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.