Category: Diary

My mother and I are telepathically connected.  Just when Cynthia and I have exhausted all means to remove a foreign object that had been mysteriously embedded into the soft and fleshy underbelly of my right toe, just when we have exhausted all explanations short of labeling the object as an alien implant – a gift from the return of my recent alien abduction, and just when I was thinking of calling my home in Hong Kong for an answer, my phone rang.

“It looks like a piece of hair, mom.  1 cm long.  It could be inside for quite some time,” said I.  “How can a piece of hair get into your toe?  That has to be a splinter,” replied her.  Whether she is right or wrong, it is comforting to hear my mother’s voice.  And we agreed that I should see a doctor the next day.

Later that evening, Cynthia offered to take it out for me using a needle.  I adore Cynthia, don’t get me wrong.  But I doubt that she can play the role as a nurse, when it comes to working with my … big toe.  Cynthia laughed and said that if her mom in Indonesia was to know that I was going to see a doctor for this, she would be laughing hard.

This morning, the rain was horrendous.  Part of the road was flooded.  I braved the rain and walked to a clinic that was a few blocks away from where I parked my car.  By the time I was inside the consultation room, my shoes were soaking wet.  As I took off my socks showing my favorite doctor in town this strange foreign object inside my toe, he asked, “Have you been to the wood lately?  Were you barefooted?  When did this happen?”.

To be frank, if not for the recent occasional sharp pain and over the months numbness, I would not have even noticed.  I mean, how often does one examine the bottom of his feet unless he is diabetic?  In any given day, this chubby friendly doctor always looks happy.  But this morning, he looked serious.  Very serious.  I asked if he was OK.  And he said he needed to think.

OK.  I kept quiet, lying on the bed waiting for his next move.  I wanted to ask if he has done this before but that probably would not help the situation.  So I put my arms behind my head looking relax as though I was waiting for a foot massage by the beach overlooking the sea.  Still keeping mum, the doctor pulled out a small steel tray and started to line up the clinical tools in front of me.  Gasp!  That reminded me of either (a) a typical spy interrogation movie scene or (b) TV series such as “CSI” and “Bones”.

First, I felt a needle poked into the underbelly of my toe.  OK.  That was not that bad.  And then I felt the needle again, again, and again.  Deeper, deeper, and deeper.  Hmmm.  That was not looking good.  The doctor tried to pull the foreign object out using the tweezers.  And then I felt the needle; and then I felt the tweezers; and the needle; and the tweezers.  Ouch, ouch, and ouch!  I tried to get distracted but all I saw was a bookshelf, with not too interesting books.  If I was a doctor, I would have put a beautiful landscape picture on the wall.  Preferably a beach overlooking the sunset.  Sunset is good because it transcribes to: Time flies and it will be over before you know it.

Some say that having a religion helps with time like this.  I recited the Lord’s Prayer in my head in near fluidity only to be punctuated by the needle.  But I suppose if I was to recite Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet – one of my favorite play – that would have had the same effect.  From the distraction point of view of course.

The doctor took out a bigger pair of tweezers, with more poking into my toe by the needle, but nothing seemed to work.  I saw a cotton soaked in blood.  I was breathing hard in pain.  At one point, he paused and called for the nurse.  The nurse entered the room looking calm and she wore a surgical mask and a pair of surgical gloves as the doctor explained, “There is a splinter inside.  I need you to open it up like this.”  Uh-oh.

By the time the good doctor managed to pull out the foreign object, I was in joy.  He showed it to me.  Yes, it was a piece of hair, just as what I have observed.  “Do you want to keep this?” asked he with a smile.  Huh?!  Before I could reply, he turned to the nurse and said, “Get me a Ziploc bag please.  I am putting this inside for him.”  And she went: Huh?!  I am not sure if it is a common practice for patients to keep foreign objects as souvenirs, like bullets.  But I know for sure I don’t want to keep that piece of hair with me.  I declined with all my heart.  During the debrief, the doctor recapped on what he has gone through, why he needed to attacked from all angles (because the hair moves versus if it was a splinter), and as he gestured the operation in excitement, I thought of Starcraft and added, “So, this requires strategy.”  “Strategy!  Yes, strategy!” exclaimed he.  “Have you done this before doc?” asked I.  “Splinter, yes.  Hair, no”.  And we laughed.

When I called home later that day, my dad picked up the call.  He was as comical as ever.  And he said in all seriousness, “Yes, that happens.  That’s why you need to watch out and be very carefully when you take a shower.  And try not to step onto any hair.”  Whether he is serious or not, it is comforting to hear my father’s voice.

I am unsure if you have experienced something similar like I do.  Day in, day out, I do the same thing, travel the same set of roads, see the same group of people, the same set of buildings; the very sameness that is reinforced by the routine activities that burned inside my head like the burn-in of an old plasma television.  People’s names, bus numbers, addresses, telephone numbers, voicemail passwords, floor numbers, colour of the lifts, decoration of the lobbies, layouts of the office, of the shops, of where I live – everything that seems impossible to forget today.  Fast forward to decades in the future, how much detail would I remember?  Hardly any, I reckon.  But I think memory leak is not the only culprit.  ‘I forgot’ implies that a piece of my memory has vanished.  Yet, memories do not vanish.  Memories get overwritten by memories of similar nature.  Memories get distorted by the dreams that we generate while we are sleeping.  In short, some past memories get buried so deep over time that the more we attempt to peel away the layers, the more distorted they become, which in turn being moulded into something of our imagination.  Perhaps that explains why ex-lovers and past crushes always look exceptionally stunning and beautiful – in our minds.

Here is what I remember when I think of my secondary school in Hong Kong: Through the wooden front entrance, on the right was a row of windows.  On the left was a stall that sold snacks and beverages.  Beyond the stall was an open air spiral staircase that led to an indoor playground at a lower level.  Inside the playground, on the far end was a stage.  On the right was teachers’ office.  I might have been inside for several occasions but I only remember two significant ones.  One time I was being caned.  I forgot what crime I had committed but I remember what punishment I had received.  Another time I wanted to see the vice principal.  Thanking him for helping me to get the scholarship to study in UK.  To express my thanks in a more tangible way, I gave him the honour to give me an English name because I had this concern that British people would find it difficult to remember my Chinese name.  I could see from his glittering eyes that he was happy.  He asked if I wanted a common name or a rare one.  I asked for a rare one in a heartbeat.

Why did I do that?!

So my vice principal opened up a Catholic dictionary for names and picked one for me.  To ensure that I remember where my name comes from, he made a copy of the relevant page for my future reference.  That was before the days of Internet whereby almost anything under the moon and sun is just a Google away.  Till today, I still like the uniqueness of my English given name.  But I cannot deny that it has confused the living hell out of everyone around me.  People have tried to adapt.  Some insist in spelling my name the way they think it should be.  Like Wilfred.  One has taken the liberty to create a nickname for me.

You know how working is like.  There is one task you need to do.  And you have become so focused that people’s chatting around you no longer bothers you, how loud your neighbour types no longer bothers you, even the vacuum machine or the coffee making machine nearby no longer bothers you.  These sources of sound do not vanish.  They are merely overwritten by the internal thinking and dialogues inside your head.  One day while I was totally absorbed in my work, there was a small voice nearby that had become louder and louder until this new colleague of mine had to come really close to me, wave at me, and distract me.  He said, “Willy, I was calling you!”.  WHO?!  To give a bit of background here, he is one great guy at work.  The problem is that I am not trained to response to the name Willy.  I am amused in a sense that I get to relive the journey of how a baby learns to respond to his or her name called by others.  I am also amused in a sense that I could take the opportunity to assume another persona during working hours.  Willy to me is like Sasha Fierce to Beyoncé Knowles.  Wilfrid has integrity, he would not do certain things at work.  But what about Willy?  Perhaps Willy is a retard at work because retards do not need to do much but yet have a role to play.  Or perhaps Willy should be someone ruthless, brutal, who has the mindset of winning is everything, whatever the cost, whatever it takes.  Wilfrid could never be a CEO but perhaps Willy may have a shot?

Now how about that?

Lately, I find myself cruising at snail speed, on almost everything that I am doing, that I am planning to do.  Perhaps August is the month that is at the tail end of a summer holiday, but not quite near to the year end events such as Christmas celebration.  Or perhaps, I am feeling blah hit by cumulative blocks of things-not-moving.  When things are not moving, there seems to be a lack of liveliness.  Where there is a lack of liveliness, things do not seem to be as interesting.  Hence, blah.

Lately, I am reading a book on how to appreciate novels.  While the narration is lively, the topic is heavy, especially for those who are not trained in literature.  But I want to finish reading the book.  Because one day I may write a novel.  And I feel that this book is talking to me, on what to look out for, and how to construct certain things.  Things!  What things?  It is quite an ambition to cramp semesters worth of content into a book.  And therefore, I am reading it slowly.  At snail speed.

Lately, our Spanish teacher has moved onto another school, teaching younger children.  We had a farewell dinner at Bussorah Street.  It was my first time visiting that part of Singapore.  At one end of the street is a majestic mosque.  What a beautiful sight!  I wonder if this mosque allows visitors to enter, like the churches.  On top of my dinning table today are two Spanish exercise books that Cynthia and I have purchased.  They are still good as new.  Because they are new and untouched.  I know we have to find a way to make some real progress in our Spanish study, lest we may lose our momentum.  And I have been thinking lately.  Perhaps all we need is to write some crazy Spanish, speak some crazy Spanish, make some mistakes, a lot of mistakes, and learn from them.  It is hard to learn how to cycle if we are trying too hard not to fall, isn’t it?

Cycling in Singapore outside the designated areas is a crazy idea.  I have friends who are passionate in cycling, who think that it is OK to cycle on the roads here.  I too am passionate on cycling but I treasure my life.  Rarely do I see cyclists here giving hand signals when changing lanes.  Or turn on the lights – front and rear – in the evening.  If the Singaporean drivers cannot even take care of the motorcyclists on the roads, what make anyone think that it is safe to cycle on the roads that are meant for automobiles?  One evening, as I drove from my workplace to town, I saw a SUV blatantly went through a red light while the rest of the cars were waiting patiently for the green light.  A few junctions later, I saw a cyclist going through a red light when the light changed from green to red.  After making a turn, I saw a big truck crashed onto a yellow taxi.  All within no more than 2 kilometers.  Tell me, is it or is it not crazy to cycle in town?

Oh, one day, while I was driving, I saw a cyclist climbing the up slope of a slip road and that slip road would eventually lead to a highway.  I think there is a fine line between bravery and insanity.

Lately, I have not had the opportunity to jam.  And I miss my band.  Commitment is often not something we could demand from others, or even ourselves.  I get that.  It is because grown-ups have different life priorities.  Cynthia and I have been watching a Japanese anime series called “Nana”.  Yes, we can relate to the challenge of regrouping, or the desperation of finding a drummer.  I wish I could say in conviction that if Nana can do it, we too can do it!  But I am not a teen no more.

While the band is put on hold (or on a very slow progress, like sub-zero), I still have the desire to do a demo recording on the songs I wrote over the years.  I know in certainty that slowly, I will forget the songs bit by bit.  I suspect that like many things in life, this would probably take lesser time than I have anticipated.  So why not start now?

Lately, for some strange reasons, my life has turned geek.  Gaming aside, I had this huge episode with my network storage device that I have promised a friend who has helped in our rescue mission to write an entry here in order to commemorate our victory against all odds (I will, buddy!).  I have also bought a docking station that allows me to swap the hard disks with a push of a button, which I am still trying to get it to work the way I desire.  And I have bought a multimedia card that turns my computer into a TV console, which I am still unable to record the HD content (I doubt that I could).  And this evening, my friend has passed me this really funky, this expensively funky device that does more than merely a HDMI switch for trial, which I am digging deep into the features that suppose to enhance the picture quality while satisfying my explosive need of more and more HDMI inputs.  At times I wonder, when I get to the age of my mother today, would I be staring at the pieces of technological devices and ponder: What the heck are these things for?!

Lately, I have started to think about how much money I would need to put aside for a comfortable retirement in Singapore.  I think the calculation slows down to a snail speed when the figure reached six digits.  Like before and the rest, that calculation has to be put on hold.

I am not a sociologist.  But I suspect that when you temporary move someone from one environment to another, that causes a temporary change in behavior that may linger for a little bit when you move that someone back to the original environment.  For the last two weeks, in France, I constantly kept an eye on the sky.  The quality of light on my subjects and finding the spot to have the most beautiful blue sky as a background is something I would look for when taking pictures.  I observe that the portion of the sky that is nearest the giant light bulb – the sun – is often less blue than the portion that is furthest away from it.  Of course, how deep the blue is depends on the absence of cloud, the air humidity, and the time of the day.  At least that is how I would form my theory literally from thin air as I explained to Cynthia in the car this morning.  In any given normal day in Singapore, I would not pay that much attention to how the sky looks like.  But because I was so used to watching the sky while we were holidaying in France, I have this temporary habit to pause and scan our atmosphere.  What a beautiful day this morning!  I could see patches of light blue in the sky hiding behind countless of fluffy cotton-like cloud.  I read somewhere that there is a terminology for cloud of that form.  But I forgot what it is called.

“How come the blue sky in Singapore is not as blue as the one in France?” asked Cynthia.  And that was when I pulled out that theory of mine from thin air.  She bought it, like she is buying all my bizarre theories.  The same way as I am taking everything that she attempts to cook.  That is what couples do, yes?

This morning, the blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds was exceptionally adorable.  At one spot, we caught two patches of blue sky, in two different taints.  A lighter blue on top and a darker blue at the bottom, separated by a rather thick thread of cloud in the form of a white scarf.  As we looked ahead, we have seen something unusual.  A skyline that was not there before we left town two weeks ago.  We can see the faraway commercial buildings, a view that was blocked by the long rows of trees along the highway.  What happens to the trees?  The tall ones are now replaced by the shorter ones, younger looking ones, different looking ones, with different types of colors, in the form of an inverted mop.  Part of the highway expansion project, perhaps?

I think drivers in Singapore should at least try to rent and drive a small car during one of the overseas trips.  Like a 1.4 litre diesel car that we drove in France.  I have become more aware of the slower moving vehicles on the road.  I have become – temporarily – a more gentle driver, which surprisingly good I am feeling.

Last evening, we drove pass Cineleisure at Orchard after watching a movie at the very building.  Cynthia exclaimed, “Look, there is a new McDonald’s!”  We visit Orchard often and where does the McDonald’s come from?  We were away for merely two weeks!  More shockingly, we noticed a brand new building facing Cinelesiure, linked by the new McDonald’s.  I searched deep into my memory.  A long time ago it was a road.  And the road became a green patch of state land, a park perhaps.  I thought hard till I hit a mental void.  Then suddenly I thought of the Japanese animation Evangelion:1.0 whereby mechanical buildings spawn from the ground at night changing the landscape of the entire city.

I am serious.  Where does that building come from?!

This morning, after I parked my car at my office area, in the far east of the city, I greeted the lady who handles my season car park payment.  She was not her usual self.  What’s wrong, I asked.  A lizard (gecko), she screamed.  Geckos are friendly animals.  They eat up the small insects.  I tried to explain.  She jumped out of her counter, called out in Malay, and soon a male cleaner came by with a broom.  A type of broom with short, hard bristles.  Leave it alone, I pleaded for mercy on behalf of a harmless animal.  I have not seen someone murders a gecko in real life and I was speechless as I saw the cleaner in one swift motion pinned down the animal with the broom and stepped onto it.  And I saw a lifeless gecko.  A sizable one.

Outside, the sky was as beautiful as an hour ago, when Cynthia and I stepped out of our home.  I wonder when I will stop admiring the sky and return to my usual routines.  There are things that are out of our control (poor gecko); there are things that we can influence (more gentle driving on the road); there are natural gifts that are free (the sun, the beautiful blue sky, and the shape-shifting clouds); and there are ever changing man made landscapes that remind us that today is not the same as yesterday is not the same as the day before.