. Therefore dialogue is more effective in that sense. A person may be able to tell one thing of the story, and the other party can listen and instantaneously (not interruptedly, though) push forth whatever he has to say to put out the fire, or to allow the misinformed to comprehend. And this is exactly what we did on this Tuesday night. I must say that we are less likely to get into conflict or trouble again, because now we understand both parties. We are more able to pre-empt Sergeant's outburst in the future - once he issues his first warning, we shall be quick to correct our mistakes to avoid a subsequent notice that can possibly lead to an explosion of temper.
¶ 9/21/2004 04:53:00 pm 0 comments
Sergeant Elson read it, felt it was unfair, called me down after lunch and berated me for writing such things, telling me not to be a "reporter" when it comes to writing the occurrence book. Then some people in the platoon are angry that Sergeant Elson is behaving like this - his personal ego is so high that he refuses to take such a beating, they feel.
So it results in conflict, with many broken people.
Thanks go to Ronald for persuading Sergeant Elson to speak to us in the evening to clear up all misconceptions that have arisen due to the entry. On that very evening, we are enlightened as we find out more about Sergeant's personality and the reasons for the things he does, and he hears our side of the story about the entry on him.
What exactly is the role of the occurrence book? Is it merely a log book, where the events of the day - hard, cold facts - are merely stated as a reminder of what the platoon has done for the day? Or is it the platoon's diary, where thoughts are written down after the day's training, with the hope that a commander will come and read it and understand how we feel about things, emotions which we are unable to relate to our commanders in the course of training. And perhaps the commanders will write a word or two based on their "side of the story". For example, when I wrote that Sergeant Dexter once made us march what seemed to be endless after breakfast, and eventually knocked us down outside Battalion HQ, he himself put onto the book that a minority of us refused to heed his instructions to sing loudly and march properly. Therefore he punished us. When I wrote the account of last week's incident, I very much expected the same thing to happen: Sergeant Elson would probably state his reasons for being so confrontational and for scolding us out of the blue. No: instead he becomes angry and confronts the platoon again.
We can see that words in the occurrence book merely tell one side of the story, and may not please the other party, because there is no place for him to counter-argue within the paragraphs already printed on paper. Therefore dialogue is more effective in that sense. A person may be able to tell one thing of the story, and the other party can listen and instantaneously (not interruptedly, though) push forth whatever he has to say to put out the fire, or to allow the misinformed to comprehend. And this is exactly what we did on this Tuesday night. I must say that we are less likely to get into conflict or trouble again, because now we understand both parties. We are more able to pre-empt Sergeant's outburst in the future - once he issues his first warning, we shall be quick to correct our mistakes to avoid a subsequent notice that can possibly lead to an explosion of temper.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Announcing the launches of...
"Left... your left... your LEFT RIGHT!!!", Op. 3
And
"More than Words", Op. 4
Op. 3 is a collection of Army Songs, both from the repertoire and those re-worked or composed by me. It's a library for Song I/Cs and Song I/C wannabes to look at the lyrics and sing the next time they march to the cookhouse!
Op. 4 is an avenue for posting articles and emails of interest, of which currently I've been posting on Op. 1. From now on, Op. 1 will be dedicated to my journal... and the occassional quiz.
The new works are halfway done, enjoy what's there now and I'll soon be back to you with more stuff.
Enjoy.
¶ 9/19/2004 08:06:00 pm 0 comments
"Left... your left... your LEFT RIGHT!!!", Op. 3
And
"More than Words", Op. 4
Op. 3 is a collection of Army Songs, both from the repertoire and those re-worked or composed by me. It's a library for Song I/Cs and Song I/C wannabes to look at the lyrics and sing the next time they march to the cookhouse!
Op. 4 is an avenue for posting articles and emails of interest, of which currently I've been posting on Op. 1. From now on, Op. 1 will be dedicated to my journal... and the occassional quiz.
The new works are halfway done, enjoy what's there now and I'll soon be back to you with more stuff.
Enjoy.
¶ 9/19/2004 08:06:00 pm 0 comments
Saturday, September 18, 2004
--- I ---
Recently I've noticed that I have problems composing and arranging music.
It seems that the ideas are always there, but when I commit them to paper, they disappear. Or as I concentrate on one piece, there will be some inner devil urging me to write another one. Eventually I stop writing altogether and fret over which piece should receive my first attention.
I hate being only able to write during the weekends. You just want to rush yourself to write as much as possible to exhaust the ideas that have been accumulating over the week so that you can return back to camp with an empty brain with no debts behind. And I hate rushing over a piece of work because it ends up with shoddy workmanship.
Composition and arrangement should be a daily activity. Whilst daily you should also have a knowledge of the time to stop, so you know how much more you are going to write. In camp, I have no freaking idea when I am going to be called down. It always happens particularly on a Monday. After area cleaning, we retreat to the bunk to wait for the first lecture. I will take this opportunity to write. Suddenly, there'll be a shout, "Fall-in NOW!" Then shit, I have to stop whatever I'm doing. Most of the time, I don't even get to touch the score until I return home. It's just so sickening. I hate leaving things dangling in the air. You may say that I can write at night during our free time before we sleep. There're actually lots of things to do at that time. Preparation for the next day; bathing and keeping the clothes and filling water bottles - if I'm unlucky I don't even have the time to brush my teeth before I sleep. What more can be said about writing music? Besides, I always want to sleep before the lights-out timing. Early sleep is a very precious luxury. If you can, sleep early, otherwise you'll feel very groggy the next day, and incur the wrath of your commanders particularly if you sleep during lectures, or sleep in the bunk after lunch.
No wonder it is said that the army kills your passion. Indeed, I find my compositional taste dying at a very slow rate.
--- II ---
I run into Chong Tang aka Elmo today at Citylink Mall while heading towards the Esplanade. He's still the same as ever, with the recruit-style haircut (or botak, as he likes to say in the past) and his slightly-hunched gait. It turns out that we're in the same formation - engineers. He's a field engineer; I'm an armoured engineer. He thinks my vocation is supposed to be better, because we have our armoured vehicles to ride in everywhere. For them, their luxury is an occasional ride on the tonner.
He asks how my NS life is. Siong, I tell him. I forget to mention how sucked up my company is.
Which reminds me, I have to email my new home address and home telephone number to everybody. I've moved house for one and a half months - six weeks to be exact, but I still haven't told anybody about my new address. How forgetful can I become? With increasing reliance on the cellular phone, I presume that I'm still contactable.
* * *
If I can recall, the Library@Esplanade closes at 8pm on Saturdays and Sundays. Shit, it's 7:45pm. Perhaps I can be there in time, grab a few stuff and fly.
I dash up the escalator to the third floor. To my horror - yes, absolute horror - the library is CLOSED. Shit! Why did they close so early?
I make my way to its main entrance. There is an easel, with a signboard on it saying: "The library will be closed at 4pm today for an annual staff event."
Wait a minute. I thought the staff event was last week?
Or is it this week?
Shit! No ABBA, no Brahms Symphony No. 4, no Rachmaninoff Symphony No. 2, no Sibelius Violin Concerto, no Ionisation . . . damn, even my wish list exceeds the limit given to premium membership holders.
P.S. at last the library has some sense to allow us premium membership holders to borrow audio visual materials with multiple parts and RETURN THEM AT ANY BRANCH LIBRARY!
* * *
I visit the bookstore at CityLink Mall to search for Michael Crichton's newest book. Instead, I find Dick Lee's aka Richard Lee Pang Boon's memoirs.
The lucky shit didn't have to cheong suah! When he went for his medical check-up at CMPB on enlistment day, he was told that his eyesight was way past the limit. The medic checking him quelled his disbelief: "You want to shoot your brudder ah?" So he was given something like PES E. He didn't even have to go through BMT because he couldn't even qualify for it medically. It also means: NO NEED FOR RESERVIST TRAINING!
His first vocation was doing administrative work, filling up the details on the 11As (as the military ICs were called then) manually. Excused uniform as well! Can't you believe that? Such a good life!
As it happened, he auditioned with the MDC, and won his way in with his talent in singing and dancing.
Fuck. Me living life as a pioneer with such a fucked-up company and an equally fucked-up unit . . .
--- III ---
I am starting two new blogs.
One is called "Left your left your left right" - very obviously it contains all the army songs that I know, or those that I've written (these are marked with "composed by AUGUST LUM") to add to the repertoire as a Song I/C in my platoon. Some of the lyrics may be offensive, but I can tell you that army guys become horny. The FHM is like one of the most common things in the bunk, even more common than The Straits Times. If you're keen to listen to what the song sounds like, drop me an email and I will send a Sibelius / Scorch / MIDI file to you. I've not prepared the scores though.
The other will be something like Reader's Digest, whereby emails or articles that I find amusing, interesting, enriching or sarcastic will find their way there - the exact principle upon which the Reader's Digest magazines work. Currently such posts are placed on Opus 1.
About Opus 3 - the travelogue - which you've probably read about in Opus 2, indefinitely it is not ready. I am still trying to figure out how I should begin writing, and I am still constantly reminding myself NOT to write about airport and in-transit experiences because they're just so . . . boring.
¶ 9/18/2004 01:09:00 am 0 comments
Recently I've noticed that I have problems composing and arranging music.
It seems that the ideas are always there, but when I commit them to paper, they disappear. Or as I concentrate on one piece, there will be some inner devil urging me to write another one. Eventually I stop writing altogether and fret over which piece should receive my first attention.
I hate being only able to write during the weekends. You just want to rush yourself to write as much as possible to exhaust the ideas that have been accumulating over the week so that you can return back to camp with an empty brain with no debts behind. And I hate rushing over a piece of work because it ends up with shoddy workmanship.
Composition and arrangement should be a daily activity. Whilst daily you should also have a knowledge of the time to stop, so you know how much more you are going to write. In camp, I have no freaking idea when I am going to be called down. It always happens particularly on a Monday. After area cleaning, we retreat to the bunk to wait for the first lecture. I will take this opportunity to write. Suddenly, there'll be a shout, "Fall-in NOW!" Then shit, I have to stop whatever I'm doing. Most of the time, I don't even get to touch the score until I return home. It's just so sickening. I hate leaving things dangling in the air. You may say that I can write at night during our free time before we sleep. There're actually lots of things to do at that time. Preparation for the next day; bathing and keeping the clothes and filling water bottles - if I'm unlucky I don't even have the time to brush my teeth before I sleep. What more can be said about writing music? Besides, I always want to sleep before the lights-out timing. Early sleep is a very precious luxury. If you can, sleep early, otherwise you'll feel very groggy the next day, and incur the wrath of your commanders particularly if you sleep during lectures, or sleep in the bunk after lunch.
No wonder it is said that the army kills your passion. Indeed, I find my compositional taste dying at a very slow rate.
--- II ---
I run into Chong Tang aka Elmo today at Citylink Mall while heading towards the Esplanade. He's still the same as ever, with the recruit-style haircut (or botak, as he likes to say in the past) and his slightly-hunched gait. It turns out that we're in the same formation - engineers. He's a field engineer; I'm an armoured engineer. He thinks my vocation is supposed to be better, because we have our armoured vehicles to ride in everywhere. For them, their luxury is an occasional ride on the tonner.
He asks how my NS life is. Siong, I tell him. I forget to mention how sucked up my company is.
Which reminds me, I have to email my new home address and home telephone number to everybody. I've moved house for one and a half months - six weeks to be exact, but I still haven't told anybody about my new address. How forgetful can I become? With increasing reliance on the cellular phone, I presume that I'm still contactable.
* * *
If I can recall, the Library@Esplanade closes at 8pm on Saturdays and Sundays. Shit, it's 7:45pm. Perhaps I can be there in time, grab a few stuff and fly.
I dash up the escalator to the third floor. To my horror - yes, absolute horror - the library is CLOSED. Shit! Why did they close so early?
I make my way to its main entrance. There is an easel, with a signboard on it saying: "The library will be closed at 4pm today for an annual staff event."
Wait a minute. I thought the staff event was last week?
Or is it this week?
Shit! No ABBA, no Brahms Symphony No. 4, no Rachmaninoff Symphony No. 2, no Sibelius Violin Concerto, no Ionisation . . . damn, even my wish list exceeds the limit given to premium membership holders.
P.S. at last the library has some sense to allow us premium membership holders to borrow audio visual materials with multiple parts and RETURN THEM AT ANY BRANCH LIBRARY!
* * *
I visit the bookstore at CityLink Mall to search for Michael Crichton's newest book. Instead, I find Dick Lee's aka Richard Lee Pang Boon's memoirs.
The lucky shit didn't have to cheong suah! When he went for his medical check-up at CMPB on enlistment day, he was told that his eyesight was way past the limit. The medic checking him quelled his disbelief: "You want to shoot your brudder ah?" So he was given something like PES E. He didn't even have to go through BMT because he couldn't even qualify for it medically. It also means: NO NEED FOR RESERVIST TRAINING!
His first vocation was doing administrative work, filling up the details on the 11As (as the military ICs were called then) manually. Excused uniform as well! Can't you believe that? Such a good life!
As it happened, he auditioned with the MDC, and won his way in with his talent in singing and dancing.
Fuck. Me living life as a pioneer with such a fucked-up company and an equally fucked-up unit . . .
--- III ---
I am starting two new blogs.
One is called "Left your left your left right" - very obviously it contains all the army songs that I know, or those that I've written (these are marked with "composed by AUGUST LUM") to add to the repertoire as a Song I/C in my platoon. Some of the lyrics may be offensive, but I can tell you that army guys become horny. The FHM is like one of the most common things in the bunk, even more common than The Straits Times. If you're keen to listen to what the song sounds like, drop me an email and I will send a Sibelius / Scorch / MIDI file to you. I've not prepared the scores though.
The other will be something like Reader's Digest, whereby emails or articles that I find amusing, interesting, enriching or sarcastic will find their way there - the exact principle upon which the Reader's Digest magazines work. Currently such posts are placed on Opus 1.
About Opus 3 - the travelogue - which you've probably read about in Opus 2, indefinitely it is not ready. I am still trying to figure out how I should begin writing, and I am still constantly reminding myself NOT to write about airport and in-transit experiences because they're just so . . . boring.
Friday, September 17, 2004
--- I ---
If I ever get the chance, I'm going to boycott YES93.3.
Fucking hell, keep playing the same old songs, especially one particular song whose title I have forgotten but whose tune I have not because it fucking keeps playing like three times a day - who wouldn't absorb it at that rate?
Anyway I'm deprived of classical music and force-fed pop music every week from Mondays to Friday. The guys don't like classical music, so I have no choice but to go along with what they listen, which are those Mandarin pop songs from China and Taiwan. The more I listen to them, the more I want my kind of music, and the more I despise Chinese pop.
Thank goodness they don't play techno all the time. I hate those music to the fucking core.
--- II ---
Fucking OC aka Doraemon plays with our bookout time again.
We're supposed to have a standby bed at 5:00pm. Then we would have the last parade, send our arms to the armoury and then book-out happily.
No.
At five his car is not even there. He only returns at about 6:00pm. As you can expect, the entire schedule has been harassed. Our early book-out has suffered an outrage of modesty. And we are equally outraged.
The more I look at it, the lower the respect I have for him. On Thursday, while everybody ran five kilometres for our AHM training, he ran 2km and then fell out. Talk about a lieutenant falling out despite a distance of less than HALF of the entire run. At least he can have the decency to finish the five clicks even by walking the remainder of the distance. And he complains that our company has a high reporting-sick rate.
Contradictory right?
Wait, there's more. But I can't say them out, if not some sharp thing will be poking my backside.
--- III ---
The first thing I return home, I pick up the newspapers.
The first thing that catches my eye as I flip through the pages: something about a Navy warship involved in an accident.
The name of the warship: RSS Persistence.
To confirm it: the number 209.
Shit. Benson's ship.
Quickly I call him. He picks up the phone and answers nonchalantly: "Hey, brudder, whatssup?"
"You okay?"
"Ha, I'm fine. You know what, I was ironing my clothes when the ship collided. And I was still ironing! Can you imagine how embarrassing that was?"
Running it through my mind, the vision seems rather amusing: vibrations rocking the ship; everybody nearly loosing their balance, and then wondering: what the HELL is going on; Benson standing there ironing his shirt amidst the chaos - if there were ever chaos.
At least he's okay. And he's received my letter. So the address that I write must be correct.
Thank goodness.
--- IV ---
Hooray, my piano is back at my house!
After six months, I finally have it by my side again.
Not exactly by my side; it can't fit into my room, because it's too cramped already. Again, it's sitting in the living room. To compensate, there is a view of the swimming pool. To the right of the piano are the glass-panelled sliding doors leading to the balcony.
When we moved to our rental flat, we had to move the piano to my grandma's as the temporary place didn't have the room to fit the instrument in. So far I only played the piano on two occasions: during my one and only long weekend during my BMT and the second during my block leave.
We moved into the present, permanent apartment on 31 July. It took two to three weeks for us to settle down. By then, the Seventh Month had begun, so no moving. You know, superstitions. The Hungry Ghost Festival just ended recently, so the piano only arrives back today.
You might probably think that people who live in condominiums expect a quiet evening to themselves and don't like instrumentalists playing late into the night. I think I've been proved wrong. After I return home from camp, I play piano from about 10:30 to 11:15pm or so. I just play a variety of nonsensical stuff: pop songs, own compositions, Broadway numbers . . . anything to flex my fingers for a tinkle on the keyboard. Finally, I call it a day. My father, who happens to walk out of the kitchen, comes to help me close up the balcony door, which has been left slightly open to minimise the echo. He spots my downstairs neighbour (we live on the second floor) looking up at our balcony. The condominium is designed such that the ground floor residences have gardens that protrude further than the balconies of the units located above it. So my neighbour is leaning against his garden fence whilst looking up at us.
My father presumes he's been trying to get our attention so that he can tell us that I've been a nuisance. My father apologises: "I'm sorry if he's disturbed you."
Surprisingly: "Oh, not at all. In fact I like the music. I came out specially to listen to it."
At that moment, I just feel very embarrassed - or perhaps flattered - that I rush to my room to turn on my laptop to check my email. But in all senses that has been an encouragement and I won't hesitate to practice without reserve in future.
¶ 9/17/2004 02:12:00 pm 0 comments
If I ever get the chance, I'm going to boycott YES93.3.
Fucking hell, keep playing the same old songs, especially one particular song whose title I have forgotten but whose tune I have not because it fucking keeps playing like three times a day - who wouldn't absorb it at that rate?
Anyway I'm deprived of classical music and force-fed pop music every week from Mondays to Friday. The guys don't like classical music, so I have no choice but to go along with what they listen, which are those Mandarin pop songs from China and Taiwan. The more I listen to them, the more I want my kind of music, and the more I despise Chinese pop.
Thank goodness they don't play techno all the time. I hate those music to the fucking core.
--- II ---
Fucking OC aka Doraemon plays with our bookout time again.
We're supposed to have a standby bed at 5:00pm. Then we would have the last parade, send our arms to the armoury and then book-out happily.
No.
At five his car is not even there. He only returns at about 6:00pm. As you can expect, the entire schedule has been harassed. Our early book-out has suffered an outrage of modesty. And we are equally outraged.
The more I look at it, the lower the respect I have for him. On Thursday, while everybody ran five kilometres for our AHM training, he ran 2km and then fell out. Talk about a lieutenant falling out despite a distance of less than HALF of the entire run. At least he can have the decency to finish the five clicks even by walking the remainder of the distance. And he complains that our company has a high reporting-sick rate.
Contradictory right?
Wait, there's more. But I can't say them out, if not some sharp thing will be poking my backside.
--- III ---
The first thing I return home, I pick up the newspapers.
The first thing that catches my eye as I flip through the pages: something about a Navy warship involved in an accident.
The name of the warship: RSS Persistence.
To confirm it: the number 209.
Shit. Benson's ship.
Quickly I call him. He picks up the phone and answers nonchalantly: "Hey, brudder, whatssup?"
"You okay?"
"Ha, I'm fine. You know what, I was ironing my clothes when the ship collided. And I was still ironing! Can you imagine how embarrassing that was?"
Running it through my mind, the vision seems rather amusing: vibrations rocking the ship; everybody nearly loosing their balance, and then wondering: what the HELL is going on; Benson standing there ironing his shirt amidst the chaos - if there were ever chaos.
At least he's okay. And he's received my letter. So the address that I write must be correct.
Thank goodness.
--- IV ---
Hooray, my piano is back at my house!
After six months, I finally have it by my side again.
Not exactly by my side; it can't fit into my room, because it's too cramped already. Again, it's sitting in the living room. To compensate, there is a view of the swimming pool. To the right of the piano are the glass-panelled sliding doors leading to the balcony.
When we moved to our rental flat, we had to move the piano to my grandma's as the temporary place didn't have the room to fit the instrument in. So far I only played the piano on two occasions: during my one and only long weekend during my BMT and the second during my block leave.
We moved into the present, permanent apartment on 31 July. It took two to three weeks for us to settle down. By then, the Seventh Month had begun, so no moving. You know, superstitions. The Hungry Ghost Festival just ended recently, so the piano only arrives back today.
You might probably think that people who live in condominiums expect a quiet evening to themselves and don't like instrumentalists playing late into the night. I think I've been proved wrong. After I return home from camp, I play piano from about 10:30 to 11:15pm or so. I just play a variety of nonsensical stuff: pop songs, own compositions, Broadway numbers . . . anything to flex my fingers for a tinkle on the keyboard. Finally, I call it a day. My father, who happens to walk out of the kitchen, comes to help me close up the balcony door, which has been left slightly open to minimise the echo. He spots my downstairs neighbour (we live on the second floor) looking up at our balcony. The condominium is designed such that the ground floor residences have gardens that protrude further than the balconies of the units located above it. So my neighbour is leaning against his garden fence whilst looking up at us.
My father presumes he's been trying to get our attention so that he can tell us that I've been a nuisance. My father apologises: "I'm sorry if he's disturbed you."
Surprisingly: "Oh, not at all. In fact I like the music. I came out specially to listen to it."
At that moment, I just feel very embarrassed - or perhaps flattered - that I rush to my room to turn on my laptop to check my email. But in all senses that has been an encouragement and I won't hesitate to practice without reserve in future.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Happy wedding anniversary, Mum and Dad. They got married in 1983. So, if we calculate . . . that's about 21 years.
Happy birthday to Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew. Your hierarchy will continue on as the Dragon takes on the leadership, and as Temasek Holdings and SingTel form the icing on the cake. Personnel of the civil service will continue to support the Dragon thanks to the five-day work week - which implies a longer weekend for us suffering army-goers.
Oops . . . is it i-LEE-gal to say such a thing . . . ?
¶ 9/16/2004 11:53:00 am 0 comments
Happy birthday to Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew. Your hierarchy will continue on as the Dragon takes on the leadership, and as Temasek Holdings and SingTel form the icing on the cake. Personnel of the civil service will continue to support the Dragon thanks to the five-day work week - which implies a longer weekend for us suffering army-goers.
Oops . . . is it i-LEE-gal to say such a thing . . . ?
Sunday, September 12, 2004
From an email:
STUPID QUESTIONS PEOPLE TEND TO ASK
When you meet acquaintances or friends working at the movies . . .
Stupid question: "Hey, what are you doing here?"
Answer: "Don't you know, I sell tickets in black over here . . ."
* * *
When a heavy lady wearing pointed high-heeled shoes steps on your feet . . .
Stupid question: "Sorry, did that hurt?"
Answer: "No, not at all, I'm on local anesthesia . . . why don't you try again?"
* * *
When one of the teary-eyed people ask you at a funeral . . .
Stupid question: "Why, why him, of all people . . .?"
Answer: "Why? Would it rather have been you?"
* * *
When a friend announces her wedding, and you ask:
Stupid question: "Is the guy you're marrying a good man?"
Answer: "No. He's a miserable, wife-beating, insensitive lout . . . it's just the money."
* * *
When you get woken up at midnight by a phone call . . .
Stupid question: "Sorry, were you sleeping?"
Answer: "No, I was doing research on whether the Zulu tribes in Africa marry or not. You thought I was sleeping . . . you dumb-witted moron."
[Author's note: actually this isn't such a stupid question, unless you call someone who is in the army like ME, unless you want our sergeants to turn us all out in the middle of the night. Otherwise, most civilians would be the night owls, especially on Friday and Saturday nights, when they would go and cheong at the pubs and discos.]
* * *
When you see a friend or colleague with evidently shorter hair . . .
Stupid question: "Hey, have you had a haircut?"
Answer: "No, its autumn and I'm shedding . . ."
* * *
When your dentist is sticking pointed objects into your mouth . . .
Stupid question: "Tell me if it hurts?"
Answer: "No, it won't. It will just bleed."
* * *
You are smoking a cigarette and a cute woman asks you a question.
Stupid question: [squeals in (bimbo-istic) delight] "Oh, so you smoke!"
Answer: "Gosh, it's a miracle! It was a piece of chalk and now it's in flames!"
¶ 9/12/2004 03:40:00 pm 0 comments
STUPID QUESTIONS PEOPLE TEND TO ASK
When you meet acquaintances or friends working at the movies . . .
Stupid question: "Hey, what are you doing here?"
Answer: "Don't you know, I sell tickets in black over here . . ."
* * *
When a heavy lady wearing pointed high-heeled shoes steps on your feet . . .
Stupid question: "Sorry, did that hurt?"
Answer: "No, not at all, I'm on local anesthesia . . . why don't you try again?"
* * *
When one of the teary-eyed people ask you at a funeral . . .
Stupid question: "Why, why him, of all people . . .?"
Answer: "Why? Would it rather have been you?"
* * *
When a friend announces her wedding, and you ask:
Stupid question: "Is the guy you're marrying a good man?"
Answer: "No. He's a miserable, wife-beating, insensitive lout . . . it's just the money."
* * *
When you get woken up at midnight by a phone call . . .
Stupid question: "Sorry, were you sleeping?"
Answer: "No, I was doing research on whether the Zulu tribes in Africa marry or not. You thought I was sleeping . . . you dumb-witted moron."
[Author's note: actually this isn't such a stupid question, unless you call someone who is in the army like ME, unless you want our sergeants to turn us all out in the middle of the night. Otherwise, most civilians would be the night owls, especially on Friday and Saturday nights, when they would go and cheong at the pubs and discos.]
* * *
When you see a friend or colleague with evidently shorter hair . . .
Stupid question: "Hey, have you had a haircut?"
Answer: "No, its autumn and I'm shedding . . ."
* * *
When your dentist is sticking pointed objects into your mouth . . .
Stupid question: "Tell me if it hurts?"
Answer: "No, it won't. It will just bleed."
* * *
You are smoking a cigarette and a cute woman asks you a question.
Stupid question: [squeals in (bimbo-istic) delight] "Oh, so you smoke!"
Answer: "Gosh, it's a miracle! It was a piece of chalk and now it's in flames!"
20 Questions to being a Better Person
By JENNY TURPISH SLAPPED ME
Your score as a human being is 47.3.
Good Lord. You have some severe deficits of people quality. Who do you hang out with? Who do you date? What is your deal? I hope at least your grooming is good.
There is hope for you, of course. Rededicate yourself to the greater good. Plant a tree. Volunteer at a soup kitchen. Anything, for the love of Pete.
Self-esteem is good, but without other-esteem it doesn't get you very far. ¶ 9/12/2004 03:40:00 pm 0 comments
By JENNY TURPISH SLAPPED ME
Your score as a human being is 47.3.
Good Lord. You have some severe deficits of people quality. Who do you hang out with? Who do you date? What is your deal? I hope at least your grooming is good.
There is hope for you, of course. Rededicate yourself to the greater good. Plant a tree. Volunteer at a soup kitchen. Anything, for the love of Pete.
Self-esteem is good, but without other-esteem it doesn't get you very far. ¶ 9/12/2004 03:40:00 pm 0 comments
From an email:
INSTRUCTIONS FOR LIFE
1. Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.
2. When you loose, don't loose the lesson.
3. Follow the three R's: (a) Respect for self; (b) Respect for others and (c) Responsibility for all your actions.
4. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
5. Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.
6. Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship.
7. When you realise you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.
8. Spend some time alone everyday.
9. Open your arms to change, but don't let go of your values.
10. Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.
11. Live a good, honourable life. When you get older and think back, you'll be able to enjoy it a second time.
12. A loving atmosphere in your home is the foundation for your life.
13. In disagreements with loved ones, deal only with the current situation. Don’t bring up the past.
14. Share your knowledge. It's a way to achieve immortality.
15. Be gentle with the earth.
16. Once a year, go someplace you've never seen before.
17. Remember that the best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other.
18. Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.
19. Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon.
¶ 9/12/2004 03:39:00 pm 0 comments
INSTRUCTIONS FOR LIFE
1. Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.
2. When you loose, don't loose the lesson.
3. Follow the three R's: (a) Respect for self; (b) Respect for others and (c) Responsibility for all your actions.
4. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
5. Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.
6. Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship.
7. When you realise you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.
8. Spend some time alone everyday.
9. Open your arms to change, but don't let go of your values.
10. Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.
11. Live a good, honourable life. When you get older and think back, you'll be able to enjoy it a second time.
12. A loving atmosphere in your home is the foundation for your life.
13. In disagreements with loved ones, deal only with the current situation. Don’t bring up the past.
14. Share your knowledge. It's a way to achieve immortality.
15. Be gentle with the earth.
16. Once a year, go someplace you've never seen before.
17. Remember that the best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other.
18. Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.
19. Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon.
The Sunday Times, 12 September 2004: News
DOS AND DON'TS
Some (silly - no, absurd and perfectly ridiculous) things employers want their maids to do . . .
1. You get your full salary only after your contract expires in two years.
2. You must give your hongbao money to Madam for safekeeping.
3. You must wash baby's toys during the day if they are dirty. At night, all toys which baby played with must be washed.
4. You can only go to bed after you kill a cockroach or a lizard.
5. You must repair the TV before you go to bed.
6. You must carry baby and cook at the same time.
7. You must hang Ah Ma and Madams underwear on separate bamboo poles.
8. You must not have any money on you.
9. When reprimanded, you must look down, smile and say, "Thank you".
10. You cannot use the toilet.
11. You must hide in the kitchen when Sir comes home.
12. You must not smile at or talk to neighbors and their maids.
13. You cannot sit on the chair or sofa. You must sit on the floor when taking instructions.
14. You must wear jeans and long-sleeved blouses at all times.
15. You must not look out of the balcony window.
16. You must ask for permission before opening any cabinet.
17. Do not try to do "weirdo things" inside the house.
18. You can shower only once a day, but must not be smelly.
19. You must clean the floor with a cloth, not a mop.
20. Do not eat any food not allocated to you.
¶ 9/12/2004 03:38:00 pm 0 comments
DOS AND DON'TS
Some (silly - no, absurd and perfectly ridiculous) things employers want their maids to do . . .
1. You get your full salary only after your contract expires in two years.
2. You must give your hongbao money to Madam for safekeeping.
3. You must wash baby's toys during the day if they are dirty. At night, all toys which baby played with must be washed.
4. You can only go to bed after you kill a cockroach or a lizard.
5. You must repair the TV before you go to bed.
6. You must carry baby and cook at the same time.
7. You must hang Ah Ma and Madams underwear on separate bamboo poles.
8. You must not have any money on you.
9. When reprimanded, you must look down, smile and say, "Thank you".
10. You cannot use the toilet.
11. You must hide in the kitchen when Sir comes home.
12. You must not smile at or talk to neighbors and their maids.
13. You cannot sit on the chair or sofa. You must sit on the floor when taking instructions.
14. You must wear jeans and long-sleeved blouses at all times.
15. You must not look out of the balcony window.
16. You must ask for permission before opening any cabinet.
17. Do not try to do "weirdo things" inside the house.
18. You can shower only once a day, but must not be smelly.
19. You must clean the floor with a cloth, not a mop.
20. Do not eat any food not allocated to you.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
The first Young Composers' Forum has got to be one of the best musical sessions I've ever encountered.
To the very deepest it is truly a forum: six young people and three adults.
The auditorium at La Salle College of the Arts is truly a musician's playground. Upon entering it, you see instruments strewn about the floor and on the stage. There are two grand pianos: one is a Yamaha C5 whose keys have yellowed from age; the other is none other than . . . STEINWAY AND SONS (although I didn't have a look at the model). Close to the Steinway are percussion instruments of all shapes and types, including this very interesting instrument called the crotales. Think of smaller McMuffins placed side by side in a keyboard layout, supported on a stand. The sound it produces is a close between the tubular bells and the glockenspiel. Not too deep, not too sharp. Beautiful.
* * *
For the first time I am witnessing the possibilities that can be created out of percussion instruments.
I realise percussion is actually one of the greatest and most versatile musical combinations that ever exist. Just like the piano: you can do every single damnable and praiseworthy thing on it. You could play it normally by depressing the keys with your fingers; you could do glissandos; you could pluck the strings (of a grand piano); you stuff paper underneath the dampers and the resulting sound becomes something like that of a harpsichord or a synthesiser. There's no end to what timbres one may produce.
We often tend to stereotype instruments. The percussion section has often been misunderstood to play an insignificant part in the symphony orchestra. It is a pity that few people have really explored the possibilities of percussion, that they can virtually bring out any kind of sound that other instruments might be limited to. Life is percussion. The banging of doors; the sound of people as they click their heels or shuffle their feet as they move along the marble floors of the underpass (I'm thinking back to the underpass at Bedok MRT station); the steady hum of the generator (thanks to Jun Kai, who told me to consider the sound of this mechanical monster when I told him I was thinking of a piece using motifs that are derived from everyday sounds, such as the chimes on the MRT train, the Reminder alert on a mobile phone, etc).
Too often percussion instruments are categorised into some sort of fixated sections, namely (1) the pitched percussion, for instance, the marimba, vibraphone, xylophone and glockenspiel; (2) un-pitched, where you have your drums and gongs. Lastly you have the whole assortment of things like whistles and the like. There's no saying that this must go with that, for instance Mr Tan quotes the example of a flute playing lower than an oboe. The oboe just eats up the flute. Or, a clarinet doubling a horn. Likewise, the clarinet gets eaten up. While composing "Xin Chao" myself I was biting my fingernails over this issue. I had been afraid to set the xylophone and marimba on the same stage, because both have wooden keys and their timbres could therefore clash with one another. So I placed a vibraphone in. Mistake. The vibraphone is pretty weak, despite the use of hard mallets and the use of two vibraphones during the Humanities Week concert last year, when "Xin Chao" first took to the stage in a live performance. In the rewrite, I exchanged the vibraphone for the xylophone. It turns out that my fear was unfounded. The xylophone is sharper; the notes produced are more detached. It distinguishes itself from the marimba, whose tone is more rounded thanks to its resonators.
Mr Tan hands us assignments. We are all to create short compositions on the instruments we are given. Jun Kai has to work out something on the conga, BUT he cannot change the timbre of the instrument. That means he can only use the drum skin, and not any other part of the instrument. He employs techniques such as beating with the fingers like a tabla player, stroking the surface of the drum skin, or even creating a hollowed sound by cupping his hand before striking the drum.
Ruth is to treat the double bass like a percussive object. She and Mr Tan play a percussive duet on the instrument, hitting almost every part of it. The resulting effect is something similar to that of Japanese gagaku, with prancing drum-like rhythms and the occasionally plucking of the samisen. Sorry Emz . . .
Two people whom I can't really remember their names: one of them is to work with three similar pitched percussion instruments. He chooses the marimba, glockenspiel and the crotales. The crotales make a pale, thin wispy cry when a double bass bow is drawn is drawn across its side. Think along the lines of harmonics performed on a violin. The other guy is supposed to work with a tam-tam, while reciting words at the same time. He has no poem in mind, so he picks the text on a sign near the door that says "No smoking / No eating / No drinking". The idea is that his recitation of the words and his strokes of the tam-tam should syncopate one another. The first version he creates is pretty sad and depressing; he reads in a monotone, and the deep boom of the gong further promotes this feeling. Mr Tan then asks him to create a happier one. The creation is damn cool: he plays the tam-tam like a rock drummer and speaks like a rapper.
For Zhangyi and me, we are tasked to the marimba and piano respectively. Our assignment follows this order: (1) the marimba is to play something that has no connection to what the piano is playing; (2) the marimba is to play the role of a counter-melody to the piano; (3) the marimba is to harmonise whatever the piano is playing; (4) the marimba will play the melody while the piano accompanies. Somehow I have no idea why I picked "Mary Had a Little Lamb". I think I got inspired by the playing of the nursery song in the minor key last year, while shipping the marimba from the recital room back to the band room. Anyway picking a theme or melody that both of us know will make our task easier. We spend most of our time rehearsing our sequences instead. We actually improvise on the spot. It's pretty fun, I wish I can do it again!
* * *
Dr Sharpley has a penchant for collecting exotic instruments. Part of his inventory is this huge gong that is about a metre long in diameter, and is as thick as the tyre on your car. This gong is a representation of the evils of urbanisation. It belonged to a tribal group in Borneo (think Anaconda: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid) and by ritual, was only struck once every twenty years. Due to deforestation, the inhabitants of this tribe were forced to move into housing development buildings in the urban areas. Thank goodness the gong wasn't sold off as scrap metal.
Sound bathing is like this: you sit behind the huge gong, facing the back of the gong (i.e. the concave part). You close your eyes and relax, not thinking about anything. Don't even concentrate on what is about to happen, or even be intellect about the sound you are about to experience. Just close your eyes and relax. Someone will beat the gong from the front, at a volume of about mezzo piano - for God's sake, don't whack it at fortissimo, or the person at the back will awake to see stars! Anyway, when the gong is struck, it will vibrate. You will feel the vibration, and this constant, gentle motion penetrates your body and soothes you. It is very therapeutic; a musical spa.
There is a tam-tam in the auditorium. Not as big and greater an effect as Dr Sharpley's one; nevertheless can be managed with. One by one we sit on the podium behind the gong. One after another, we draw closer and closer to the gong. At first we are not sure what to expect, so we keep a safety distance from the metal surface. Everyone rises from their "bath" with a smile. "Breathtaking" "Overwhelming" "Great"
When Dr Sharpley strikes the gong, I feel an instant warmth travel around my body. I don't know whether it is my imagination, or is Dr Sharpley's breath (as he says when I describe the sensation that I felt to him)? But the constant, steady and gentle pulse of "wom-wom-wom-wom" is just so nice. Like someone gave you a massage. But this massage is extremely delicate that you don't feel any intrusion at all.
Damn, if I were still in the Chinese Orchestra, I'd gone for sound baths at the practice room during my spare time between lectures . . .
Last notes. . .
We step out of the auditorium. As we exchange parting words, a car trying to manoeuvre out of the car park reverses way too much and bumps into a stationary truck with a crash. Everyone's attention turns to the little incident - or rather, miniature accident.
Composers are certainly a weird bunch of people. Dr Sharpley, pointing to the crash site: "See? That's percussion!"
Because it made a sound!
* * *
Credit must be given to Jun Kai for organising this event. It is the first time I have ever been to such a musical session before, and I must say for the first time, a musical discussion has ever been this fun. It's not exactly a lesson - it's more of an interactive roundtable where the composers share their experiences in writing music and their opinions, while we listen, intrigued, and sometimes add our ideas and comments. Plus, as composers, we do bizarre things inside the auditorium, away from the prying eyes - and ears - of other musicians about the La Salle complex. They'd probably scream when they see what we've been doing to their instruments throughout the three hours.
Sincerely this is the way composition ought to be thought. Informal sessions, hands-on, discussions on an equal level. The teacher-student scene is discarded. Instead, the learners sit around the storyteller as he unfolds his tales and passes his knowledge and lessons to us. It could have been the case, if not for the requirements for the examinations, one of which is to answer for your actions. You have to do a write-up on WHY you wanted to do this; WHAT inspired you; HOW you perfect your piece and so on. It's pretty shitty and restraining, and perhaps this has been stifling my own musical language. I don't think I have been daring enough in the composition of my post-exam works - the need to ask myself "Why am I doing this" returns constantly, even though I'm not answerable to anybody for that. Our job ought to (1) communicate to the audience, make a statement; (2) shock our audience or intrigue them. That's what drives us to create music.
¶ 9/11/2004 03:31:00 pm 0 comments
To the very deepest it is truly a forum: six young people and three adults.
The auditorium at La Salle College of the Arts is truly a musician's playground. Upon entering it, you see instruments strewn about the floor and on the stage. There are two grand pianos: one is a Yamaha C5 whose keys have yellowed from age; the other is none other than . . . STEINWAY AND SONS (although I didn't have a look at the model). Close to the Steinway are percussion instruments of all shapes and types, including this very interesting instrument called the crotales. Think of smaller McMuffins placed side by side in a keyboard layout, supported on a stand. The sound it produces is a close between the tubular bells and the glockenspiel. Not too deep, not too sharp. Beautiful.
* * *
For the first time I am witnessing the possibilities that can be created out of percussion instruments.
I realise percussion is actually one of the greatest and most versatile musical combinations that ever exist. Just like the piano: you can do every single damnable and praiseworthy thing on it. You could play it normally by depressing the keys with your fingers; you could do glissandos; you could pluck the strings (of a grand piano); you stuff paper underneath the dampers and the resulting sound becomes something like that of a harpsichord or a synthesiser. There's no end to what timbres one may produce.
We often tend to stereotype instruments. The percussion section has often been misunderstood to play an insignificant part in the symphony orchestra. It is a pity that few people have really explored the possibilities of percussion, that they can virtually bring out any kind of sound that other instruments might be limited to. Life is percussion. The banging of doors; the sound of people as they click their heels or shuffle their feet as they move along the marble floors of the underpass (I'm thinking back to the underpass at Bedok MRT station); the steady hum of the generator (thanks to Jun Kai, who told me to consider the sound of this mechanical monster when I told him I was thinking of a piece using motifs that are derived from everyday sounds, such as the chimes on the MRT train, the Reminder alert on a mobile phone, etc).
Too often percussion instruments are categorised into some sort of fixated sections, namely (1) the pitched percussion, for instance, the marimba, vibraphone, xylophone and glockenspiel; (2) un-pitched, where you have your drums and gongs. Lastly you have the whole assortment of things like whistles and the like. There's no saying that this must go with that, for instance Mr Tan quotes the example of a flute playing lower than an oboe. The oboe just eats up the flute. Or, a clarinet doubling a horn. Likewise, the clarinet gets eaten up. While composing "Xin Chao" myself I was biting my fingernails over this issue. I had been afraid to set the xylophone and marimba on the same stage, because both have wooden keys and their timbres could therefore clash with one another. So I placed a vibraphone in. Mistake. The vibraphone is pretty weak, despite the use of hard mallets and the use of two vibraphones during the Humanities Week concert last year, when "Xin Chao" first took to the stage in a live performance. In the rewrite, I exchanged the vibraphone for the xylophone. It turns out that my fear was unfounded. The xylophone is sharper; the notes produced are more detached. It distinguishes itself from the marimba, whose tone is more rounded thanks to its resonators.
Mr Tan hands us assignments. We are all to create short compositions on the instruments we are given. Jun Kai has to work out something on the conga, BUT he cannot change the timbre of the instrument. That means he can only use the drum skin, and not any other part of the instrument. He employs techniques such as beating with the fingers like a tabla player, stroking the surface of the drum skin, or even creating a hollowed sound by cupping his hand before striking the drum.
Ruth is to treat the double bass like a percussive object. She and Mr Tan play a percussive duet on the instrument, hitting almost every part of it. The resulting effect is something similar to that of Japanese gagaku, with prancing drum-like rhythms and the occasionally plucking of the samisen. Sorry Emz . . .
Two people whom I can't really remember their names: one of them is to work with three similar pitched percussion instruments. He chooses the marimba, glockenspiel and the crotales. The crotales make a pale, thin wispy cry when a double bass bow is drawn is drawn across its side. Think along the lines of harmonics performed on a violin. The other guy is supposed to work with a tam-tam, while reciting words at the same time. He has no poem in mind, so he picks the text on a sign near the door that says "No smoking / No eating / No drinking". The idea is that his recitation of the words and his strokes of the tam-tam should syncopate one another. The first version he creates is pretty sad and depressing; he reads in a monotone, and the deep boom of the gong further promotes this feeling. Mr Tan then asks him to create a happier one. The creation is damn cool: he plays the tam-tam like a rock drummer and speaks like a rapper.
For Zhangyi and me, we are tasked to the marimba and piano respectively. Our assignment follows this order: (1) the marimba is to play something that has no connection to what the piano is playing; (2) the marimba is to play the role of a counter-melody to the piano; (3) the marimba is to harmonise whatever the piano is playing; (4) the marimba will play the melody while the piano accompanies. Somehow I have no idea why I picked "Mary Had a Little Lamb". I think I got inspired by the playing of the nursery song in the minor key last year, while shipping the marimba from the recital room back to the band room. Anyway picking a theme or melody that both of us know will make our task easier. We spend most of our time rehearsing our sequences instead. We actually improvise on the spot. It's pretty fun, I wish I can do it again!
* * *
Dr Sharpley has a penchant for collecting exotic instruments. Part of his inventory is this huge gong that is about a metre long in diameter, and is as thick as the tyre on your car. This gong is a representation of the evils of urbanisation. It belonged to a tribal group in Borneo (think Anaconda: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid) and by ritual, was only struck once every twenty years. Due to deforestation, the inhabitants of this tribe were forced to move into housing development buildings in the urban areas. Thank goodness the gong wasn't sold off as scrap metal.
Sound bathing is like this: you sit behind the huge gong, facing the back of the gong (i.e. the concave part). You close your eyes and relax, not thinking about anything. Don't even concentrate on what is about to happen, or even be intellect about the sound you are about to experience. Just close your eyes and relax. Someone will beat the gong from the front, at a volume of about mezzo piano - for God's sake, don't whack it at fortissimo, or the person at the back will awake to see stars! Anyway, when the gong is struck, it will vibrate. You will feel the vibration, and this constant, gentle motion penetrates your body and soothes you. It is very therapeutic; a musical spa.
There is a tam-tam in the auditorium. Not as big and greater an effect as Dr Sharpley's one; nevertheless can be managed with. One by one we sit on the podium behind the gong. One after another, we draw closer and closer to the gong. At first we are not sure what to expect, so we keep a safety distance from the metal surface. Everyone rises from their "bath" with a smile. "Breathtaking" "Overwhelming" "Great"
When Dr Sharpley strikes the gong, I feel an instant warmth travel around my body. I don't know whether it is my imagination, or is Dr Sharpley's breath (as he says when I describe the sensation that I felt to him)? But the constant, steady and gentle pulse of "wom-wom-wom-wom" is just so nice. Like someone gave you a massage. But this massage is extremely delicate that you don't feel any intrusion at all.
Damn, if I were still in the Chinese Orchestra, I'd gone for sound baths at the practice room during my spare time between lectures . . .
Last notes. . .
We step out of the auditorium. As we exchange parting words, a car trying to manoeuvre out of the car park reverses way too much and bumps into a stationary truck with a crash. Everyone's attention turns to the little incident - or rather, miniature accident.
Composers are certainly a weird bunch of people. Dr Sharpley, pointing to the crash site: "See? That's percussion!"
Because it made a sound!
* * *
Credit must be given to Jun Kai for organising this event. It is the first time I have ever been to such a musical session before, and I must say for the first time, a musical discussion has ever been this fun. It's not exactly a lesson - it's more of an interactive roundtable where the composers share their experiences in writing music and their opinions, while we listen, intrigued, and sometimes add our ideas and comments. Plus, as composers, we do bizarre things inside the auditorium, away from the prying eyes - and ears - of other musicians about the La Salle complex. They'd probably scream when they see what we've been doing to their instruments throughout the three hours.
Sincerely this is the way composition ought to be thought. Informal sessions, hands-on, discussions on an equal level. The teacher-student scene is discarded. Instead, the learners sit around the storyteller as he unfolds his tales and passes his knowledge and lessons to us. It could have been the case, if not for the requirements for the examinations, one of which is to answer for your actions. You have to do a write-up on WHY you wanted to do this; WHAT inspired you; HOW you perfect your piece and so on. It's pretty shitty and restraining, and perhaps this has been stifling my own musical language. I don't think I have been daring enough in the composition of my post-exam works - the need to ask myself "Why am I doing this" returns constantly, even though I'm not answerable to anybody for that. Our job ought to (1) communicate to the audience, make a statement; (2) shock our audience or intrigue them. That's what drives us to create music.
Friday, September 10, 2004
Soon Lee stupidly opened his mouth and asked the CO: "So, do we have birthday off?"
That's it. We're finished. There is NO such thing as birthday off. There is no clause stipulating that people should be allowed to take a break on their birthdays. Off is only given based on good performance, when the person is deemed worthy for the reward.
And so the CSM screws us after the CO leaves. "Haven't I briefed you this afternoon? Do you know how much time and effort I have to put into coming up with the standing order? And now you have to open your mouth and ask about birthday off?" In the presentation of the company order earlier in the day, the CSM had mentioned the conditions that an off would be given. He had declared that there was NO SUCH THING AS A BIRTHDAY OFF.
In fact the birthday off issue had come under fire last month, after someone called the Battalion headquarters to ask about it. Apparently the CO got wind of the news, and he demanded an explanation from the OC. Already one person had received a birthday off in our platoon; three more were to receive theirs. The off was never told to the OC, rather it was on our PS' initiative that we are given off for our birthdays. When the snakes were let loose, the other three lost their off, just on the very same day they were supposed to book-out to enjoy their given leave. Since then, the OC has been placing a message that goes like this in the routine orders:
"THE OC WOULD LIKE TO WISH SO-AND-SO A HAPPY BIRTHDAY"
- in compensation for the lack of birthday off.
Anyway, Soon Lee's big mouth was sufficient to blow the CSM's fuse. He orders a standby area and standby bed, to be personally conducted by him. Unless he is satisfied, we will not book-out. He doesn't give a shit about the lack of dinner.
Frightened and anxious to leave the camp as early as possible, everybody dashes to do their work.
But the son of a pig changes into civilian, to the extent of wearing slippers, just before our inspection time. So he's not going to inspect after all. Our platoon sergeants would do the job. Eventually it is our PC who inspects us.
Are they going to play this sort of game every Friday? Making us stay late without dinner provided? To clean up the place to the STANDARD that they WANT before they let us leave? This is a serious breach of safety. By the rules, we should be let off by seven latest. This evening, it is nearly nine when we finally manage to eat at Lot 1 Shoppers' Mall at Choa Chu Kang central. Consider the distance we have to walk from our company line to the main road, and then tolerate a lengthy bus journey from the rural to the urban area.
¶ 9/10/2004 03:20:00 pm 0 comments
That's it. We're finished. There is NO such thing as birthday off. There is no clause stipulating that people should be allowed to take a break on their birthdays. Off is only given based on good performance, when the person is deemed worthy for the reward.
And so the CSM screws us after the CO leaves. "Haven't I briefed you this afternoon? Do you know how much time and effort I have to put into coming up with the standing order? And now you have to open your mouth and ask about birthday off?" In the presentation of the company order earlier in the day, the CSM had mentioned the conditions that an off would be given. He had declared that there was NO SUCH THING AS A BIRTHDAY OFF.
In fact the birthday off issue had come under fire last month, after someone called the Battalion headquarters to ask about it. Apparently the CO got wind of the news, and he demanded an explanation from the OC. Already one person had received a birthday off in our platoon; three more were to receive theirs. The off was never told to the OC, rather it was on our PS' initiative that we are given off for our birthdays. When the snakes were let loose, the other three lost their off, just on the very same day they were supposed to book-out to enjoy their given leave. Since then, the OC has been placing a message that goes like this in the routine orders:
"THE OC WOULD LIKE TO WISH SO-AND-SO A HAPPY BIRTHDAY"
- in compensation for the lack of birthday off.
Anyway, Soon Lee's big mouth was sufficient to blow the CSM's fuse. He orders a standby area and standby bed, to be personally conducted by him. Unless he is satisfied, we will not book-out. He doesn't give a shit about the lack of dinner.
Frightened and anxious to leave the camp as early as possible, everybody dashes to do their work.
But the son of a pig changes into civilian, to the extent of wearing slippers, just before our inspection time. So he's not going to inspect after all. Our platoon sergeants would do the job. Eventually it is our PC who inspects us.
Are they going to play this sort of game every Friday? Making us stay late without dinner provided? To clean up the place to the STANDARD that they WANT before they let us leave? This is a serious breach of safety. By the rules, we should be let off by seven latest. This evening, it is nearly nine when we finally manage to eat at Lot 1 Shoppers' Mall at Choa Chu Kang central. Consider the distance we have to walk from our company line to the main road, and then tolerate a lengthy bus journey from the rural to the urban area.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
It is an irony that, if you want to report sick, you have to make yourself even more sick if you don't pass the so-called "qualifications" for seeing the Medical Officer (MO).
I have just become a victim.
This morning would have been the second day of our minefield camp. Today my platoon is due to dig a minefield. I have recovered from yesterday's "ordeal", but only at a stage where I am fluctuating between total recovery or a plunge into another fever. Sergeant Wenhao advises me to report sick; at the rate I am currently going I can never dig close to a hundred holes, which each person will do. I'd probably concuss by the second hole under the hot sun.
The others set off at half-past seven. I chance upon William "Ah Kua (i.e. a man whose actions are like those of a woman)" Low and John Chua at their bunk. They have been excused from the camp: William having a foot injury and John Chua a deformed toenail, which has been ongoing for nearly two months now. They ask me what I'm reporting for. I tell them, flu. My fever seems to have subsided, but I am afraid that it will return anytime.
Suddenly, their expression seems to change. They begin to chastise me: you'll die there. You've got no fever, and especially when the MO finds out you have minefield camp today, he will send you back here as medically fit for duties. Then your platoon will condemn you as trying to chao keng (skive). Or worse, he might charge you for malingering.
What the fuck? In the civilian world you can visit the doctor anytime you please, tell him your problem and he'll give you medicine and an MC, no matter how serious your case is. That is, where we have the purchasing power for a visit. Here, much as the MOs like to sympathise with their patients and give them more rest, they are restricted by a standing order issued by the army towards how they should treat their sick soldiers.
But not all of them swear by helping their patients recover speedily. Samuel (previously from BMTC Jaguar Platoon 3) told me about this MO at Tengah Air Base was irked by the fact that his break was cut in order to attend to him; he was suffering from fever, with a temperature of about 39 or so at that time. The MO inexplicably gave him Attend A, deeming him fit for all duties. Which is total madness. He ought to have been sent home straight away. But no. Eventually, due to his medical status, Samuel was forced to attend the course exercise (described in the posts on 7 and 8 August), which he suffered through. At the end, he reported sick again. This time, the MO at our camp's medical centre sent him home immediately due to the seriousness of his illness. His Platoon Commander, a captain, wanted to charge the guy at Tengah Air Base for negligence.
I am supposed to carry my temperature further up. Their advice: go and fill your bottle with hot water, then drink it down.
I go to the water cooler outside, fill three-quarters of my water canteen with hot, boiling water, while the remaining quarter is topped with cold water. I cannot take raw, boiling water straight.
I return to the bunk and start drinking. "No, you must wait until you get to the Medical Centre first, otherwise it's ineffective! When you get there, you go straight to the toilet, go into one of the cubicles and drink it. Never mind about burning your tongue; maybe you can get Attend C."
Attend C? Never my intent. I'd be satisfied to get Attend B. I wouldn't have to take part in strenuous activities, which could further aggravate my illness. I just want a chance to rest, and I want medicine to cure me.
By all means, the hot water will be necessary if I want my medicine and rest.
At the time for reporting sick, I begin my trudge to the Medical Centre. I deliberately refuse to pee so that when I arrive there, I can go straight to the toilet with an expression that tells people: can't you see my bladder is full, and everything inside is going to leak out?
As soon as I enter the toilet, I make a beeline for one of the cubicles. I REALLY need to pee. After that, I take the bottle out, and prepare to take a sip. FUCK. So bloody hot; my lips denied the water entry into the mouth. I go to the sink to pour away some hot water and replace with cold water.
Back into the cubicle. I gulp down about half of the contents in the canteen. Praying that the duty medics would let me see the MO, I go outside and await my turn.
The medic calls me. I tell him everything: how I had a flu for the past two days, with mild sore throat and a little running nose; how a fever developed as I participated in the activities on the first day of the minefield camp; how the fever had somewhat subsided yester night, but seemed to return internally this morning.
The medic takes my temperature. Amazingly the numbers shoot up quite quickly. It hits the 36 mark. Come on, I urge inside. Exceed 37. Don't stop at 36.5.
Relief as the dial shows 37, then 37.1. Still climbing.
Now I'm beginning to get rather alarmed. The figures don’t show signs of slowing down. I'm afraid it might shoot past 38 or something and then they'll give me a jab and probably find out that I concocted this bout of fever. I start blowing air at the bulb of the thermometer under my tongue in an attempt to slow down the counting. I just need a figure that will provide me the bare minimum qualification to see the MO.
My final temperature: 37.4.
* * *
The MO tells me that it is the cause of a viral infection. He gives me lozenges for my sore throat; Panadol (!) for the fever; some gargle for what I don't know. I'm also provided with two days Attend B.
During lunch I run into John and William. John tells me I am stupid to blow at the thermometer. I should have just let it run its course (pun unintended). Then I can get Attend C and go home and spend a long weekend. But Attend C or not, I'm thankful that I can see the MO and gain back some rest in return.
¶ 9/09/2004 03:36:00 pm 0 comments
I have just become a victim.
This morning would have been the second day of our minefield camp. Today my platoon is due to dig a minefield. I have recovered from yesterday's "ordeal", but only at a stage where I am fluctuating between total recovery or a plunge into another fever. Sergeant Wenhao advises me to report sick; at the rate I am currently going I can never dig close to a hundred holes, which each person will do. I'd probably concuss by the second hole under the hot sun.
The others set off at half-past seven. I chance upon William "Ah Kua (i.e. a man whose actions are like those of a woman)" Low and John Chua at their bunk. They have been excused from the camp: William having a foot injury and John Chua a deformed toenail, which has been ongoing for nearly two months now. They ask me what I'm reporting for. I tell them, flu. My fever seems to have subsided, but I am afraid that it will return anytime.
Suddenly, their expression seems to change. They begin to chastise me: you'll die there. You've got no fever, and especially when the MO finds out you have minefield camp today, he will send you back here as medically fit for duties. Then your platoon will condemn you as trying to chao keng (skive). Or worse, he might charge you for malingering.
What the fuck? In the civilian world you can visit the doctor anytime you please, tell him your problem and he'll give you medicine and an MC, no matter how serious your case is. That is, where we have the purchasing power for a visit. Here, much as the MOs like to sympathise with their patients and give them more rest, they are restricted by a standing order issued by the army towards how they should treat their sick soldiers.
But not all of them swear by helping their patients recover speedily. Samuel (previously from BMTC Jaguar Platoon 3) told me about this MO at Tengah Air Base was irked by the fact that his break was cut in order to attend to him; he was suffering from fever, with a temperature of about 39 or so at that time. The MO inexplicably gave him Attend A, deeming him fit for all duties. Which is total madness. He ought to have been sent home straight away. But no. Eventually, due to his medical status, Samuel was forced to attend the course exercise (described in the posts on 7 and 8 August), which he suffered through. At the end, he reported sick again. This time, the MO at our camp's medical centre sent him home immediately due to the seriousness of his illness. His Platoon Commander, a captain, wanted to charge the guy at Tengah Air Base for negligence.
I am supposed to carry my temperature further up. Their advice: go and fill your bottle with hot water, then drink it down.
I go to the water cooler outside, fill three-quarters of my water canteen with hot, boiling water, while the remaining quarter is topped with cold water. I cannot take raw, boiling water straight.
I return to the bunk and start drinking. "No, you must wait until you get to the Medical Centre first, otherwise it's ineffective! When you get there, you go straight to the toilet, go into one of the cubicles and drink it. Never mind about burning your tongue; maybe you can get Attend C."
Attend C? Never my intent. I'd be satisfied to get Attend B. I wouldn't have to take part in strenuous activities, which could further aggravate my illness. I just want a chance to rest, and I want medicine to cure me.
By all means, the hot water will be necessary if I want my medicine and rest.
At the time for reporting sick, I begin my trudge to the Medical Centre. I deliberately refuse to pee so that when I arrive there, I can go straight to the toilet with an expression that tells people: can't you see my bladder is full, and everything inside is going to leak out?
As soon as I enter the toilet, I make a beeline for one of the cubicles. I REALLY need to pee. After that, I take the bottle out, and prepare to take a sip. FUCK. So bloody hot; my lips denied the water entry into the mouth. I go to the sink to pour away some hot water and replace with cold water.
Back into the cubicle. I gulp down about half of the contents in the canteen. Praying that the duty medics would let me see the MO, I go outside and await my turn.
The medic calls me. I tell him everything: how I had a flu for the past two days, with mild sore throat and a little running nose; how a fever developed as I participated in the activities on the first day of the minefield camp; how the fever had somewhat subsided yester night, but seemed to return internally this morning.
The medic takes my temperature. Amazingly the numbers shoot up quite quickly. It hits the 36 mark. Come on, I urge inside. Exceed 37. Don't stop at 36.5.
Relief as the dial shows 37, then 37.1. Still climbing.
Now I'm beginning to get rather alarmed. The figures don’t show signs of slowing down. I'm afraid it might shoot past 38 or something and then they'll give me a jab and probably find out that I concocted this bout of fever. I start blowing air at the bulb of the thermometer under my tongue in an attempt to slow down the counting. I just need a figure that will provide me the bare minimum qualification to see the MO.
My final temperature: 37.4.
* * *
The MO tells me that it is the cause of a viral infection. He gives me lozenges for my sore throat; Panadol (!) for the fever; some gargle for what I don't know. I'm also provided with two days Attend B.
During lunch I run into John and William. John tells me I am stupid to blow at the thermometer. I should have just let it run its course (pun unintended). Then I can get Attend C and go home and spend a long weekend. But Attend C or not, I'm thankful that I can see the MO and gain back some rest in return.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Recently it seems that whenever I go outfield I have the tendency to meet up with some sickness.
The last time during our first exercise (see the entries on 7 and 8 August) I develop a headache on the last day of the event. Thank goodness the final part of the mission was cut and I enjoyed rather adequate sleep in the tank for the two hours or so that we remained in there.
This time the case differs slightly. I go outfield with a mild sore throat and running nose. Symptoms of flu. I feel quite dead, lack of energy. Anytime I just want to drop onto the floor and go to sleep.
As the day wears on, I feel worse, particularly while wearing the helmet under the crazily hot sun. We are working in the open plain, with no trees about. It is a chore to move about. Once I finish an activity, I immediately sit down under the shade and close my eyes. That feels much better.
The last straw arrives while working on the mine cluster. Even making chops on the ground to mark out the digging spots becomes hell. My footsteps become staggers. I feel terribly weak.
With no choice I fall out. I sit at the store dump with the helmet still on, and try to sleep with my back bent forward and head crouched around the stomach area. There is no way I can take the helmet off with the OC and CSM walking around; the OC had just ordered me to wear back my chin strap, which I had removed given permission from Sergeant Wenhao.
Finally, Platoon Sergeant Teng tells me to see the medic. I'm thankful for that. I don't think I can take it further sitting down without any assistance on my condition.
Basu is sitting in the tent, reading a book. "I've got a fever," I announce as I enter the tent. "Oh my God" comes the response.
He makes me take off everything, then sit on the bench. He hands me a thermometer, which I place under my tongue. I close my eyes while waiting for the beep that signifies the conclusion of measurement. I just want to sleep . . .
The thermometer beeps. I take it out. 38 degrees Celsius. I let Basu take a look.
Apparently my case is one which gives the medics a dilemma: whether I should be sent back or not. It is only a temperature of 38.5 deg C that I may be delivered to the medical centre. Otherwise I would be stuck here in the open.
Basu tells me to water parade. Half an hour later, he takes my temperature again. 37.5. The water has brought the figure down.
After the second personal water parade, Basu tells me to go back to my tent to rest. He will come and find me at intervals to take my temperature and to water parade me.
Back at the tent, the others ask me to eat despite my loss of appetite. I finish my food, then lie down on the ground to rest. I heard that since everybody finishes their job early, we are permitted to go back to bunk to spend the night. In the meantime, I try to sleep.
The vicious mosquitoes make their attack once again. In the glare of the picnic lantern, I spot about two or three of those pesky little black things land on the surface of the light, only to fly away soon after. Those things are damn fast. I am only able to kill two that night. Very quickly, my entire body is covered with itches. Everywhere. The arms, the hands, the necks, the fingers, even the thighs and buttocks. I don't know which of them are mosquito bites and which are heat rashes and which are whatever insect attacks. The fabric of my uniform isn’t much of a hindrance for the predators of my skin.
Suddenly, the guys report that two dummy mines are missing. I am glad to get up and walk around in assistance. I don't want to be lying down there anymore to be a sitting target for the insects to feed on me.
I am only too glad when we finally get out of there. I shall go and report sick tomorrow.
¶ 9/08/2004 03:37:00 pm 0 comments
The last time during our first exercise (see the entries on 7 and 8 August) I develop a headache on the last day of the event. Thank goodness the final part of the mission was cut and I enjoyed rather adequate sleep in the tank for the two hours or so that we remained in there.
This time the case differs slightly. I go outfield with a mild sore throat and running nose. Symptoms of flu. I feel quite dead, lack of energy. Anytime I just want to drop onto the floor and go to sleep.
As the day wears on, I feel worse, particularly while wearing the helmet under the crazily hot sun. We are working in the open plain, with no trees about. It is a chore to move about. Once I finish an activity, I immediately sit down under the shade and close my eyes. That feels much better.
The last straw arrives while working on the mine cluster. Even making chops on the ground to mark out the digging spots becomes hell. My footsteps become staggers. I feel terribly weak.
With no choice I fall out. I sit at the store dump with the helmet still on, and try to sleep with my back bent forward and head crouched around the stomach area. There is no way I can take the helmet off with the OC and CSM walking around; the OC had just ordered me to wear back my chin strap, which I had removed given permission from Sergeant Wenhao.
Finally, Platoon Sergeant Teng tells me to see the medic. I'm thankful for that. I don't think I can take it further sitting down without any assistance on my condition.
Basu is sitting in the tent, reading a book. "I've got a fever," I announce as I enter the tent. "Oh my God" comes the response.
He makes me take off everything, then sit on the bench. He hands me a thermometer, which I place under my tongue. I close my eyes while waiting for the beep that signifies the conclusion of measurement. I just want to sleep . . .
The thermometer beeps. I take it out. 38 degrees Celsius. I let Basu take a look.
Apparently my case is one which gives the medics a dilemma: whether I should be sent back or not. It is only a temperature of 38.5 deg C that I may be delivered to the medical centre. Otherwise I would be stuck here in the open.
Basu tells me to water parade. Half an hour later, he takes my temperature again. 37.5. The water has brought the figure down.
After the second personal water parade, Basu tells me to go back to my tent to rest. He will come and find me at intervals to take my temperature and to water parade me.
Back at the tent, the others ask me to eat despite my loss of appetite. I finish my food, then lie down on the ground to rest. I heard that since everybody finishes their job early, we are permitted to go back to bunk to spend the night. In the meantime, I try to sleep.
The vicious mosquitoes make their attack once again. In the glare of the picnic lantern, I spot about two or three of those pesky little black things land on the surface of the light, only to fly away soon after. Those things are damn fast. I am only able to kill two that night. Very quickly, my entire body is covered with itches. Everywhere. The arms, the hands, the necks, the fingers, even the thighs and buttocks. I don't know which of them are mosquito bites and which are heat rashes and which are whatever insect attacks. The fabric of my uniform isn’t much of a hindrance for the predators of my skin.
Suddenly, the guys report that two dummy mines are missing. I am glad to get up and walk around in assistance. I don't want to be lying down there anymore to be a sitting target for the insects to feed on me.
I am only too glad when we finally get out of there. I shall go and report sick tomorrow.
Sunday, September 05, 2004
Sent to me by Soon Bing via Friendster:
WHAT THOSE CAR NAMES ACTUALLY STAND FOR
BMW
Be My Wife
Beautiful Mechanical Wonder
Big Money Works
Bought My Wife
Break My Windows
Brutal Money Waster
Business, Money and Woman
BUICK
Big Ugly Indestructable Car Killer
CHEVROLET
Can Hear Every Valve Rap On Long Extended Trip
Cheap, Hardly Efficient, Virtually Runs On Luck Every Time
DODGE
Damn Old Dirty Gas Eater
Drips Oil, Drops Grease Everywhere
FIAT
Failure in Italian Automotive Technology
Fix It All the Time
Fix It Again, Tony!
FORD
Backwards --> Driver Returns On Foot
Fault Of R & D
Fast Only Rolling Downhill
Features O.J. and Ron's DNA
First On Recall Day
First On Rust and Deterioration
Fix Or Repair Daily
Found On Road, Dead
Found On Russian Dump
GM
General Maintenance
GMC
Garage Man's Companion
Got a Mechanic Coming?
HONDA
Had One Never Did Again
Happy Owners Never Drive Anything else.
HYUNDAI
Hope You Understand Nothing's Driveable
And Inexpensive . . .
MAZDA
Most Always Zipping Dangerously Along
OLDSMOBILE
Old Ladies Driving Slowly Make Others
Behind Infuriatingly Late Every day
Overpriced, Leisurely Driven Sedan Made
Of Buick's Irregular Leftover equipment
PERODUA
Puny Engine Running On Damn Unsafe Autocar
PROTON
Possibly the Riskiest Option to Travel
On-road Nowadays
SAAB
Send Another Automobile Back Swedish
Automobiles Always Breakdown.
TOYOTA
Too Often Yankees Overprice This Auto
VOLVO
Very Odd Looking Vehicular Object
VW
Virtually Worthless
¶ 9/05/2004 11:57:00 pm 0 comments
WHAT THOSE CAR NAMES ACTUALLY STAND FOR
BMW
Be My Wife
Beautiful Mechanical Wonder
Big Money Works
Bought My Wife
Break My Windows
Brutal Money Waster
Business, Money and Woman
BUICK
Big Ugly Indestructable Car Killer
CHEVROLET
Can Hear Every Valve Rap On Long Extended Trip
Cheap, Hardly Efficient, Virtually Runs On Luck Every Time
DODGE
Damn Old Dirty Gas Eater
Drips Oil, Drops Grease Everywhere
FIAT
Failure in Italian Automotive Technology
Fix It All the Time
Fix It Again, Tony!
FORD
Backwards --> Driver Returns On Foot
Fault Of R & D
Fast Only Rolling Downhill
Features O.J. and Ron's DNA
First On Recall Day
First On Rust and Deterioration
Fix Or Repair Daily
Found On Road, Dead
Found On Russian Dump
GM
General Maintenance
GMC
Garage Man's Companion
Got a Mechanic Coming?
HONDA
Had One Never Did Again
Happy Owners Never Drive Anything else.
HYUNDAI
Hope You Understand Nothing's Driveable
And Inexpensive . . .
MAZDA
Most Always Zipping Dangerously Along
OLDSMOBILE
Old Ladies Driving Slowly Make Others
Behind Infuriatingly Late Every day
Overpriced, Leisurely Driven Sedan Made
Of Buick's Irregular Leftover equipment
PERODUA
Puny Engine Running On Damn Unsafe Autocar
PROTON
Possibly the Riskiest Option to Travel
On-road Nowadays
SAAB
Send Another Automobile Back Swedish
Automobiles Always Breakdown.
TOYOTA
Too Often Yankees Overprice This Auto
VOLVO
Very Odd Looking Vehicular Object
VW
Virtually Worthless
The results of my attempt at the 20 QUESTIONS TO A BETTER PERSONALITY quiz (By Jenny Turpish Slapped Me; source:
http://hokev.brinkster.net/quiz/default.asp?quiz=Better+Personality&page=1)
Wackiness: 40/100
Rationality: 60/100
Constructiveness: 40/100
Leadership: 60/100
You are a SRDL--Sober Rational Destructive Leader. This makes you a Mob Boss.
You are the ultimate alpha person and even your friends give you your space. You can't stand whiners, weakli ¶ 9/05/2004 11:56:00 pm 0 comments
http://hokev.brinkster.net/quiz/default.asp?quiz=Better+Personality&page=1)
Wackiness: 40/100
Rationality: 60/100
Constructiveness: 40/100
Leadership: 60/100
You are a SRDL--Sober Rational Destructive Leader. This makes you a Mob Boss.
You are the ultimate alpha person and even your friends give you your space. You can't stand whiners, weakli ¶ 9/05/2004 11:56:00 pm 0 comments
Sent to me by Esther via Friendster (it rhymes!):
Nervous habits?
Peeling my fingernails or the skin around my fingernails - quite disgusting
Biting the end of the pen that I'm holding
Heavy breathing
Are you double-jointed?
What the heck is that?
Can you roll your tongue?
No
Can you raise one eyebrow at a time?
No
Can you blow spit bubbles?
Yes . . . another extremely disgusting habit of mine
Can you cross your eyes?
No
Tattoos?
Definitely not!
Piercing - and where?
None of them, so that makes the answer to the second part as "no where"
Do you make your bed daily?
Yes of course . . . unless I want to get screwed by my platoon mates
Which shoe goes on first?
I don't really notice; neither do I really bother
Speaking of shoes, have you thrown one at anyone?
Of course not . . . I'm not about to get charged. Neither do I want to damage my property on someone not worth my time
On the average, how much money do you carry?
Thirty dollars. Minimum ten, maximum fifty. And that's not counting that I don't have an ATM card (my mother keeps it).
What jewellery do you wear?
None, unless you consider my army ID tag aka Dog Tag
Favourite piece of clothing?
White Giordano's polo shirt; size L, which stretches down to my thighs when I tuck it out
Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it?
I just eat it directly. Like how you eat your instant noodles
You ever eaten Spam?
Luncheon meat, yes. The type of luncheon meat called Spam, never
Favourite ice cream flavour?
Chocolate
How many cereals in your cabinet?
Three types
What's your favourite beverage?
Coffee and tea! Not the upmarket kind, though. Just the simple coffee shop ones
What's your favourite restaurant?
Do you cook?
Unfortunately no.
How often do you brush your teeth?
Once every day in the morning, when in the right sense I'm supposed to be doing it RELIGIOUSLY when I wake up, after every meal and before I sleep, since I am wearing braces.
Method of drying hair?
Wiping it aggressively with a towel
Have you ever coloured your hair?
No. I think I look disgusting. I look bad enough sporting a GI-style haircut. Don't even talk about coloured hair.
Do you swear?
Why not? Look at my blog and count the number of swears inside
Do you ever spit?
Yes, only in camp, because the phlegm is getting in the way while running, or while out in the field. No choice, okay?
Animal?
Fish
Food?
Everything except chilli padi and lactose-based products (e.g. milk, butter and cheese)
Month?
August . . . ha-ha because it's my month
Day?
Book-out day!
Cartoon?
Ninja Turtles . . . that was in the past
Shoe brand?
New Balance
Subject in school?
Music!!!
Colour?
Black
Sport?
Cycling
TV shows?
High Notes on Arts Central
Thing to do in the spring?
Thing to do in the summer?
Thing to do in the rain?
Sleep. The weather's the best . . . so cooling
Thing to do in winter?
The CD player?
Elgar Symphony No. 2 in E-flat major (London Symphony Orchestra / Sir Edward Elgar)
Person you talk most on the phone with?
Everybody usually spends an equal duration with me on the phone
Ever taken a cab?
Yes . . . especially when I'm late . . . and I'm always late
Do you regularly check yourself out in store windows and mirrors?
No.
What colour is your bedroom?
A creamy kind of white
Do you use an alarm clock?
The alarm clock's inside my cellular phone
Window seat or aisle?
Anything. If there's a seat, it's fortune
What's your sleeping position?
From the head of the bed to the foot of the bed, back on the mattress, head facing upwards, never with the head facing the pillow
Do you use a blanket even in hot weather?
Of course not
Do you snore?
I don't know
Do you sleepwalk?
Never before
Do you talk in your sleep?
Once this scary incident happened, as told by my section mate in BMT, Ghim Chuan:
He said that he awoke in the middle of the night to see me staring at him, face ashened, muttering, "Canteen" over and over again. Then, without warning, I just dropped back onto the bed again. The night proceeded calmly thereafter . . .
Do you sleep with stuffed animals?
No
How about the lights on?
No. But the lights on the corridor are bright enough to disturb me at night
Do you fall asleep with the TV or radio?
The computer, to be precise
Coke or Pepsi?
No preference
Oranges or apples?
Oranges. I have a bit of difficulty eating apples as I wear braces . . . have to gnaw at the fruit from the side of my mouth
One pillow or two?
One.
Deaf or blind?
Blind. The ear is the essential tool of the musician, and nothing must ever happen to it
Pools or hot tubs?
Pools. Larger and more space and freedom to manoeuvre about
Tall or short?
Short - being tall, I always have to hunch when talking to people who are below my height . . .
TV or radio?
Radio
Beach or pool?
Pool. At least I can see what's going on underwater
Tic-tacs or certs?
What the heck is this?
Sunrise or sunset?
Both
Hamburger or cheeseburger?
Both
Morning or night?
Night
Sports or news?
News
Indoors or outdoors?
Indoors
Christmas Eve or Christmas Day?
No difference . . . they’re still day offs
Cake or ice cream?
Ice cream
Spearmint or peppermint?
Peppermint
Bath or shower?
Shower . . . I don't have the luxury of a bathtub
Book or movie?
Book. Most of the time, movies made from books / true accounts never accurately portray the original.
Green or red apples?
Both
Rain or snow?
Rain. When it snows you have to do extra work, like sweeping the pathway
Nike or Adidas?
No preference. I don't even wear them in the first place
When was the last time you took a shower?
This afternoon, at about 1:00pm, before I left the house
When was the last time you cried?
When I was still in primary school . . .
When was the last time you talked on the phone?
This afternoon, trying to find out where Wilfred and the others were
When was the last time you read a book?
This evening, on the MRT train back
Punched someone?
Never before. Then again, I've punched people verbally with stinging criticisms and sarcasm
Where do you see yourself in ten years?
Living in a home for the destitute
Busking away at an Orchard Road underpass as a street musician
How many kids?
Don't intend to have any at all . . . my brother, eight years my junior, has been a constant pain in the ass . . .
¶ 9/05/2004 11:51:00 pm 0 comments
Nervous habits?
Peeling my fingernails or the skin around my fingernails - quite disgusting
Biting the end of the pen that I'm holding
Heavy breathing
Are you double-jointed?
What the heck is that?
Can you roll your tongue?
No
Can you raise one eyebrow at a time?
No
Can you blow spit bubbles?
Yes . . . another extremely disgusting habit of mine
Can you cross your eyes?
No
Tattoos?
Definitely not!
Piercing - and where?
None of them, so that makes the answer to the second part as "no where"
Do you make your bed daily?
Yes of course . . . unless I want to get screwed by my platoon mates
Which shoe goes on first?
I don't really notice; neither do I really bother
Speaking of shoes, have you thrown one at anyone?
Of course not . . . I'm not about to get charged. Neither do I want to damage my property on someone not worth my time
On the average, how much money do you carry?
Thirty dollars. Minimum ten, maximum fifty. And that's not counting that I don't have an ATM card (my mother keeps it).
What jewellery do you wear?
None, unless you consider my army ID tag aka Dog Tag
Favourite piece of clothing?
White Giordano's polo shirt; size L, which stretches down to my thighs when I tuck it out
Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it?
I just eat it directly. Like how you eat your instant noodles
You ever eaten Spam?
Luncheon meat, yes. The type of luncheon meat called Spam, never
Favourite ice cream flavour?
Chocolate
How many cereals in your cabinet?
Three types
What's your favourite beverage?
Coffee and tea! Not the upmarket kind, though. Just the simple coffee shop ones
What's your favourite restaurant?
Do you cook?
Unfortunately no.
How often do you brush your teeth?
Once every day in the morning, when in the right sense I'm supposed to be doing it RELIGIOUSLY when I wake up, after every meal and before I sleep, since I am wearing braces.
Method of drying hair?
Wiping it aggressively with a towel
Have you ever coloured your hair?
No. I think I look disgusting. I look bad enough sporting a GI-style haircut. Don't even talk about coloured hair.
Do you swear?
Why not? Look at my blog and count the number of swears inside
Do you ever spit?
Yes, only in camp, because the phlegm is getting in the way while running, or while out in the field. No choice, okay?
Animal?
Fish
Food?
Everything except chilli padi and lactose-based products (e.g. milk, butter and cheese)
Month?
August . . . ha-ha because it's my month
Day?
Book-out day!
Cartoon?
Ninja Turtles . . . that was in the past
Shoe brand?
New Balance
Subject in school?
Music!!!
Colour?
Black
Sport?
Cycling
TV shows?
High Notes on Arts Central
Thing to do in the spring?
Thing to do in the summer?
Thing to do in the rain?
Sleep. The weather's the best . . . so cooling
Thing to do in winter?
The CD player?
Elgar Symphony No. 2 in E-flat major (London Symphony Orchestra / Sir Edward Elgar)
Person you talk most on the phone with?
Everybody usually spends an equal duration with me on the phone
Ever taken a cab?
Yes . . . especially when I'm late . . . and I'm always late
Do you regularly check yourself out in store windows and mirrors?
No.
What colour is your bedroom?
A creamy kind of white
Do you use an alarm clock?
The alarm clock's inside my cellular phone
Window seat or aisle?
Anything. If there's a seat, it's fortune
What's your sleeping position?
From the head of the bed to the foot of the bed, back on the mattress, head facing upwards, never with the head facing the pillow
Do you use a blanket even in hot weather?
Of course not
Do you snore?
I don't know
Do you sleepwalk?
Never before
Do you talk in your sleep?
Once this scary incident happened, as told by my section mate in BMT, Ghim Chuan:
He said that he awoke in the middle of the night to see me staring at him, face ashened, muttering, "Canteen" over and over again. Then, without warning, I just dropped back onto the bed again. The night proceeded calmly thereafter . . .
Do you sleep with stuffed animals?
No
How about the lights on?
No. But the lights on the corridor are bright enough to disturb me at night
Do you fall asleep with the TV or radio?
The computer, to be precise
Coke or Pepsi?
No preference
Oranges or apples?
Oranges. I have a bit of difficulty eating apples as I wear braces . . . have to gnaw at the fruit from the side of my mouth
One pillow or two?
One.
Deaf or blind?
Blind. The ear is the essential tool of the musician, and nothing must ever happen to it
Pools or hot tubs?
Pools. Larger and more space and freedom to manoeuvre about
Tall or short?
Short - being tall, I always have to hunch when talking to people who are below my height . . .
TV or radio?
Radio
Beach or pool?
Pool. At least I can see what's going on underwater
Tic-tacs or certs?
What the heck is this?
Sunrise or sunset?
Both
Hamburger or cheeseburger?
Both
Morning or night?
Night
Sports or news?
News
Indoors or outdoors?
Indoors
Christmas Eve or Christmas Day?
No difference . . . they’re still day offs
Cake or ice cream?
Ice cream
Spearmint or peppermint?
Peppermint
Bath or shower?
Shower . . . I don't have the luxury of a bathtub
Book or movie?
Book. Most of the time, movies made from books / true accounts never accurately portray the original.
Green or red apples?
Both
Rain or snow?
Rain. When it snows you have to do extra work, like sweeping the pathway
Nike or Adidas?
No preference. I don't even wear them in the first place
When was the last time you took a shower?
This afternoon, at about 1:00pm, before I left the house
When was the last time you cried?
When I was still in primary school . . .
When was the last time you talked on the phone?
This afternoon, trying to find out where Wilfred and the others were
When was the last time you read a book?
This evening, on the MRT train back
Punched someone?
Never before. Then again, I've punched people verbally with stinging criticisms and sarcasm
Where do you see yourself in ten years?
Living in a home for the destitute
Busking away at an Orchard Road underpass as a street musician
How many kids?
Don't intend to have any at all . . . my brother, eight years my junior, has been a constant pain in the ass . . .
--- I ---
Six years have passed.
I have broken the silence with "Anaconda: The Hunt for Blood Orchid": my first movie since "A Bug's Life" in 1998.
Coincidentally these two movies were watched at the same exact cinema (Golden Village, Plaza Singapura), though in different halls.
--- II ---
Although "Anaconda: The Hunt for Blood Orchid" may be some action film where the protagonists try to stay alive despite the presence of a threatening creature staking their lives, there is something that has left an impression on me.
The movie is a good case study of how selfishness, materialism and greed can destroy a lot of things. Gordon wants to make money out of the discovery of the blood orchid, whose qualities may create a drug that is the equivalent of the "fountain of youth" as quoted from the movie, and can possibly create millionaires out of them. Jack shares a similar dream. Unlike Jack, however, Gordon wants to end the expedition after two lives are lost to the anacondas. His only thought is their safety, that they may make it out of the forests of Borneo alive. The others share his sentiments. But the bastard scientist Jack refuses. His one and only thought is to get the orchids before they return.
He pays the captain of the ship, Bill Johnson, more money in order to make him take a shorter but riskier route to get to their destination in the quickest time possible. The result: the rudder gets jammed, the propeller dies, the boat misses its turn and heads over a waterfall, where it sinks. Now, Bill Johnson is also to blame for accepting the money, even as he calculates the risks. Greed has led them into the deep shit they have come to experience for the better part of the movie, and creates the tragedy whereby a large portion of the expedition members die.
He refuses to give up the expedition even when every remaining and surviving member of the team vote to return to the town. He hides the mobile phone belonging to the friend of Johnson - also another boat captain who was killed by an anaconda while steering his boat - so that nobody will call the authorities to come and rescue them. When Gordon discovers the phone, Jack sets a poisonous spider whose venom causes the victim to become paralysed upon his friend and colleague so that he cannot make the call for help. Gordon dies because of his failure to move when the anaconda comes to prey on him.
Jack steals their makeshift raft - their one and only mode of transport left - in the midst of the chaos, when the others return to the hut to try and save Gordon. He wants the raft to himself so that he can row to the site of the orchids. Along the way, the son of a bitch reports his situation, but manipulates his information, stating that he is the only one surviving, probably in the hope that the authorities wouldn't rescue his team mates. It will save his skin, as his team mates will tell on him when they return to civilisation.
He forces his assistant, Sammi, to walk across the treacherous bridge: a fallen tree trunk covered with slippery fungus in the rain, in order to get the orchids for him. The orchids are located on the opposite side of a depression, in which a great number of anacondas are mating. He uses a pistol to force his assistant to his bidding, without caring for her safety. When Sammi tries to crawl along the trunk after she slips, the fucker yells at her to cross the bridge in an upright position.
After collecting the flowers and placing them inside the bag Jack has given her, Sammi crosses the bridge once more. This time, the bridge splits and she nearly collapses into the pit of snakes below. The only thing Jack does is to shout at her to throw him the bag, all the while POINTING HIS STUPID PISTOL AT HER. Honestly he doesn't give the shit about her life.
A die-hard all the way to the end, he refuses to be separated from his bag of orchids even as it falls off the cliff onto a ledge below, close to the snakes. He climbs down the cliff to retrieve his bag even while the others are busily trying to save Sammi, only to be bitten by the same poisonous spider which had bitten Gordon - a taste of his own cooking. Paralysed, he fails while reaching out for Bill's hand of assistance - his arm has stiffened, so he has to force his body upwards to come within reach of Bill's hand, but he looses his balance and falls into the pit of snakes to his death.
Serves him right.
¶ 9/05/2004 09:55:00 pm 0 comments
Six years have passed.
I have broken the silence with "Anaconda: The Hunt for Blood Orchid": my first movie since "A Bug's Life" in 1998.
Coincidentally these two movies were watched at the same exact cinema (Golden Village, Plaza Singapura), though in different halls.
--- II ---
Although "Anaconda: The Hunt for Blood Orchid" may be some action film where the protagonists try to stay alive despite the presence of a threatening creature staking their lives, there is something that has left an impression on me.
The movie is a good case study of how selfishness, materialism and greed can destroy a lot of things. Gordon wants to make money out of the discovery of the blood orchid, whose qualities may create a drug that is the equivalent of the "fountain of youth" as quoted from the movie, and can possibly create millionaires out of them. Jack shares a similar dream. Unlike Jack, however, Gordon wants to end the expedition after two lives are lost to the anacondas. His only thought is their safety, that they may make it out of the forests of Borneo alive. The others share his sentiments. But the bastard scientist Jack refuses. His one and only thought is to get the orchids before they return.
He pays the captain of the ship, Bill Johnson, more money in order to make him take a shorter but riskier route to get to their destination in the quickest time possible. The result: the rudder gets jammed, the propeller dies, the boat misses its turn and heads over a waterfall, where it sinks. Now, Bill Johnson is also to blame for accepting the money, even as he calculates the risks. Greed has led them into the deep shit they have come to experience for the better part of the movie, and creates the tragedy whereby a large portion of the expedition members die.
He refuses to give up the expedition even when every remaining and surviving member of the team vote to return to the town. He hides the mobile phone belonging to the friend of Johnson - also another boat captain who was killed by an anaconda while steering his boat - so that nobody will call the authorities to come and rescue them. When Gordon discovers the phone, Jack sets a poisonous spider whose venom causes the victim to become paralysed upon his friend and colleague so that he cannot make the call for help. Gordon dies because of his failure to move when the anaconda comes to prey on him.
Jack steals their makeshift raft - their one and only mode of transport left - in the midst of the chaos, when the others return to the hut to try and save Gordon. He wants the raft to himself so that he can row to the site of the orchids. Along the way, the son of a bitch reports his situation, but manipulates his information, stating that he is the only one surviving, probably in the hope that the authorities wouldn't rescue his team mates. It will save his skin, as his team mates will tell on him when they return to civilisation.
He forces his assistant, Sammi, to walk across the treacherous bridge: a fallen tree trunk covered with slippery fungus in the rain, in order to get the orchids for him. The orchids are located on the opposite side of a depression, in which a great number of anacondas are mating. He uses a pistol to force his assistant to his bidding, without caring for her safety. When Sammi tries to crawl along the trunk after she slips, the fucker yells at her to cross the bridge in an upright position.
After collecting the flowers and placing them inside the bag Jack has given her, Sammi crosses the bridge once more. This time, the bridge splits and she nearly collapses into the pit of snakes below. The only thing Jack does is to shout at her to throw him the bag, all the while POINTING HIS STUPID PISTOL AT HER. Honestly he doesn't give the shit about her life.
A die-hard all the way to the end, he refuses to be separated from his bag of orchids even as it falls off the cliff onto a ledge below, close to the snakes. He climbs down the cliff to retrieve his bag even while the others are busily trying to save Sammi, only to be bitten by the same poisonous spider which had bitten Gordon - a taste of his own cooking. Paralysed, he fails while reaching out for Bill's hand of assistance - his arm has stiffened, so he has to force his body upwards to come within reach of Bill's hand, but he looses his balance and falls into the pit of snakes to his death.
Serves him right.
Sent to me by Ruijun via Friendster:
"DANGER IN SOFT DRINKS"
Please read this. An interesting piece of information . . .
Have a look at the wrapper of a Coca-Cola 1.5 litre bottle and on the label containing the ingredients you will find that phosphoric acid is one of the components. Minute quantities of ethylene glycol are also used (which is acknowledged in the soft drink world for making it chilled).
This is popularly known as anti-freeze which prevents water from freezing at zero degrees Celsius. Instead, in minute quantities, the liquid drops about four to five degrees. This chemical is also a slow poison in the calibre of arsenic.
So, if you manage to drink about four litres of Coke within an hour or so, you can die. Read along and give up these dangerous things. Be natural: have flavoured milks, tender coconuts, buttermilk and plain water instead of these soft drinks. Guess what is the pH for soft drinks, for instance, Coke? pH 3.4! Such acidity is strong enough to dissolve teeth and bones!
Our human body stops building bones at the age of about thirty. Soft drinks do not have any nutrition value (in terms of vitamins and minerals). It is high in sugar content, carbonic acid and chemicals, i.e. colourings et cetera.
Some like to take cold soft drinks after each meal. Guess what is the impact? Our body needs an optimum temperature of thirty-seven degrees Celsius for the digestive enzyme to function. The temperature of cold soft drinks is very much below thirty-seven degrees Celsius or even close to zero degrees Celsius. This will dilute the enzymes and stress the digestive system. The food taken will not be digested. In fact, it will be fermented! The fermented food produces gases, decays and becomes toxin, gets absorbed by the intestine, circulates in the blood stream and is carried to the whole body. Hence, toxin is accumulated in other parts of the body, developing into various diseases.
Think before you drink Coke or Pepsi or any soft drink again.
Have you ever thought of what goes into your body when you consume an aerated drink?
You gulp down carbon dioxide, when nobody in the world would advise you to drink that gas. Two months back, there was a competition at Delhi whereby the contestants competed amongst one another to see who could drink the most Coke. The winner drank eight bottles and fainted on the spot due to too much carbon dioxide in the blood. Thereafter, the principal banned all soft drinks from the college canteen!
While this might have been an extreme measure, the case does provide some food for thought: soft drinks use chemicals that can cause immense harm to one's body.
Someone put a broken tooth into a bottle of Pepsi and within ten days, it DISSOLVED! Can you believe it? Teeth and bones are the only human parts that will stay intact for years after death. Imagine what the drink must be doing to your soft intestines and stomach lining!
A request to all: forward this message to your friends to increase their awareness about the great "assumed soft drinks". In India, people hesitate to pay Rs 7-8/- for a tender coconut but prefer to pay Rs. 10/- for soft drinks and down these dreadful products.
Please forward this to all your friends . . . because YOU CARE!
¶ 9/05/2004 01:48:00 pm 0 comments
"DANGER IN SOFT DRINKS"
Please read this. An interesting piece of information . . .
Have a look at the wrapper of a Coca-Cola 1.5 litre bottle and on the label containing the ingredients you will find that phosphoric acid is one of the components. Minute quantities of ethylene glycol are also used (which is acknowledged in the soft drink world for making it chilled).
This is popularly known as anti-freeze which prevents water from freezing at zero degrees Celsius. Instead, in minute quantities, the liquid drops about four to five degrees. This chemical is also a slow poison in the calibre of arsenic.
So, if you manage to drink about four litres of Coke within an hour or so, you can die. Read along and give up these dangerous things. Be natural: have flavoured milks, tender coconuts, buttermilk and plain water instead of these soft drinks. Guess what is the pH for soft drinks, for instance, Coke? pH 3.4! Such acidity is strong enough to dissolve teeth and bones!
Our human body stops building bones at the age of about thirty. Soft drinks do not have any nutrition value (in terms of vitamins and minerals). It is high in sugar content, carbonic acid and chemicals, i.e. colourings et cetera.
Some like to take cold soft drinks after each meal. Guess what is the impact? Our body needs an optimum temperature of thirty-seven degrees Celsius for the digestive enzyme to function. The temperature of cold soft drinks is very much below thirty-seven degrees Celsius or even close to zero degrees Celsius. This will dilute the enzymes and stress the digestive system. The food taken will not be digested. In fact, it will be fermented! The fermented food produces gases, decays and becomes toxin, gets absorbed by the intestine, circulates in the blood stream and is carried to the whole body. Hence, toxin is accumulated in other parts of the body, developing into various diseases.
Think before you drink Coke or Pepsi or any soft drink again.
Have you ever thought of what goes into your body when you consume an aerated drink?
You gulp down carbon dioxide, when nobody in the world would advise you to drink that gas. Two months back, there was a competition at Delhi whereby the contestants competed amongst one another to see who could drink the most Coke. The winner drank eight bottles and fainted on the spot due to too much carbon dioxide in the blood. Thereafter, the principal banned all soft drinks from the college canteen!
While this might have been an extreme measure, the case does provide some food for thought: soft drinks use chemicals that can cause immense harm to one's body.
Someone put a broken tooth into a bottle of Pepsi and within ten days, it DISSOLVED! Can you believe it? Teeth and bones are the only human parts that will stay intact for years after death. Imagine what the drink must be doing to your soft intestines and stomach lining!
A request to all: forward this message to your friends to increase their awareness about the great "assumed soft drinks". In India, people hesitate to pay Rs 7-8/- for a tender coconut but prefer to pay Rs. 10/- for soft drinks and down these dreadful products.
Please forward this to all your friends . . . because YOU CARE!
Friday, September 03, 2004
--- I ---
What happens when your normally-tough and constantly-fucking-you commanders get screwed?
CSM's briefing for the day is at 0730. Most of the enlistees (corporal and below) are downstairs already. It's a few minutes to seven-thirty. The CSM has placed the company clock on the ground in front of him and is studying the minute hand as it crawls towards the large number 6.
A blue car pulls up on the parking lot, just behind our backs. Sergeant David gets out and walks casually but still briskly towards the staircase. He must have gotten the feeling that he is being looked at, for he turns in our direction, and realises that the CSM is looking at him. He returns a sheepish grin; then races up the stairs, two at a time.
Seven-thirty has come and passed. Still, no sergeants are in sight. CSM: "Where are all my specs [i.e. specialists]?"
Sergeant Henry's head pokes out from the fourth-floor corridor.
"Do you know what time it is now?"
"Seven-thirty, sir," comes the reply.
"Then? Where is everyone? Get everyone downstairs now!" he growls.
Sergeant Henry, like a lamb to a wolf: "Okay, coming." He turns to face the bunk: "Everybody come out now! Come out!" Then he disappears from sight.
The specialists descend upon the ground floor. The CSM notices that Sergeant Henry is wearing a shirt different from the rest of the specialists and not according to what instructions were stated. He begins to inquire in the fuck-you kind of tone. Sergeant Henry, again like a lamb speaking to a wolf, assures the CSM that he will go upstairs to change later.
--- II ---
One activity that a combat engineer deals with is the installation of booby-trap.
Somehow it seems our own unit compound has been booby-trapped as well.
A booby trap is designed to slow the enemy down by injuring or killing its men.
Casualties are created within our platoon.
Our platoon has been tasked to clean the road leading to our company line. There is a pair of iron gates that has never been closed before. As in, it has always been left opened.
The others begin to sweep the area close to the gate. I push the trolley to the water point just a few metres away.
Suddenly, I hear a shout; it comes from the gate. Looking towards that direction, the very first thing that I see is one of the huge metal gates collapsing like a sequoia being felled and Rakesh jumping like an athlete crossing hurdles to avoid being crushed by the falling structure. The gate hits the ground with a large bang.
Everybody goes forward to inspect the gate. We discover that the concrete on upon which the hinges are fixed has broken somewhere near close to the surface of the road. Like someone swiped his sword and cut the damn thing like how one would cut intestines. The freaking thing hasn't been touched for ages. Probably years even.
Everybody works to lift the gate out of the way of the road and onto the grass patch beside it. Two, three, four; on the last count we heave the entire thing up.
Abruptly Lee Seong cries out in pain. The concrete pillar, which has remained unsupported, has crushed his finger as we elevate the gate off the ground. We put the structure onto the ground again. Lee Seong pulls his hand out; blood drips onto the gate. His middle finger is in a pretty bad state. The rest of us quickly hands-on to lift the bridge away, then tend to our casualties. Lee Seong and Rakesh leave in search of the medic; Rakesh to check his shoulder, which had probably been struck by the falling gate.
Two things from the event: (1) the possibility of getting a downgrade; (2) everything is falling apart at our unit.
From (1): at first thought, you might think, what a waste. Should have been hit by the falling structure. Then they'll classify you as being unfit for combat activities because the injured part hinders your movement. But then again, if you're really unlucky, you'd probably downgrade to hell.
From (2): it's time for a new unit compound. Everything here is so freaking old already; it's a hazard to the safety of personnel. The news about a trainee getting killed because his head was doused in water a tad too far is bad enough. Think about the outcomes of news of a trainee getting killed by a falling gate in camp while doing sai kang.
--- III ---
The fucker of the CSM aka the Fat Pig is starting to get on my nerves. Not only mine, but almost everyone else's nerves.
Today the Chief Engineer Officer comes to our unit for a visit; at the same time, to conduct his "Ting" ("Listen" in Chinese) project. It's some sort of a forum where - only the regulars and the commanders - can voice out any concern they have, so that the CEO can try to solve it and create improvements. For those who study International History, it's a sort of Democracy Wall.
While the project gets underway in our lecture room, us lowly privates are sent to do sai kang to keep us occupied. We're being treated like kids who would possibly make a ruckus inside our bunks if left there to slack.
Fine, he asks us to go and sweep up leaves from the road. We do the job, return and expect some rest.
As we turn to climb the stairs to return to our bunk, Sergeant Dexter, who has gone off for the moment to check if there are any further tasks to perform, returns to inform us, "We have something else to do. We have to help Platoon One clear the grass on the fence."
You might find nothing wrong with such an instruction. Let me brief you on an orientation of the place. Behind our building is a grassy slope that ascends about three stories above the ground. At the top of the slope is the perimeter fence, which marks the boundary of our camp. We are instructed to clear the vegetation on this fence, which is rusting like nobody's business, and NO ONE ELSE HAS EVER BOTHERED ABOUT THE PHYSICAL ATTRACTIVENESS OF THIS STRUCTURE. So now, I don't know for what fuck reason, he wants the fence clean of weeds. In fact, nobody understands the whole objective of such a task, let alone the sergeants, who try to pacify us and urge us to do the job fast so that all of us can go and relax. Sergeant Ma asks me: "What are you all supposed to do now?" I tell him, clear the vegetation on the fence at the top of the slope; for whatever reason I simply have no idea.
He agrees.
We set up the hill wearing T-shirt and shorts. Changing to slacks and boots are too troublesome. I scramble up the slope, clutching the grass and pressing my body close to the ground so that I don't slide off. Then I see the rest of the platoon making their way across the training shed to the neighbouring building, where there are stairs leading up to the top of the slope.
Fuck.
What the hell, I'm done halfway, so I just continue to push myself further. Anyway I can't turn my body to face the direction of the bottom of the slope, and I don't like the idea of descending in the present manner that I am at.
The moment I arrive at the top, I realise it's all a bad mistake not to change clothes. Long, wild blades of grass lick at the skin of my legs. It itches horribly. I have to bend down constantly to scratch my legs. It becomes irritating when you are trying to concentrate on plucking leaves while easing your discomfort at the same time.
Everybody surrenders. We all head back to the bunk to change into long pants. For some reason or another, Sergeant Dexter remains in shorts throughout, slapping his thighs now and then to soothe himself.
To satisfy our discontented souls, I pick "They Say That in the Army" as the first song to sing as soon as we are out of the sight of the company (the big shot is still there with his audience, so we have to be as quiet as possible). One of the stanzas has been specially improvised on the spot as a demonstration of distaste towards the Fat Pig.
"They say that in the Army
Your CSM very nice
You ask for early book-out
He ask you DO SAI KANG!"
Then our favourite chorus, commonly sung together in unison:
"I don't want to lead an army life!
I just want to lead a simple life!
PC don't let me go
OC said, 'No, no, no'
Mommy I want to go home"
P.S. The Fat Pig will not be around the company for about two months as he is involved in army tournaments. It's been reported that he's very happy to be out.
And so are we. We're so terrifically at the top of the world to learn that he's not going to be around the company.
¶ 9/03/2004 09:57:00 pm 0 comments
What happens when your normally-tough and constantly-fucking-you commanders get screwed?
CSM's briefing for the day is at 0730. Most of the enlistees (corporal and below) are downstairs already. It's a few minutes to seven-thirty. The CSM has placed the company clock on the ground in front of him and is studying the minute hand as it crawls towards the large number 6.
A blue car pulls up on the parking lot, just behind our backs. Sergeant David gets out and walks casually but still briskly towards the staircase. He must have gotten the feeling that he is being looked at, for he turns in our direction, and realises that the CSM is looking at him. He returns a sheepish grin; then races up the stairs, two at a time.
Seven-thirty has come and passed. Still, no sergeants are in sight. CSM: "Where are all my specs [i.e. specialists]?"
Sergeant Henry's head pokes out from the fourth-floor corridor.
"Do you know what time it is now?"
"Seven-thirty, sir," comes the reply.
"Then? Where is everyone? Get everyone downstairs now!" he growls.
Sergeant Henry, like a lamb to a wolf: "Okay, coming." He turns to face the bunk: "Everybody come out now! Come out!" Then he disappears from sight.
The specialists descend upon the ground floor. The CSM notices that Sergeant Henry is wearing a shirt different from the rest of the specialists and not according to what instructions were stated. He begins to inquire in the fuck-you kind of tone. Sergeant Henry, again like a lamb speaking to a wolf, assures the CSM that he will go upstairs to change later.
--- II ---
One activity that a combat engineer deals with is the installation of booby-trap.
Somehow it seems our own unit compound has been booby-trapped as well.
A booby trap is designed to slow the enemy down by injuring or killing its men.
Casualties are created within our platoon.
Our platoon has been tasked to clean the road leading to our company line. There is a pair of iron gates that has never been closed before. As in, it has always been left opened.
The others begin to sweep the area close to the gate. I push the trolley to the water point just a few metres away.
Suddenly, I hear a shout; it comes from the gate. Looking towards that direction, the very first thing that I see is one of the huge metal gates collapsing like a sequoia being felled and Rakesh jumping like an athlete crossing hurdles to avoid being crushed by the falling structure. The gate hits the ground with a large bang.
Everybody goes forward to inspect the gate. We discover that the concrete on upon which the hinges are fixed has broken somewhere near close to the surface of the road. Like someone swiped his sword and cut the damn thing like how one would cut intestines. The freaking thing hasn't been touched for ages. Probably years even.
Everybody works to lift the gate out of the way of the road and onto the grass patch beside it. Two, three, four; on the last count we heave the entire thing up.
Abruptly Lee Seong cries out in pain. The concrete pillar, which has remained unsupported, has crushed his finger as we elevate the gate off the ground. We put the structure onto the ground again. Lee Seong pulls his hand out; blood drips onto the gate. His middle finger is in a pretty bad state. The rest of us quickly hands-on to lift the bridge away, then tend to our casualties. Lee Seong and Rakesh leave in search of the medic; Rakesh to check his shoulder, which had probably been struck by the falling gate.
Two things from the event: (1) the possibility of getting a downgrade; (2) everything is falling apart at our unit.
From (1): at first thought, you might think, what a waste. Should have been hit by the falling structure. Then they'll classify you as being unfit for combat activities because the injured part hinders your movement. But then again, if you're really unlucky, you'd probably downgrade to hell.
From (2): it's time for a new unit compound. Everything here is so freaking old already; it's a hazard to the safety of personnel. The news about a trainee getting killed because his head was doused in water a tad too far is bad enough. Think about the outcomes of news of a trainee getting killed by a falling gate in camp while doing sai kang.
--- III ---
The fucker of the CSM aka the Fat Pig is starting to get on my nerves. Not only mine, but almost everyone else's nerves.
Today the Chief Engineer Officer comes to our unit for a visit; at the same time, to conduct his "Ting" ("Listen" in Chinese) project. It's some sort of a forum where - only the regulars and the commanders - can voice out any concern they have, so that the CEO can try to solve it and create improvements. For those who study International History, it's a sort of Democracy Wall.
While the project gets underway in our lecture room, us lowly privates are sent to do sai kang to keep us occupied. We're being treated like kids who would possibly make a ruckus inside our bunks if left there to slack.
Fine, he asks us to go and sweep up leaves from the road. We do the job, return and expect some rest.
As we turn to climb the stairs to return to our bunk, Sergeant Dexter, who has gone off for the moment to check if there are any further tasks to perform, returns to inform us, "We have something else to do. We have to help Platoon One clear the grass on the fence."
You might find nothing wrong with such an instruction. Let me brief you on an orientation of the place. Behind our building is a grassy slope that ascends about three stories above the ground. At the top of the slope is the perimeter fence, which marks the boundary of our camp. We are instructed to clear the vegetation on this fence, which is rusting like nobody's business, and NO ONE ELSE HAS EVER BOTHERED ABOUT THE PHYSICAL ATTRACTIVENESS OF THIS STRUCTURE. So now, I don't know for what fuck reason, he wants the fence clean of weeds. In fact, nobody understands the whole objective of such a task, let alone the sergeants, who try to pacify us and urge us to do the job fast so that all of us can go and relax. Sergeant Ma asks me: "What are you all supposed to do now?" I tell him, clear the vegetation on the fence at the top of the slope; for whatever reason I simply have no idea.
He agrees.
We set up the hill wearing T-shirt and shorts. Changing to slacks and boots are too troublesome. I scramble up the slope, clutching the grass and pressing my body close to the ground so that I don't slide off. Then I see the rest of the platoon making their way across the training shed to the neighbouring building, where there are stairs leading up to the top of the slope.
Fuck.
What the hell, I'm done halfway, so I just continue to push myself further. Anyway I can't turn my body to face the direction of the bottom of the slope, and I don't like the idea of descending in the present manner that I am at.
The moment I arrive at the top, I realise it's all a bad mistake not to change clothes. Long, wild blades of grass lick at the skin of my legs. It itches horribly. I have to bend down constantly to scratch my legs. It becomes irritating when you are trying to concentrate on plucking leaves while easing your discomfort at the same time.
Everybody surrenders. We all head back to the bunk to change into long pants. For some reason or another, Sergeant Dexter remains in shorts throughout, slapping his thighs now and then to soothe himself.
To satisfy our discontented souls, I pick "They Say That in the Army" as the first song to sing as soon as we are out of the sight of the company (the big shot is still there with his audience, so we have to be as quiet as possible). One of the stanzas has been specially improvised on the spot as a demonstration of distaste towards the Fat Pig.
"They say that in the Army
Your CSM very nice
You ask for early book-out
He ask you DO SAI KANG!"
Then our favourite chorus, commonly sung together in unison:
"I don't want to lead an army life!
I just want to lead a simple life!
PC don't let me go
OC said, 'No, no, no'
Mommy I want to go home"
P.S. The Fat Pig will not be around the company for about two months as he is involved in army tournaments. It's been reported that he's very happy to be out.
And so are we. We're so terrifically at the top of the world to learn that he's not going to be around the company.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
--- I ---
Today is the day we've been trying to avoid, but somehow the people at the top manage to have the flushing pool and the reservoir indented.
What the heck, just jump and get wet.
We are performing the emergency exit drill today, so-called "flotation" because we are supposed to wear lifejackets and thus "float" on the water - you don't expect us to sink, do you? We're going to jump wearing our usual uniform with webbing, helmet and rifle - thank goodness the fake, rubber one. Perhaps we'll sing "Underwear wet, wet / Don't believe come and check / Check already don't regret" as we pull ourselves onto shore.
Anybody wearing swimming trunks?
* * *
I'm one of the ten people in my platoon selected to escort the assault boats on their journey from Seletar Camp to our floatation reservoir, located in the Great Outdoors (see the entry dated 7 August 2004). That means having to wake up at 4:00am to get dressed. And this despite having slept at 11:00pm the night before.
Anyway we sleep in the tonner. It's a long ride to Seletar, and an even longer ride back, because the truck is not supposed to drive on the expressway with a trailer attached behind. It's pathetically difficult to sleep on board as the tonner bumps about. Sitting on the benches, you're likely to get somebody tilting his head and resting it on your shoulder, in effect pushing you downwards if you're not strong enough. Lying down is possible on both benches and floor, but the bench is narrow. The floor is decidedly more comfortable, but one is prone to get struck by one of the many dummy rifles left about on the ground. Sergeant Wenhao gets struck by one - he thinks it's retribution for hitting Zhiwei's helmet the day before while we practice setting up explosive charges on a hillside. Most of us, however, wake up eventually on the journey back, because it's so freaking long that we just don't feel like sleeping any further.
* * *
Arrival at the reservoir. We unload the boats and turn them over. Then we head for breakfast, served in packets and eaten as we listen to the last briefing before the activity commences. Lieutenant James allows us to take out the insoles of our boots, because those are the parts that are difficult to dry. We are also told to take off our garters, otherwise the air will get trapped inside our pants and when we head for the water, our legs will continually float like we've just been into the Dead Sea. Everyone does a last check on their webbings, to ensure that all pockets have been emptied clean. We are also advised to secure our water bottles, which are empty, lest they float away, as from past experience.
The first thing we do is the buoyancy test. The idea is to instil confidence in us, that our lifejackets are trusty and will not let us [sink] down. We inflate the thing by mouth, then stand in one row on the shore facing the water.
"Okay, the next group go into the water," the warrant officer sitting there refers to us.
What the heck, I tell myself. Just go for it. Just don't think about the discomfort of wearing wet clothes and boots and - underwear. I walk forward. The water rises against the side of the boots and spill in. I'm going deeper. The water is reaching my waist. I feel my underwear sticking to my skin. "Waaaaah, shiok ah!" I suspect my cry is absolutely contradictory to what I'm really thinking.
I throw the rest of my body into the water. My head fails to touch it, because of the lifejacket, which keeps the part of the body above it afloat. It takes a lot of getting used to, because you can't flatten your body to turn around as you do when swimming without any flotation aids. Now my body is tilted at some absurd angle, held in place by the balloon I am wearing about my chest.
"Lie on your backs and keep your legs up."
I lie on my back. The legs encounter some difficulty: they refuse to protrude out of water. The sodden boots are just too heavy to lift.
"Okay, head back to shore."
Normally, when I swim, I put my head underwater. Now I can't. I try swimming backwards. Not much progress. Alvin is next to me, splashing away as he tries to direct himself to shore. Eventually an exasperated Sergeant Wenhao grabs the both of us by the life jackets and tug us along the water.
* * *
Fast forward to the actual emergency exit drill in water.
We load up into the tank. It slowly reverses down the shore, into the water. I thought that water will come into the cabin, but that doesn't happen. Anyway the water here is shallow: 1.2m. The height at the ends of your usual swimming pool. I look out of the small window at the water swirling about the skin of the vehicle.
Then it stops. Sergeant Elson yells, "Emergency exit drill now!"
I push the hatch and lift myself onto the roof of the tank. The stupid rifle nearly gets in the way. If it permits I'd ditch the fucking thing into the water straightaway. Anyway, in reality, if we ever feel we are sinking we can strip every shit thing on our bodies into the water to lessen the weight upon our bodies.
Everybody is on the roof of the vehicle. After a head count, Sergeant Wenhao yells the order to inflate. The gas canister which I have received prior to mounting the vehicle is already in place. All I have to do is to pull the string, like what they do in those aircraft emergency videos, and the whole jacket will inflate within seconds. We've been briefed the night before by the RSM - in fact that's the only time he stands up to say something to us. "Gentlemen, make sure you deflate the lifejacket fully, if not it'll BLOW IN YOUR FACE." Anyway, there's been past experiences of the lifejacket inflating by canister with a whoosh and then suddenly, BAM! As the seams of the lifejacket burst. When I deflate after the buoyancy test, I crumple the whole damn thing to make sure all the air inside comes out. I don't wish to be slapped in the face by the fabric when the thing breaks apart from over-inflation.
Back to the scene. I tilt my head to the side, grab the cord and pull it. There's the sound of gas running into the lifejacket; I feel the inflatable expanding and pressing against my chest. Thank goodness Sergeant Jin Wei told me to loosen the jacket from my body by a bit, otherwise I'd been suffocated and probably throw everything up as it squeezes my stomach. When I turn back to look front again, I see this huge bulbous thing in front of me, much larger in size than when I inflate by mouth.
Sergeant Elson calls for me to jump. I shout my appointment; hesitate for a moment before making the plunge. I actually have some distance to jump before hitting the water. The most pressing issue is how deep the water really is at this spot. I might whack my leg upon some shallow spot and cramp there in the water.
What the heck, just jump.
I land in the water. I'd expect my head to plough through the murky and extremely dirty water of the reservoir before resurfacing, but no, that doesn't happen. The lifejacket prevents the upper part of my body from even entering the water.
I swim to the front of the vehicle to await the others for another head count. Then we head back to shore.
So much for flotation.
Heard that next year we'll jump off somewhere in the middle of the reservoir, where the depth is greater and the swimming distance longer.
But that's next year. I'm not even close to ORD-ing yet in the first place.
--- II ---
Happy teachers' day.
On this occasion, I'd like to see MOE send some of its teachers to the SAF to TEACH the specialists how to TEACH. Some of the soldier-lecturers are absolutely horrible in their pedagogy.
Talk about some world-class education system.
Only in the civilian world.
¶ 9/01/2004 01:50:00 pm 0 comments
Today is the day we've been trying to avoid, but somehow the people at the top manage to have the flushing pool and the reservoir indented.
What the heck, just jump and get wet.
We are performing the emergency exit drill today, so-called "flotation" because we are supposed to wear lifejackets and thus "float" on the water - you don't expect us to sink, do you? We're going to jump wearing our usual uniform with webbing, helmet and rifle - thank goodness the fake, rubber one. Perhaps we'll sing "Underwear wet, wet / Don't believe come and check / Check already don't regret" as we pull ourselves onto shore.
Anybody wearing swimming trunks?
* * *
I'm one of the ten people in my platoon selected to escort the assault boats on their journey from Seletar Camp to our floatation reservoir, located in the Great Outdoors (see the entry dated 7 August 2004). That means having to wake up at 4:00am to get dressed. And this despite having slept at 11:00pm the night before.
Anyway we sleep in the tonner. It's a long ride to Seletar, and an even longer ride back, because the truck is not supposed to drive on the expressway with a trailer attached behind. It's pathetically difficult to sleep on board as the tonner bumps about. Sitting on the benches, you're likely to get somebody tilting his head and resting it on your shoulder, in effect pushing you downwards if you're not strong enough. Lying down is possible on both benches and floor, but the bench is narrow. The floor is decidedly more comfortable, but one is prone to get struck by one of the many dummy rifles left about on the ground. Sergeant Wenhao gets struck by one - he thinks it's retribution for hitting Zhiwei's helmet the day before while we practice setting up explosive charges on a hillside. Most of us, however, wake up eventually on the journey back, because it's so freaking long that we just don't feel like sleeping any further.
* * *
Arrival at the reservoir. We unload the boats and turn them over. Then we head for breakfast, served in packets and eaten as we listen to the last briefing before the activity commences. Lieutenant James allows us to take out the insoles of our boots, because those are the parts that are difficult to dry. We are also told to take off our garters, otherwise the air will get trapped inside our pants and when we head for the water, our legs will continually float like we've just been into the Dead Sea. Everyone does a last check on their webbings, to ensure that all pockets have been emptied clean. We are also advised to secure our water bottles, which are empty, lest they float away, as from past experience.
The first thing we do is the buoyancy test. The idea is to instil confidence in us, that our lifejackets are trusty and will not let us [sink] down. We inflate the thing by mouth, then stand in one row on the shore facing the water.
"Okay, the next group go into the water," the warrant officer sitting there refers to us.
What the heck, I tell myself. Just go for it. Just don't think about the discomfort of wearing wet clothes and boots and - underwear. I walk forward. The water rises against the side of the boots and spill in. I'm going deeper. The water is reaching my waist. I feel my underwear sticking to my skin. "Waaaaah, shiok ah!" I suspect my cry is absolutely contradictory to what I'm really thinking.
I throw the rest of my body into the water. My head fails to touch it, because of the lifejacket, which keeps the part of the body above it afloat. It takes a lot of getting used to, because you can't flatten your body to turn around as you do when swimming without any flotation aids. Now my body is tilted at some absurd angle, held in place by the balloon I am wearing about my chest.
"Lie on your backs and keep your legs up."
I lie on my back. The legs encounter some difficulty: they refuse to protrude out of water. The sodden boots are just too heavy to lift.
"Okay, head back to shore."
Normally, when I swim, I put my head underwater. Now I can't. I try swimming backwards. Not much progress. Alvin is next to me, splashing away as he tries to direct himself to shore. Eventually an exasperated Sergeant Wenhao grabs the both of us by the life jackets and tug us along the water.
* * *
Fast forward to the actual emergency exit drill in water.
We load up into the tank. It slowly reverses down the shore, into the water. I thought that water will come into the cabin, but that doesn't happen. Anyway the water here is shallow: 1.2m. The height at the ends of your usual swimming pool. I look out of the small window at the water swirling about the skin of the vehicle.
Then it stops. Sergeant Elson yells, "Emergency exit drill now!"
I push the hatch and lift myself onto the roof of the tank. The stupid rifle nearly gets in the way. If it permits I'd ditch the fucking thing into the water straightaway. Anyway, in reality, if we ever feel we are sinking we can strip every shit thing on our bodies into the water to lessen the weight upon our bodies.
Everybody is on the roof of the vehicle. After a head count, Sergeant Wenhao yells the order to inflate. The gas canister which I have received prior to mounting the vehicle is already in place. All I have to do is to pull the string, like what they do in those aircraft emergency videos, and the whole jacket will inflate within seconds. We've been briefed the night before by the RSM - in fact that's the only time he stands up to say something to us. "Gentlemen, make sure you deflate the lifejacket fully, if not it'll BLOW IN YOUR FACE." Anyway, there's been past experiences of the lifejacket inflating by canister with a whoosh and then suddenly, BAM! As the seams of the lifejacket burst. When I deflate after the buoyancy test, I crumple the whole damn thing to make sure all the air inside comes out. I don't wish to be slapped in the face by the fabric when the thing breaks apart from over-inflation.
Back to the scene. I tilt my head to the side, grab the cord and pull it. There's the sound of gas running into the lifejacket; I feel the inflatable expanding and pressing against my chest. Thank goodness Sergeant Jin Wei told me to loosen the jacket from my body by a bit, otherwise I'd been suffocated and probably throw everything up as it squeezes my stomach. When I turn back to look front again, I see this huge bulbous thing in front of me, much larger in size than when I inflate by mouth.
Sergeant Elson calls for me to jump. I shout my appointment; hesitate for a moment before making the plunge. I actually have some distance to jump before hitting the water. The most pressing issue is how deep the water really is at this spot. I might whack my leg upon some shallow spot and cramp there in the water.
What the heck, just jump.
I land in the water. I'd expect my head to plough through the murky and extremely dirty water of the reservoir before resurfacing, but no, that doesn't happen. The lifejacket prevents the upper part of my body from even entering the water.
I swim to the front of the vehicle to await the others for another head count. Then we head back to shore.
So much for flotation.
Heard that next year we'll jump off somewhere in the middle of the reservoir, where the depth is greater and the swimming distance longer.
But that's next year. I'm not even close to ORD-ing yet in the first place.
--- II ---
Happy teachers' day.
On this occasion, I'd like to see MOE send some of its teachers to the SAF to TEACH the specialists how to TEACH. Some of the soldier-lecturers are absolutely horrible in their pedagogy.
Talk about some world-class education system.
Only in the civilian world.
DISCLAIMER:
I blog on MS Word - and I frequently backlog because I don't have the time to write everything on the same day, so please ignore the TIME of post.
About Me
- Name: ah lum
- Location: Singapore
Joker who spends his free time milling around NUS pretending to be a student...
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02/01/2009 - 03/01/2009 /
03/01/2009 - 04/01/2009 /
04/01/2009 - 05/01/2009 /
05/01/2009 - 06/01/2009 /
06/01/2009 - 07/01/2009 /
07/01/2009 - 08/01/2009 /
08/01/2009 - 09/01/2009 /
09/01/2009 - 10/01/2009 /
