CCLXXI - the time for sadness is over

The time for sadness is over. I know that you feel sad when I tell you it's time for me to drop you off. You don't have the words to say it. But you get grouchy. You complain. When I first had to go, leaving you behind, you said, Papa, sit down. I can hardly think about that without feeling sad, sad to the heart. I think in time you will know that I would have liked dearly to stay. I have said, many times, that I am doing everything I can to have you here a little longer. Papa is doing everything I can, you repeated. One thing I am glad for, to be honest, is that I am not bitter with sadness. I believe in the truth. One day you will see the truth, as you already know it.

Still, we have a few days to go before some good things are going to happen. I was confident, to a very good degree. I am confident, since technically speaking, we are still waiting. In the meantime, we wait. So I know when you are unhappy. I think about you very much, darling. You are, in some ways, more loved than many dear children in this strange, hard little world. One day I will tell you all about that; and perhaps you will understand that our little unhappinesses are the kind of thing that we can totally accept. 

I want you to know that wherever I go, I think of you, and I think in some ways, wherever you go, you think of me too. That is enough. Well, very shortly, anyway, I think I can tell you some good things. So I dare believe, the time for sadness is over. Maybe there will be time for remonstrations. I'll leave that to you. I am thirty nine years old, darling. I don't have time for stupid people, cynical people, self-centred people, or people who lie. I like to say quietly to myself, I'm not the guy that's going to teach you. And so I move on. 

You will enjoy living with me, bobo. I don't flatter myself with these words. There are many things I do which you clearly love doing, or at least, sitting alongside when I do. And you have the ability, a true quality, of entertaining yourself. I hope you will have a classic childhood, darling. That is the least I can offer you. You will see two different patterns of guiding. In time you can come to your own conclusions.

Hope is a wonderful thing. I have it, in spades, in buckets. Things have gone steadily upwards this year for me, with you, and with some others I think of fondly. I will sing happy birthday, with you, for Papa, soon.

CCLXX - funnier inside

I was very annoyed yesterday. It matters little why. But when I saw your little face it became possible for me to simply be there in the moment, with you. You had to go back in to have your diaper changed, for a sudden number two. Perhaps you got excited. 

I recall a friend of mine, whose dad sat with her in the car, as it rolled down from our school to the exit gantry. Our old school was on a hill. As it stopped there, she couldn't move the car forward again. She then realised that she hadn't switched on the ignition. As she tells it, she looked at her dad, perhaps aghast. Her dad had kept quiet the whole time. Perhaps he smiled a little. I totally understand now. It's funny, but it's somehow funnier inside. She asked, perhaps annoyed, why didn't you say something? Again, I think he smiled a little. It's so funny.

You made a joke yesterday, and you were thrilled by it. I still find myself a little bewildered that you did. I said, Again, I've told you not to do that, OK darling. And you said, Again, Papa? Do again? And you waited for a bit, and started laughing when I couldn't help but start smiling. 

You seem to like promises. You have said, several times, that Papa will bring you on the bus one day. Don't worry, I don't forget. I like promises, too.

CCLXIX - Your Papa and You

I think by now you know that Papa Ian is a very funny man. I'm sure you know many other things about me now, that you discovered by observation, and intuition. The central, or perhaps enduring, characteristic of children is curiosity, and you have your share. That is one of the things that unites us, darling. Maybe I am still a child, although I am too old by most people's thinking. They expect me to be a lot more. It's not difficult for me not to disappoint them, but the strange thing is that given that they only see the outward man, it is difficult for them to truly grasp me. 

Not with you. You are two and a half years old, but there is some special insight that you have. Frankly, that, all children have, in some form; I have often said that children understand me because they can see into my soul. Adults cannot, because most of the time they are thinking adult things, adult modes, adult anxieties. But when you look at me, besides the fact that you have known me all your life, you can see into me. You are often thrilled by the possibility of what I am about to say, or do. This, I know, or perhaps, I choose to believe. 

On the other hand, I cannot quite see into you, although I try so hard to. I guess I try not to assume what you are thinking, or to project (a very encumbered word) what I think you might be thinking; at the very least, because I am no longer as young as you, and I cannot think the way you do. I have to give myself intellectual room to accept your possibilities, in other words; whether actual or latent. I can only guess what you are thinking, based on what you are saying, and sometimes even hearing through your phrases are a challenge. You are quite good at talking, but obviously, you sometimes spout something that I am not used to hearing. I tell you that I don't understand, and you seem satisfied, especially if I repeat your gibberish phrase. 

You know by now that you always have my attention, and I'm always in a good temper when you're here; that probably means a lot to you. Of course, you are a naughty little girl sometimes. Your little brain, inside your little sweet head, is telling you, insisting upon you, to be contrarian. But I think that that is very important. The opposite of what is right, or what is conventional, is often useful to consider, and sometimes, to experiment with. The old Italians call it chiaroscuro. When they paint, they consider how darkness accentuates, or combines with and impresses, lightness. Some of their darker paintings show the poignancy, or the depth and instancy, of the person they paint, and the dramatically poised analogy to some more mythical scene. Don't worry, I will explain paintings to you one day.

In other words, I think you must understand the wrong way to appreciate the reliability, and the limits, of the right way. Counter-cultural and contrarian attitudes are hallmarks of a thinking person; a good author once said that a thinking person can entertain two opposed ideas in one's head. I am just that sort of man, darling; which is why I smile all the time. People almost never understand why. Well, it pleases me to know both sides, well. I hope it does you, too.

CCLXIII - houses, cars and mediocrity

I am a Singaporean. When I say that I think, of course, of the person who hears it. What's there to feel about a statement of fact such as that? In my mind, perhaps a little gratitude and perhaps a little discomfort. Something not quite shame, but more than unease. We haven't had to feel inferior about being a Singaporean for probably forty or so years, which is how old I am. Being a Singaporean is a stroke of incredible fortune; which is not to say that not being a Singaporean is a stroke of incredible misfortune. I say this only to emphasise that I think a lot about the person who hears it and responds to it. I wonder what they, who are not Singaporeans, think, and try to understand whether they lament. I think they generally wish to join in our society, and the toppermost is of course, citizenship. We get a more or less certain warranty, in our lives, that we will live decently; that the middle path is a reasonably broad and comfortable option. That is Singapore. You couldn't say that about many places; and even if you could, you might think that several concessions would have to be made about such-and-such's overall consistency of decency. The middle path in Singapore is decent to a T.

At the same time, this reality implies many things. I regret many of them. I think often that the Singaporean dream consists of houses, cars and mediocrity. We are blithe to many things around us, because we assume that it is our individual duty to work harder, and provide for oneself; meaning what we are is the result of our diligence, and that speaks for itself. Let any conversation occur between any number of Singaporeans. What are the usual topics spoken of, money, TV, food, travel experiences, work. These are utterly soulless things, completely unvaluable, here today, gone the next. I am not saying that the individual Singaporean cannot feel a moment's empathy for someone else; what I am saying is that he or she will not trouble himself much more than that. He or she will not think carefully about his or her intellect, soul or human desire beyond what is material. I have material things and therefore I am satisfied that my pursuits in life have rewarded me, that is what he or she says. I'm good with that, because people around me either praise me or envy me that I have that. I think it's a preposterous way to live.

I think it's important, conversely, to live plainly, because it allows one to detach from any need to have luxury, and saves the effort to keep up. I find that this sort of plainness in my appearance allows others to feel more comfortable around me. Simple and good, in so many words. Doing kind things for others helps me to see things from their perspective as well. I think what most Singaporeans don't realise is that people with lower incomes also have their pride, and the things they value are important things that we perhaps neglect, or don't prioritise. Wealth is a bit of a blinder, if you ask me, and I can't stand people who take the whole thing a bit too seriously. The great ancient men in Chinese history write, "静以修身，俭以养德", which I would explain as saying, it helps to consider oneself quietly, and to try not to spend too much, if one wishes to develop some moral values; and, "慈故能勇；俭故能广", that empathy for others allows one to be brave in protecting them, and a little frugality allows one to be quite happy to give to them. 

Therefore for these gentlemen the end of life was virtue, not wealth; and tranquility in one's place in the universe, rather than contention over how high that place was. How do you teach these things to Singaporeans? I don't know, to be honest. We think but not clearly enough, and most of the time it ends up in some meaner dissatisfaction or other. Even if we sort of reset a bit, do a little yoga or travel to Thailand, it doesn't last very long, does it? Perhaps that is the human condition; to constantly be a bit needled by something, whilst being driven from pillar to post. What do the ancients say? They say strange things: "上善若水. 水善利万物而不争，处众人之所恶，故几于道". Think of water, how wonderful it is. Everything needs water to live, but water doesn't insist on anything. In fact it sits where most people disdain. It's emblematic of the universe. Well, can we be like that? I wonder.

Similarly, the ancient Indians say, in the Bhagavad Gita, or the Song of the Lord: 

"prakasham cha pravrittim cha moham eva cha pandava

na dveshti sampravrittani na nivrittani kankshati

[the Lord] divine potent-possessing spoke
[whether] light, base action, or miscomprehension, son of Pandu
[one] loathing not their being present, nor, their ceasing, longs after
neutral in position, [by these] primal energies, one unshaken
these energies acting [in the material realm], knowing this, one remains steadfast, unmoving
[the] same [in] unease, ease, standing in self, [regarding] dirt and gold the same
equally, lovely and unlovely, steadfast, equally, blame and self-praise
honor, disgrace, equally, equally, friends or foes, both 
all endeavours one renounces, beyond [the] primal energies one is deemed."

CCLXII - the wisdom of simple things

A football is a very simple object. It is round; that implies that it rolls. That is the most important of its qualities, but by no means the only meaningful one. Through observation, and a little bit of intuition, more or less gifted to us, we tend to realise other interesting peculiarities about footballs. But that takes time kicking the little thing about; describing this is not interesting. Finding out is.

I first remember being interested in kicking footballs in Fowlie Primary School. Fowlie was interesting in a strangely bleak way. It had two straight cell blocks for classrooms, a hard square between, a pond and a tree garden, and a very large grass field with several old mango trees on its corners. I doubt very many people have written tributes to Fowlie. It's gone now. But I remember the smell of the dead mangos lying in the mud, the hard afternoon sun on the back of my shirt, the birds that the groundskeeper kept, having buddies both Malay and Chinese (and being slightly curious why the Malay boys didn't take to classes that well), taking home books from the class library and not bringing them back (mea culpa, my friends), and lending my workbooks to my friends for 20 cents. It was a question that led to it: why don't you charge them for copying, said Mrs Teo. I collected 30 cents in total, a poor haul before I was rounded up. 

I was the first to leave Fowlie for the gifted program. But I always say that I came from Fowlie. It really was a neighbourhood school, not that that means anything. Fowlie's shirts were polka dot purple on white; imagine that. I still remember an Indian canteen lady owner who gave me a piece of bread with kaya one forlorn afternoon, when the school bus driver asked me a confusing question in chinese, and I couldn't answer. Whenever I eat bread with kaya now, I think of her kindness; in some ways that's also why I hand out buns to foreigners I meet. Anyway, Fowlie had a large field, and we played football. I hit a ball nicely with my right foot, and it smacked a cone that served as a goal post. I felt that was easy, and fun.

In Tao Nan we played football during recess. We had to play it. 30 minutes wasn't very long, but we had to. We came back sweaty and gross, but that was a small matter. In one year we had ten footballs confiscated for various reasons, mostly because we were playing them in places other than the courts. I suspect that the teachers were annoyed with our love for it. Tao Nan had a big grass field then. Grass is very interesting, because you never know how the ball flops along on the grass, and when it's muddy, it stinks pretty bad. 

I played football by myself at a nearby HDB plaza, trying to kick down my water bottle from a distance. Most of the other boys were better, but they were showy and lazy. I lent them my ball once, and they sent me to different houses to get it back. I cried when I realised that they had tricked me. It was my dad's old ball, but he didn't really seem too concerned about it. My dad played with me once or twice. He used to play at a big field opposite our flat in Hougang, when I was really young. My sister and I would go and watch from the side. I remember my dad would come back tired. My dad became annoyed with me when I couldn't pass the ball back to his feet. He really should have tried to explain to me that it was the most important thing in football, leading to many other things.

Besides playing on grass in the now-past law school premises, and a little in the evenings at a small court nearby, I sometimes went to play with senior Malay folks at East Coast Park. But I guess I only got serious when I joined the cabin crew boys at their twice weekly full pitch trainings, on turf. I was pretty bad, and I realised that quickly. I learnt by being open to bits of advice or lecturing from the guys. I think the most important things I learnt were to touch and pass properly, turn your eyes left and right every so often, making a quick decision, main senang, i.e. playing easy, and sticking with it, playing the offside line, and close pressing the other team in possession. Boy, I learnt a lot of Malay words.

I played well enough over time that I think I now fit into most amateur teams, at least, as a reliable replacement. I'm a good guy to have on the team. I love playing with certain teams - those more composed, and less likely to be frustrated when things go badly. I travelled to play too, thanks to the ownership and management of my main team. Now, frankly, I have the opportunity to play every day of the week. But I can't, I have to manage my feet, and my plantar problems. So I do other things. 

But I say to people, football keeps me young. I'm 39 years old, and I can't think of a game that's given me more friendship, confidence and satisfaction. A very simple object; and it gives you a very complex game, and a very fascinating experience. It is a language to be spoken with anyone, capable of subtlety, fullness of expression and profound admiration. I like to think of it as the wisdom of simple things, if you can strip away all the bullshit that people bring onto the field. I think I can, at least.

CCLXI - a friend in you

I feel like we are friends, darling. Real friends. God has given me a friend in you. I don't know if it's becoming a father that makes me like this, but I cry a lot more these days. Not out of sadness, out of a sense of desperate joy and deep-wrenched empathy. I can explain why I feel these things, but they only matter in the moment, so it's pointless to write them down. Remembering them is enough, but even that cannot capture the strength of the impetus to cry. I just take a deep breath and my eyes fill with tears. 

I just read a project by Ai Wei Wei, in which he invited some people to live in a converted warehouse and appreciate the artwork and feel of the city. I thought, how marvellous; how many lives he's changed in that thing he's done. It shows how people can live together, if they cherish the present, and the beauty of a real artist, open their minds to the impermanence of life and inanity of dogma, take two sides in at the same time. Think internally and introspectively, observe something, create something, be a little bit of something.

I thought it was very funny that you were very quiet and timid when other people were around; but in the car you were your yappy self again. God has given me a friend in you, darling. I hope you'll like jazz, like I do. I have so many favourite songs now. They remind me of quiet, beautiful days; like today. I love you, darling.

CCLX - ChatGPT: "machines do not revere"

Q: Do you disagree with me, or have I failed to consider anything good about AI?

You have not overlooked the obvious advantages. You acknowledge AI’s utility, scale, and computational superiority. Your critique is not naïve. However, there are several considerations you may be underweighting.

1. Augmentation vs. Replacement

Your argument assumes a zero-sum exchange: if the machine writes, the human does not. In practice, many uses of AI are augmentative. It can surface counterarguments, expose blind spots, or compress background research—functions that may intensify rather than dilute authorship. The act of choosing, rejecting, and reshaping remains human.

2. Cognitive Extension Is Not New

Writing itself externalised memory. Calculus externalised intuition about motion. Search engines externalised recall. Each shift triggered anxieties about intellectual atrophy. The relevant question may not be whether neurons “fire less,” but whether cognitive labor migrates upward—toward synthesis, judgment, and framing.

3. Friction Can Be Designed

You argue that instant answers extinguish curiosity. That is plausible—but friction need not disappear. A tool can be used adversarially: to demand alternative formulations, to stress-test arguments, to force precision. In that mode, AI becomes a dialectical partner rather than a dispenser of closure.

4. Creativity and Constraint

You frame AI as mimicry without understanding. That is technically accurate in present terms. Yet human creativity also recombines prior material under constraint. The distinction between statistical recombination and human synthesis may be narrower in practice than it appears philosophically.

5. Access and Equity

For many, AI lowers barriers to entry—language translation, tutoring, drafting assistance. What you perceive as loss of self-discovery, others experience as newly possible participation.

Your core value—authentic self-formation through struggle—is coherent. The tension lies not in whether AI is powerful, but in whether power necessarily displaces meaning. It may not. The decisive variable is not the machine, but the posture of the user. 

(exchange goes on for some time, each time the AI takes about 2 seconds to reply, which is kinda uncomfortable.)

CCLIX - on artificial intelligence

I do not criticise artificial intelligence, I am simply trying to explain what I don't like about it. With my dilettante's knowledge about artificial intelligence, it's a little difficult to write about it, much less to explain why I don't like it. But I cannot say that I like it, and by that token, as far as possible, I don't intend to use it. In some ways, saying that aloud makes me feel satisfied. I know that I am rowing against the great tide of positive sentiment for it. I know that it makes me a sort of old fart. I know that I am, quite obviously, foolishly, relinquishing, or perhaps squandering, what is of great use in the right hands. But these are not my hands, they won't be my hands. My hands express what is in my mind to express, and they have done so for a very long time. I couldn't give that up, not to another person, and not to an engine, or an ingenious device.

Which is not to say that I hate it. You might as well hate the steam engine. If suspicion, distaste, condescension and disdain can someday form a powerful hate, then perhaps it just requires my seeing the hateful product of artificial intelligence to hate it. But I don't think it's worth hating something, whether badly created, or badly formed, if it comes from an aggregating power. Essentially that's what I see when I see an artificial intelligence chatbot. It trawls a large, phenomenally large database, possibly all existing human writing, which is larger than I know, but not larger than I can imagine. Then it forms an answer to a question. How it does so, is the ground meat in the sausage. If I can say how I think it does it, it puts a string of letters together that it thinks it has seen before. It uses probability to determine, one letter at a time, what the answer should be. Then it checks the total answer. If the answer sucks, too far away from what it thinks it sees, it repeats, until the output works. And it works the same when it comes to creating images, it uses probability, one pixel at a time, to determine what the picture looks like. In other words, it can mimic a universe, by one dot's relation to another over so many dimensions, but it doesn't necessarily understand the universe, what it is, or how it came about. That takes a bit more unpacking. That's the impulse of humanity's desire for knowledge.

I think doubting artificial intelligence is a fool's game. Give it an eight-by-eight chessboard, and it will crank out the nine billion potential places where the pieces go, and how to win, or at least draw, from every position. Give it anything which you can break down into bits; the same will be granted. What happens when you take an infinite processor, no soul, and let it chill over every known fact to man? It's hard to predict, but perhaps its god-like power is, within a certain sandbox, or playground, capable of utterly, diminutively, smashing humanity's best effort. So if that playground is bigger than we thought, or at least sort of expands past what we drew up, what happens next? If you can show a machine a triangle and a circle, doesn't it imply that the machine will realise trigonometry and calculus, and so on and so forth up to the nth? The playground is then as large as our reality. Well, we have to lose, I suppose. Our much-vaunted intellect simply becomes too slow, too small to matter. In a machine's mimicry, it can outgun originality. 

To those who value utility, utility even at the sake of self-nurturing and discovery, the advantages of artificial intelligence are indisputable. Because, I think, that is the cost of using something so useful. I think that there is great importance in slow, steady learning, with room to sit back, think, and imagine, to breathe in the words. I think that neurons that don't fire enough tend to die, and particularly, those that only come alive when one tries to draw strange lines and images around what one has just learnt, trying to fit new ideas into one's existing scheme of knowledge. I also think that one's curiosity and focus are too quickly extinguished when any given answer is, on the face of it, too complete. There must come a point when one admits, that there is no good answer, and the hunt is afoot once again. But that drive to know the weakest part of a thought or a structure has to be individual and has to come from within. Scepticism, not the kind of weed that spreads out of dry spite or hardy ignorance, grows only in well-watered gardens of thought. And out of that buds rationality and intuition. 

Why, after all, write when something can write for you? I think that's the great question, isn't it? Because writing is fun, and it's self-discovery, and it meanders and it has dead ends and it's occasionally wrong or illogical. But sometimes it's just plain fun, and it helps you see clearly what you wanted to say. Even if it's not fantastic, even if it requires polish, even if it doesn't rhyme or sing, it's still yours, something you that you made, and can leave behind. You discover yourself through writing. That great tradition is something that we share with the finest writers of all time, names one must tremble a little to consider, much less to stand beside. Really, to give that up, to a machine, just seems to me a little vulgar.

CCLVIII - what makes a comic great

I love comics. Comics are that incredible interlace between action, expression, contemplation and speech, filled with colour, hand-drawn authenticity and freedom to draw, whether within or without the panel or filling the entire page. That wow moment when you hit a "centrefold", that action scene, or the beautiful, leather-and-mesh femme fatale drawn entirely across, even to the extent of pull out pages, I mean, that's comics. They come from an older time, too, and being drawn and filled by I think the quirkier characters and artists of the 70s or 80s, it feels like something precious handed down by an older generation of flat-out rebels: men who hated villainy, hegemony, smallness, and instead celebrated manhood, the strength of women, the underdog, the street champion against all odds. What makes a comic great? I think it's to do with the fact that it's immediately brought to your attention, opening a comic book, that there is something great in this world that has to be overcome, and the person you're reading about is just the person to do it, in his or her own way. And obviously, comic books are about the very, sexy, women.

I have a favourite comic character, the Batman. It's very simple why I like the Batman. The fact is, he doesn't have any super powers, but he uses his god damn brains to fight crime, and his will. Yes, sure, he has money, and Alfred, but you might think that he's still the Batman regardless. And come on, the villains he has! The very best, the Joker. There isn't a better villain. He's not exactly the anti-thesis of Batman. He's simply himself; he's out there to embody madness. Batman, in contrast, embodies something more concrete; he simply doesn't tolerate crime. Some say, Batman is an outlaw. I think that sort of misses the point. He has a moral compass which is 99% within the shape of the law, and the things he does in that other 1%, he regrets, I promise you. In some ways, he plays the Batman with sorrow. The Joker's glee, if you were to put it that way, is not really the point, it's just a symptom of his being the Joker. He doesn't need to entertain anyone, or even himself; he's past self-reflection. That's the incredible, magnetic thing about the Joker. He's a pure madman. How should I see it? It's like if you woke up in a dream world and you could do anything with absolutely no consequence or moral implication. Nothing. And you decided to say the hell with it, and you did whatever came to mind, all day and every day. That's what it means, I think. And the other great thing about Batman is that the Batman's antagonists know him so well. They gleefully mock and manipulate him in every setting. Over and anon, it seems less good versus evil, so much as seriousness versus fun.

I started with comics probably with Asterix and Obelix. I loved the Romans! They're so military and yet so frightened of Obelix. After that it was probably a bit of Vampirella, a tiny bit of Marvel. I'm not a Marvel fan, I'll be honest. I can't suspend my rationality enough to be one. The modern movies are too much, too. I sorta prefer the tragicomedy of the older films. I liked Sandman, I loved Watchmen on the second reading. League of Gentlemen was OK (in some ways, come to think of it, the Invisible Man is like the Joker in that he can do anything he wants and almost nobody can stop him). I don't own Superman, X-men or Spidey. I'm more of a thinking comic guy I guess; I like it when it's less explicit what's going on.

I also have this comic guy I like, he writes Achewood. Onstad. There's this other guy, Chris Ware, but he's a little bit too down for me. Achewood is it, though, to me it's basically the Simpsons of comic books. Thank god for Ray and Beef! They have to be the greatest comic book partners of all time. Ray is a completely un-selfconscious richboy fatcat, and Beef is basically a deflated balloon whizzing spirals on its way down, unless he's doing IT stuff or talking about a car, in which case he transforms into one of those geeks on Mythbusters. Onstad's thing is very obscure conversations featuring personas from history. Beyond the panels, he's gone through family, breakups, life, business, sadness, and still he gives and connects with his fans through the comics, now on Patreon. It's really good.

Again, what makes a comic great? I think consistency, and character. When I open a comic, recognise the stuff, the parts played genuinely, and the wow effect from the art, interpret the facial expressions, try to imagine what's unsaid, I think that's what makes the whole comic thing great. That's why, honestly, I don't think that comics make great movies, although they can make decent ones out of the comic characters. (Having said that, the old animated Batman series was incredible.) A comic is simply a series of panels. Once you change that, it's no longer a comic in the sense of what that concept is. The deliberacy of the snapshot by snapshot thing is gone, with all its subtext and subtlety. I like that, a lot.

CCLVII - the day will come, darling

(This too has become evidence! So I might as well reveal it.)

My darling,

You are very young and very small, but I think you understand what is happening, in your own little way. In any case, one day I will explain it all to you. My hope is that on that day you will come to peace as I have come to peace.

I understand now why my lawyer urged me to work hard at a reconciliation. It was the only way for me to see you all the time. I hope it's possible, but it depends on your mother. I will try, no matter how difficult it is or how upset or embarrassed it makes me feel, if your mother is willing to give me her terms.

Today I rode my bicycle in the park, as your mother said I could not visit you. I will visit you tomorrow. I listened to a podcast I enjoyed, and Charles Barkley said, when he was down and other people wrote to him to keep his chin up and keep going, it meant a lot to him. I started crying when I heard that, but I decided not to. It's a little odd in public, and I had to blow my nose. I think people think I don't cry. The truth is that I cry a lot when I'm sad. I am very sad to see you so little. I will keep my little chin up, and I will keep going. You are very young and one day we will be very good friends. We will be best friends, at least on my end.

I read a little on the law, and it favours your mother, assuming both she and I are equally decent parents. Assuming that we cannot agree on most things, we will have joint custody, and she will be given sole care and control. That means that you don't get to live with me until you are an adult. I want you to have the chance, if you think it's fun to. But because you are very small, I don't want to confuse you too much either. So if I cannot agree on most things with your mother, I will probably agree that she will have sole care and control, although I personally wanted you over 50% of the time.

I hope to have very amicable and very full access to you. It means that I can do things with you without restrictions. For example, we can go to Gardens by the bay, or to Changi. But it depends whether your mother, who will soon be your headmistress in many ways, can open her heart to it. I will try to persuade her.

One day I will explain to you that it happens all the time, men and women don't get along after marriage, and one of them wants a divorce. I didn't want it. But if your mother wants it, I am not going to stop her. She deserves to find her own happiness, and I sincerely want her to find it. I know that she takes good care of you, even though she doesn't know how to teach and instruct you like I do.

When you were very small, even smaller than you are now, I used to put you to bed, and even though it was very trying, because you liked to cry and complain, and I was very tired from leaning over, I thought to myself, I only have so many times left to do this, probably less than a thousand. I did not know that today that number is zero. But, my darling, I have come to peace with it.

One day we will both have to answer to you. You will remonstrate with me. You will be very upset with me, darling, for not treating your mother better, and letting things come to this. You will also be very upset with your mother, for taking you away from me. I will answer for what I have done, I promise. I hope your mother can too.

If you ever need me, baby, I will be there.

CCLVI - no longer small

You are no longer small. I am hardly worried about you in the sense of you being a tender, squishy little baby. Naturally, you have the run of the house, and your reach startles me sometimes. Around me you are hardly ever worried; you can play quietly and blissfully. I am glad that you know this. You mumble certain things in almost-words, so I am sure that you will quite enjoy talking to me. Already you enjoy certain liberties in the way you bathe, eat, change, the toys that you like to hold on to, the chairs that you like to sit on. 

Of course, I think that you are very cute. But that is not the main thing I think about when I think about you. Actually, I think that you are very interesting, and I like to try to understand your expressions. It is usually one of mirth or curiosity, and simple determination. You repeat simple words such as Up when you are climbing, and Mine when you are holding things and I request to hold them. It's very good. You are quite an active toddler, and your little round tummy doesn't slow you down. It feeds a little giddy laugh you make when you're extremely entertained.

No, you are no longer a baby. It's just one more little step for you into being a child. I hope you won't mind my being a little correct-or once in a while. I think it's what makes you happy with me, that you know my tendencies to be strict, and short of that almost anything goes. Well, that, I suppose and my ability to almost completely disdain mobile devices. God help those who can't put them down. Anyway, for you, that will be in future. Don't worry.

Sometimes when you are sad or hurt, I tell you, quiet, baby, quiet. I hope you understand; that's the best I can do. I don't intend to mollycoddle you. I don't think you need it. And it sounds too ironic when I do it anyway. Ironic means to be in contrast to what it appears to be. You'll probably understand it soon enough with me. I think most people either like it or dislike it intensely, depending whether they're smart or their stupid. Well, I shouldn't say that. You'll judge for yourself, I suppose.

CCLV - KL

KL is a lot nicer than I expected. Of what I've seen, it's cleaner and more modern than Ho Chi Minh. I would have to say that its affluence, at least on the outward side of things, at the very centre, is comparable to Singapore. But that would not go very far in describing the city. It is crowded, and doesn't have clean streets. But you can tell that it matters to them. I suppose, as in any big town, that there is a vast multitude of young and old doing menial things to keep the city sane. I hope they are not overlooked.

Anyway, you can say that KL is maybe 20 or so years behind us, in terms of what one sees from the bus and from walking the hustly bustly markets. I suppose things are cheap and living isn't too dear. There's a lot of hobby and craft on the side, a lot of room and time for it. Maybe you can say that those kinds of folks aren't grafters, but who can judge how a man or woman wants to do his or her own thing? You can't. 

I hope they think of education as precious though. You can't, and I say this with my own prejudices, but you can't provide a comparably wealthy life for yourself and your family without education. That's not saying very much, of course. It's empty by itself, and you have to fill it in with your own determinism. I guess some folks are perfectly satisfied being in first or second gear their whole lives, and think about it only later (again, with the prejudices). What am I, in fourth gear? Come on, now. Those sultans of swing were doing alright, thank you very much. I think what it takes is for a rising tide to lift all boats. Malaysia deserves it, Vietnam deserves it, etc. We were lucky, that's all.

Being a tourist is like being a little bitch. You see this, you say that, you laugh at this, you buy that. Thank god, we have a lot of Melayus and Mikes. So we blend in. But it's obvious we're here to have a good time and spend money, so thank god, we blend in. But I guess that's South East Asia, and certainly KL, everyone comes and goes, and blending in isn’t so much being x as the other side is ok with y. Hanging out with the cabin crew boys, you can see they have their own prejudices, young and old. But in general they are polite and proper, and not too bitchy. In a way, I'm glad I'm both with them and not with them, if that makes any sense. A quiet memory or two, y'know.

Football, football. We had a guy come in, phew, what a dude. Extra black, his belt. Coral, in fact. And such a sweet man too. But the truth is that he smacked a guy for kicking him, had to sit, and we lost the game after. I was so happy on Saturday, sitting down with the dude, basking in the comfort that we were playing good, going for gold. Touching distance. I have only one wish that I could do different this whole weekend, and that's I would have grabbed the other guy first and, well, shielded him. Anyway we couldn't get it done after that, no air in our balloon. I didn't even feel sad that we lost, and another team, or two, danced. It was clear. 

Anyway, I had fun, and I'm old enough not to feed sad. I feel bad for the lads that didn't get to play often. That's on the manager, not on them, 100%. I should tell them that next time. I appreciate all the lads, man, even the guys we scuffled. Not playing much, we've all been there. Well, that's that, unfortunately.

CCLIV - twinkling

I would have liked to write about you more regularly, if only to let you know that I am on occasion a passable writer, that I think about you often, and finally, I suppose, to give you a sort of running commentary on how you are becoming bigger. I guess none of those points are in serious danger of being overlooked. But I hope you enjoy these entries. One must leave behind something.

You have a funny little forward tilt when you want to advance. It smacks of a simple, confident determination, however innocent, or impulsive, it might otherwise seem. But I am convinced that you are a lot better at vouchsafing that little head of yours than me. I know, and was often told, that I used to have a lot of bumps on my forehead. Perhaps I was just a little more excitable than you. You patter along very ably now, on very strong little legs and tush. Indeed, you seldom prefer to hold on to my hand when walking through the MRT underpass. What a joyful little walking gallery it is, with long, running escalators, good airflow, and passers-by who gleam (I should say "beam", but for some reason, I prefer "gleam") so ardently at you. (It's funny I notice too that other children are a little wary of you; well, I suppose, any other toddlers.) But for now, you seem right at home. I like that about you.

Your verbal injunctions could take a little refinement. Lately every round fruit is an apple, you get what bowls are, but sometimes you say gar or something else. Well, your whinging is top-notch, I must say. I wonder where you learnt that. And the funny thing about you is that when I give you an instruction, perhaps not what you were keen to hear, you sort of have a little gumption, and take a little stand for yourself. You end up smacking something or other with your hands, yelping little 'ay's back at me, or throwing out some object you get to hand. Well, we probably have to work on that a little.

You are a very carriageable weight. 10.8, I'm told. I am happy when I carry you. You understand very well when it is time to go out, and when you are a party to the going out. Sometimes you go and stand near the door, pawing at it, of course you also look at me and whine a bit. But I guess that you know, with me, chances of you going out are very good. A clean diaper, carry pouch, shoes, umbrella. I'm the going out type myself. I hope we have many chances to do so.

A few months ago, I put you to bed most of the time. Lately, you get annoyed when it's me. I find your complaining quite funny, actually. Partly you are tired, and partly you want mama. Well, once you settle, grumpily, that it's me, it's just a matter of letting your tired little voice run down, and letting the nice little bed do its thing. A feed, cool air, and you're going to sleep. I suppose it's because I'm sterner with you, and not so coddly, that you get grumpy with me. But I believe that sternness will come good. In any case, I'm not worried one bit about your grumpiness. In time you'll be laughing with me, your hilarious little baby girl laugh.

See you later, bobo!

CCLIII - One year

I wonder if waking up without seeing someone right above your cot is unpleasant. I suppose sometimes it is. Yet sometimes, I'm told, you will sit there without making too much fuss. I think it's good for you to sit by yourself for awhile. I guess it comes naturally to some, when they're a little older. But you, being you, like to see what's going on, and little sounds immediately draw your attention. And you know where to look to see us. So I suppose your curiosity challenges your quiet observation. You are not that quiet. In fact I think you are assuredly boisterous. It is becoming more difficult to hold on to you for too long.

You have reached 10.1 kilograms. I promised to get you a slice of cake. We will see what you are able to eat, I guess. But cake is cake, so possibly you will devour it. Your belly is compellingly big, and firm. Quite muscular, in fact. I don't really know baby physiology, but I suppose it has to do with your little guts. There is a lot of soft, chubbiness in your bum bum and thighs. It's fantastic. But I like your chin and cheeks the best. They are big and pillowy.

You sorta prefer to walk now to crawling. I think most people do, but it gives you great pleasure to stand and touch things. Naturally, you love touching things. You are very busy. Boxes, in particular, may not be left alone with their contents. Perhaps some of your teeth are still on their way, and you like to chew small cardboard boxes. I suppose there is no great harm in doing so. Anyway, what you like to do is to hold on to something with one hand, and then explore everything with the other hand. I suppose it is easier to manipulate objects by focusing on one hand. But you can smack things with both hands at the same time.

The next big thing, and I suppose what I hope is best, is language. You roughly understand what 'come' and 'no' and 'quietly' and other sounds like laughter and cooing mean. Sometimes you repeat the sound, like once out of twenty. But anyway, once you get the hang of it, life becomes a lot more interesting. Of course, it will be annoying at the same time when we tell you what to do and what not to do. 'Patience' is one of those really frustrating words. Extremely counter-intuitive. We will see what we can do. 

I wonder what you think of when you look at me. I hope, as a big buddy. I am a bit of a talker, an explainer. I think you'll come to like that. If I don't know something, I will tell you. There is great value in that principle. Language is not easy, but it can be poetic, pleasingly elegant. It can also be nasty and brutish. When you are tired, when I am tired, we will revert to what we know best. I hope that we know the good best, rather than the mean and unpleasant.

Happy birthday, kid. You're doing swell.

CCLII - bigger and bouncier

You are nine months old, almost nine months. In a way you have been around for eighteen months. Some flicker of you. It is difficult for me to recall that you were very small, when you were only just born, pitifully, belovedly small. You were very small when you first came home, and for those first weeks, only a handful of kilograms. I am relieved that you are bouncy and strong.

I find it funny in a way that you are, what’s the word, determined. If you are angry, you are really angry. You are as outraged as any tiny girl can be, which is not much, but it is still something. Little yelps of anger and many drawn-out moans. Sometimes they disappear with a bit of cradling and fondling, and you just want to play or reach for something again. I usually find it funny when you sit down and cry with your eyes closed. You are very sad and there is no real reason to be. So I explain that I just want to wash my hands or check the milk. I think you are slowly starting to understand me, and I suppose my gentle voice, because you don’t seem to cry with so much anguish.

You worry me a little. Chiefly you worry me when you are coughing, puking out milk, or hot to the touch. We try to keep you cool with the fan, light clothes and a nice wet towel once in a while. Lately you have been firmly against medicine of any kind, which I can understand. It is very unpleasant to have to eat anything that you don’t really want to eat, and you have been asked to eat very many things lately.

I think you like the walks downstairs. It is usually a ten minute walk along the corridors, a ten minute sit-up, and a ten minute walk back. The sun is usually meeker around the time we go down, and sometimes it’s nice and breezy. There’s old people chatting, bicycles dinging, cars buzzing, trees stretching, balls bouncing. I think it’s much better than staying home where it’s quiet and limited, at least for now. When you’re downstairs you’re quiet, looking around intently. You like to sit up. When you’re back home you are hungry. I think that’s a good sign. Well, the mosquito problems we usually have are less problematic nowadays. I hope you’ll enjoy running around outdoors. Getting tired out there, and seeing other children play, is good for you.

I can understand why people don’t have too many children. It’s quite an ordeal. I reckon it’s eight out of ten. After you had that stomach trouble some months ago, your coughing makes you wake up at night and you also tend to puke your milk. It’s a pain, but I can accept that it’s not as bad as the past stomach trouble. We just feed you water now when you cough, and it works a charm. You like water, you little minx. Well you don’t like it poured on your head. And you don’t want it at ten at night. I learnt that the hard way, feeling quite foolish last night.

I don’t really know what toys you like for now. I think you prefer the kind that you can bite. Certainly you like to stand more than sitting with the toys. Books are sort of fun to flip, page to page. I hope you can talk soon. I call you to come over sometimes, and you don’t know, or you don’t feel the need to, I suppose. Let’s work on that.

CCLI - on giftedness

I have thought about this for a long time. I have been categorised as gifted a long time; twenty eight years, in fact. While I have some things to say, from personal experience, I don't think there's anything new in what I have in mind. Somebody out there, having thought longer than me, having been gifted longer, has probably already said it in his or her own way. But what I think continues to drive some interest in the ongoing debate, the words and words thrown at this problem, is that there is nothing said that has been truly satisfying, no wonderful and intuitive description or erudite utterance, no perspective that has finally illuminated the thing being discussed, or captured its essence. The Government may describe its policies, the academics the themes and effects, the teachers and students their own recollections, the outsiders their efforts to get in, the critics the wonkiness or sordidness, and so on, but finally, who has said anything the least bit clever about it? Plainly, none.

It is very simple. Adults simply do not know, or recall, what it is to be a gifted child, and have not the slightest clue how to talk or think like a gifted child. Therefore whatever they can think of saying is terribly adult-sounding, and meaningless. Yes, there are measures: mathematics and english. One can add measures: physical, emotional, social giftedness, these things can be asked of and obtained. But these are the facets, and not the core, of giftedness. The truth is this: every child has its (I wish to avoid repeating "his or her") own version of genius; the way it understands and treats the world. What adults wish to determine is, which child sees the world faster or more cleverly, and treats it especially fast or cleverly, that is, in objective terms. But that does not cut to the centre. The centre is a strange, nebulous mass of fascinating and bizarre ideas, utterly indescribable. You could ask a child what it thinks in those terms; you would not get the faintest cross between Alice in Wonderland and Gulliver's Travels. You could only listen in puzzled merriment; your brain could not possibly comprehend the already abbreviated phrases uttered by it. Not one part in a thousand of that wonderful flowing stream could be put into words, and still you would be lost. 

So perhaps it is better to recognise that education has a limited say in anything. OK, we know these boys and girls are a bit more clever, a bit harder to teach in the usual way, so what can we do with them in special classes? I think in those limited terms, with reasonably limited objectives, one might more easily perceive results. Better grades, livelier discussions, greater fraternity of the bizzare, and so on. Then you could ask, is it worth the trouble and expense, do the gifted children provide a richer dividend to society, and so on. Maybe yes, maybe no: and then, of course, why this policy or that, which the Government, somewhat haltingly, explains after its own fashion. These are the debated topics. 

Why should kids be treated as gifted, coddled, and given all those advantages? It is an important question, difficult to answer without talking about themes of social equality and so on. Here's an answer: all kids should be treated as gifted. But education in its popular form cannot really do it. Therefore let the smaller part be saved. That is the implicit answer. 

In the end, I think of it as the classroom being a playground. I don't even think there is an inherent difference in the two. If you go to a playground and it's beautiful and inviting and good fun, why, you'd love to play and to experiment and imagine. But as it slowly becomes smaller, more staid, more routine, less colourful, more crowded, and the fun rides are removed, slowly you just end up making the gloomy rounds on the same boring apparatus. That's school; it cramps the hell out of you as it turns you into an adult. So put the question another way, for how long should children be put in the more fun playground, and what good is it to do so? To me, as long as possible. Provided nobody has problems developing into adults, as long as possible. That is the paradox, but let them play.

CCL - five months old

Today was a Sunday, and I woke you up at nine in the morning. You woke up quite easily. A sort of puzzled frown, and then a lazy smile. I eased you out of your sleeping sack, and the day began.

As usual, you had to be changed. Water and cotton pads, and a light touch to clean the insides. A fresh shirt and it was time for milk. One hundred and twenty mils, which you drank about two thirds of before we changed you again. It is your habit to expel your share while drinking. Typically your face turns quite red with the effort. And of course, you refuse to drink until you are clean. I can understand.

OK, so a burping follows that. You like to be carried. Typically we try to let you rest before we pat you. Sometimes you don't quite get it right - only air comes out, please. Today we were quite fortunate. I tried not to jinx it, and I didn't. It's a rare day when you hold down your end. To be fair, a liquid diet can be a mouthful. You're on the medium sized nozzle, and the speed seems to suit you quite well. But lately you've decided that enough's enough and you press your lips firmly together. It works.

After a good feed we tend to chill out and I take the time to have my breakfast and wash your clothes. You are usually satisfied enough that you agree to play with your hanging toys on the baby frame for awhile without mewing. Today your favourite coloured streamers are in the wash, so you experiment with fingers and toes on the rubber ball with many thin sections. Your legs are lively and strong. Vibrant - a word we learned today - not really, but close enough.

You nap for about half an hour. It's on your face and belly, with your fingers tucked into your lips. Two seems to be the agreed number lately. When you're done, we repeat the milk. Sometimes it's obvious you need more. This lunchtime we have a walk downstairs. It's rained the entire day, and we left the windows a crack open. It's cool and fresh in the house, and actually quite charmingly cold downstairs. I tried to explain the rain, clouds, and the lightning to you. Ray, who cleans the block, is washing the floor, on a Sunday. You're quiet outdoors. When we come up again we give you more milk, lactose free this time, because you've had a flu.

You nap for an hour and fifteen minutes. It took you half an hour to settle into a position you tried about twelve times. To be fair, I forgot to change you. I sit behind the screen in my study, now your room, and play a bit of Diablo 2 Remastered. I bought it on sale for eighteen dollars. It can be paused. 

When you wake up, we feed you again. Again, one hundred and twenty. You used to take a hundred and fifty, but not right now. That's OK. When you're done I read you a book, about a rabbit that goes wandering in a meadow, looking for a flower for his sickly friend. He meets a caterpillar and a bee. I try to explain how each of those things work. I said that we need to read a little bit every day. That's just how it is.

You nap again. When you're up, another drink, but I don't think you need a change. That's a relief. Perhaps you're back in infantcare on Tuesday. So far you've missed more than you've gone, but that's no big deal to me. I'm your dad.

We walk around again when you're done. It's charming outdoors, cool and a little moist. The boys are playing football, and they shout and come up to say hello to me and you. They ask your name, and I say you're Hayley. One of them says, Hayley? with surprise. I say yes. They return their attention to the game. I haven't kicked a ball in nine days or so. You watch the game quietly. There's a girl in goal. She's decent, and they shouldn't do that. 

When we come home we feed you and it's bath time. Thank God, you love the bath. Your legs kick the water and the tub, and I tell you to knock it off before you break it. I wash under your neck and shampoo your hair. Some water slips into your mouth and you turn red with choking. I rinse you off and pat you dry. You usually complain when I dress you after the bath. Tonight wasn't so bad. We feed you again, say a little prayer for Caleb, amen, and you are happy. You're so happy that it takes your limbs twenty minutes to stop gyrating. You fall asleep on your face. Mama notes the time.

CCXLIX - oddly hollow

If I could say something about modern Singapore society, which is to say, the class of relatively affluent Singaporeans in general, I would say that there is something a little bit hollow about our lives. What, after all, is our substance? In many ways we were made in one man's image; what we think good is what has been taught to us, and we have been encouraged, rewarded in many ways for continuously striving to that ideal. That ideal - the irony of that word being used for us - for Plato the Ideal could be virtue, or beauty, or goodness, which perhaps were to him different ways of appreciating the same thing, i.e. the Good that our wisdom can see; for us the Ideal is in good jobs, the accumulation of wealth, property and material joy, material self-esteem. Many things now, in hindsight, are taken quite mechanically as means to certain ends, for example, the love of learning, respect for others, observance of laws and mores - would that we would still act in virtuous ways when we see no profit in doing so! 

The hollowness, can you feel it? It's everywhere you turn. Of course you could say that modern urban life is inherently solitary, family and some friends, but besides that everyone looks after their own. Where is the village, who are our neighbours now, in the greater sense of those who we can exchange kindnesses with? I cannot see those. And what is the opposite of hollowness? I suppose, a fullness, isn't it? Of the joys of reading, of appreciation of music and the arts, of the fundamental decencies one surely shares with others, no matter their mark or station, of the quiet savouring of sunny afternoons and nature's shimmering trees, of being present with one's consciousness fixed on thoughts of gentleness, self-lessening and contentment. I suppose our striving for some kind of worldly improvement in our own lot is due to the competitive energy that we have - channeled into good things, sometimes, but neglectful of the in-between things that give harmony to a well-lived life. Perhaps it is in the emphases of the education we receive - not exactly courses in the classics which teach of old men's (such as the Greeks') writings on what goodness means, Confucian concepts of 仁 (to be humane), 义 (to understand morality), 礼 (to respect tradition and practice), 智 (to learn to observe and discern) - instead, we say we must master the sciences, mathematics and languages. The old ways are too old, written in old words, not useful to make money with. And because we no longer cleave to a religious education, which is in a way the logical end-result of secularity - no one system of beliefs has an outsize influence on us; but I suppose that nothing has really, credibly filled the void, and parents and grandparents have failed to do so in their own way; maybe too busy, too awkward at explaining what goodness means. 

I do not believe we are born hollow; and I do not believe that children and teenagers do not care about that hollowness. I believe it is implicitly squeezed out of us; which is bad as an analogy but it will serve. Squeezed out and we don't realise that it is only partially filled with the things that demand almost all our time and will. I mean, encouragement from adults usually tends towards being obedient and studying hard, making it into good courses, right? Perhaps for those who are naturally clever, or good at making grades, they have a bit more time to schedule in some culture; perhaps not, depending on their guardians. And isn't it interesting how everybody, literally everybody, becomes a lot less interesting as they grow older and become adults? But again, can culture be fed to us the same way that formulas and textbook information can? I doubt it. In fact I don't think so at all. I don't believe that the teacher who teaches a class of thirty eight students can begin (in all fairness to teachers) to demonstrate what this substance could be; and even if he/she could, parents would tend to discount all matters which are not gradable. A desire to be educated is a strange little thing and I don't think the schools can do it very well; it is not really their job as described, I don't think.

Is that all there is, then? Will the libraries and the museums and the concert halls and the play-theatres and the open spaces and the arts installations all fail to do us any good? Will the elders of our species shake their beards at us and turn away in their lying spaces? Way down in our essence, do we feel that we want to know more, or is life, hard life, all we want to beat away at? Despairingly, I faintly feel: no, et noluistis. Those that quietly remain will always be alone, shunned perhaps, or poorly understood; and they will eventually dry up inside. But I guess there will always be that odd hollow to feel, both in lean times and plenty.

"Alas! what are you, after all, my written and painted thoughts! Not long ago you were so variegated, young and malicious, so full of thorns and secret spices, that you made me sneeze and laugh — and now? ... nobody will divine thereby how ye looked in your morning, you sudden sparks and marvels of my solitude, you, my old, beloved — evil thoughts!" - Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil (1886)

CCXLVIII - Passing of the old timers

Think, for a moment, of a hawker centre; the one you know. Perhaps you immediately know which stall to eat from. You wouldn't hesitate to recommend this to anyone who asks. Or maybe you need to evoke something from memory, because there's plenty to choose from, plenty to see. In your mind's eye you see the rows of stalls, tables and seats, the practical pillars and roofs, the warmth, smoke, clatter, colours of the signboards, stallholders perched around their cashiers listening and jabbering intently. This roast stall is here, that noodle shop is there, washbasins and toilets behind, malay food in their own little band. Oh, I'm not sure what's there now. Let's go take a look anyway. Maybe there's something new; maybe there's something with a queue. And so it goes. Sometimes all it takes is a sight of something glistening, or a look at what someone else is cheerily eating. Try something new, try the tau huey. 

Your usual stall seems to last forever, doesn't it? The familiar faces with their furrowed brows, and yellow fisherman boots. But one day something gives and they're no longer there. The old man gives up the ghost, the family gives up the rented stall, somebody falls ill and can't continue, the son's gamboling becomes too much, the renovations take too long, the family argues over who continues to run the shop. Think back, and see again the face of the weathered stallholder smiling wanly back at you when you were ten or so, towel on his shoulder. He's dead now; but that char kway teow was black and grimy, the very best. The plump man and his wife running the long kee economical rice, always reliable for their chicken curry, tau yu bak, and stir fried cabbage. Chicken rice, just about everyone has a reliable go-to. But things change, don't they? The stall still stands, but someone else is at home; the taste just seems different. Some days we eat without relish, some days we make do with something else.

Hawker food is cheap in Singapore. I don't think it's arguable. Not counting those union-related stalls which are required to offer food at very low prices, the real increase in food prices sold, year by year, probably doesn't meet cost increases. That's my guess. It's simply not that expensive to eat at a hawker centre. It's always been cheaper than eating fast food, and I don't believe that we think those are expensive. Why is hawker food cheap? I think it's because the individual stallholder doesn't want to disaffect his existing, old time customers. Through hard times in the past, the stallholder is loyal to his silver-tinged customers. So prices remain low. He doesn't want to be criticised by them, some his old friends and neighbours, even if he doesn't make quite as much as he should. Kopi can't be more than 1.20, mee chiang kueh 80 cents.

It's hard to be a hawker. Oh, it's hard to be anything, of course, but it's hard to be a hawker. Cooking is tiring. Cooking the same things, every single day, well that's a hard life. All of us know a hawker from somewhere, most of us think about their trade, some of us talk to them. Perhaps a few of us have more than a passing word or two; listened to their jaded stories told with wry smirks, nursing a slowly perspiring bottle of Carlsberg, interspersed with brisk snaps back to taking orders and re-performing practiced skills. 

There's not much more to say. I think most people accept as inevitable that hawkers will disappear, or decline. Most people talk about standards of old hawker food, reminisce about past, in part legendary, stalls. What is so inevitable about it? Well, the fact that it's no good being a hawker; good in the sense of modern education and being a respectable working man, and having a reliable trade. And making a good income (having went to school for so long). To me, it's sort of ribald, sort of obscene, that a typical meal in a shopping centre costs 30 bucks, and a hawker meal costs 5 or so. But that's how it is, and those that can't survive don't. There's just too much competition, too many other places (Dire Straits, Sultans of Swing). Individually everyone has a story, something that if lost, is lost forever, but collectively, that's the game, those are the rules, and sympathy doesn't go far. I guess there's pride at having lived so long, even finally, failing, on your own terms, by the deftness of your hands, the blaze of your wok, and the cleverness of your heart.

CCXLVII - Seeing

 Why do we treat people nicer if they're more good looking?

I don't think it's difficult to find out quite generic, rational reasons, on the internet. I don't intend to try. Sometimes it's worthwhile to think it out on your own. What sort of reasons do I subscribe to, and what do I think of that sort of judgment, on reflection?

I guess the foremost reason is that I want a good looking person to like me. It's nice to have affinity with good looking things, of any kind. I'd like a sleek car, a shiny PC, a classic watch, a sharp suit of clothes, and so on. And I'd like to think that my identity consists, in appearance, of having tastefully adopted good looking things. Therefore, the good regard of a good looking person lends itself to me the idea that I have made it in some sense, that I have earned acceptance into certain station. I, having transposed certain ideas of beauty or ideal onto a good looking person, imagine that that person has also transposed those ideas on me, or perhaps is oblivious to my actual failings or inferiorities. He no longer sees them when he sees me; he does not look too hard at me to assume that I am approximately a social equal. 

The foundation of this idea is that there are separate classes of people, and that each class more or less corresponds to their appearance, or perhaps how they are regarded. Needless to say, those are quite distinct facts. Imagine that - we intuitively think of individuals in classes, and the background scripts immediately start ticking off. The other funny thing is that there's a quote that goes "art imitates life", which Wilde recognised as ironic as he considered life to imitate art more. In other words I, with Wilde, think it to be oftener true that we mis-cast folks one way or another, and being blind to their faults or their fancies, hardly ever change our minds about them. So we see the poor-man tendencies easily in the man cast as the poor man, and the rich-folk qualities in abundance in the actions of a princeling. But think, is he the same man or not; is he so bred, so treated, and so asked to play his role?

I think the modern man (or woman) is fundamentally sceptical. In other words I think, were he not so busy, so pressed, distracted, or pursuing so many things, I think he would like to think himself the master of his own opinion, rigorously applied. At the same time, the modern man is, as a result of a long, hard education, and a tiring career life, quite cynical. He is out for himself, and his own. So I think being good, in the sense of being decent, is optional. It is more important to be wealthy than to be good. What that means, perhaps, is that shortcuts to wealth become quite attractive. Heuristics - there's a strange word. It means, in so many words, acquired patterns of learning - recognising sequences and geometries, applying analogies, making sense through seeing the inner matrix, if you will. Quite powerful, but at the same time, quite prone to error, compounded error even. Where I'm going with this is: I think the modern man tends to rely on assumptions or prejudices a little too much to his detriment - and personal appearance is one of them. It is very difficult to think bad about a good looking person, provided he or she is normal (if we do not talk about irrational jealousy). The corollary is that it is not easy to think well of a poor looking person, even if he is normal. We don't see it.

Perhaps it helps to think: why should we want to be nice to people if they're poor looking? The gods Zeus (of thunder) and Hermes (the emissary) were said to take on poor disguises, hence it was an essential custom for Grecians to treat travellers kindly. The story of Baucis and Philemon in Tyana is quite interesting, and pre-figures the bible's telling of Sodom and Gomorrah (angels in disguise). But I don't think we need external reasons to do so. To me it seems quite silly to want to understand one individual but not another, if we're truly curious about life; understand, appreciate or befriend. Of course, it's all optional - all our interactions are. What we do is completely up to us, leaving aside custom and norm. I suppose time matters. In time we inevitably become who we most want to be.