Books: The Last Lecture

I don’t think this book needs any introduction. It has been a few years since he delivered his famous lecture that became THE source of revenue for his wife and kids after his eventual death. Surely half (or more I may say) of Forbes list of ‘most influential people’ have made comments of it, and if you are still clueless about Randy Pausch or his book I would have nothing to say to you, except not to go about divulging your lack of knowledge.

I am dead honest. People have murdered for less.

I have read the lecture transcripts, visited his web pages and read his wiki page. Everything except his book, well, because I am cheap that way. But I have since managed to get my gritty fingers on one copy, on a generous loan from a friend for at least a month now. And sadly to say, I didn’t really like it as much. Somehow and someway, much of his appeal vanished in its’ written form.

The book had a constant element of his impending death and mortality. And it was that I didn’t really like. It was never the thing that I liked about his lecture anyway, the sad and lonely fact that he is a dying man.

I must first admit, I don’t have must sympathy for dying people. Everyone is dying, you and I included. What is there to be piteous about? In fact, it is the living that you see me sobbing after. To me, it is those breathing and thinking individuals remaining that need that little push.

What impressed me when I first watched his lecture was his logical and steadfast attitude at facing the life that he was leading. He made no excuses for his errors, readily admitting the err of his old ways. I loved how there was no pointing of fingers and no blame, not on God even. I admire the way he drew strength from his core, banishing his demons and gathering his army of knowledge to defend what he rightfully called his. I know we all have that strength to do what he did on the small little occasions that he described, hell, we may have even been through worst. But to do so repeatedly, with unfailing trust and faith in the fairness of the universe is not easy. Lets just say that it takes more than bursts of courage and brilliance.

All these tidbits were somehow lost in the pages of the book without his dancing eyes and waving hands to bring that sort of energy across. However the book brought a different light to his story.

Words put on paper have that certain way of inking ideas into the readers’ brain. Or at least MY brain. Verbally saying ‘I won the parent lottery’ is transient and so easily forgotten. But reading it on page 21 or Chapter 4 was like a whammy in my brain. Or maybe it was just me, impressed with the idea of lottery…

I get that whammy quite a few times though while reading the book. There are sparse bits of truth that most will find hard to verbalize. I am sure most will identify with me, there are things you just know but will never every say because there is no way of continuing the peaceful co-existence once the words are in the air a-limbo. And boy was it refreshing to know that you are not the only one that feels THAT way.

Still I personally liked the video more. If you have only read the book, I urge you to see the video. That is what the internet is for, to visit my blog and rape my thoughts as well as look at stuff that I direct you to. But if you are thinking of purchasing the book, I would suggest that you read it standing at the book store first, before evaluating if it would turn into a book you would read and re-read again, or one of those showpieces that you point out to visitors as if to say SEE I KNOW WHAT HAPPENS ON OPRAH.

p/s: They did go on Oprah.

NINE

I woke up today feeling normal. Nothing special. I was a normal honors student, going about servicing the Monday blues until I was reminded of something I needed to share with friends.

I needed to share with close friends that I am now entering into the 9^th year of being with Mr. S.O.

I am not a counter. I don’t count birthdays or anniversaries. In fact, I did not even remember that it was yesterday that was THE anniversary. I was all, ‘what??? What did you just say again??? Anniversary of WHAT???’ Needless to say, it took Mr. S.O a while to explain to me that there was an actual moment when we actually decided to get together.

I was never one to make a big deal about anniversaries. Sure we went out to dinner once or twice. Phoned each other and send the customary card to help support Hallmark. But I never reacted the way I did today. Dudes, I practically ran down the corridor flaying my arms, knees going in all sorts of directions screaming NINE!

And when that performance was over, I half-whispered, half-screeched NINE at every available opportunity I had for the rest of the day to every poor soul that came within reach.

I am elated to be standing at this point in time. This is the last of the single digits. And if I may say, it has been nine good years. Looking back, I see key events defining both the relationship and the people that we are. Nice to make notes on how we have managed to change the other person for the better.

At the same time, it is bittersweet.

I wonder about those lost time, the disappearance of youth. There is not one day in the past yesteryears that I can take back and make all the better. All the things that I blurted out and never meant still floats in the air, hovering like some hazy reminder. The emotional pain, the excruciating nights after nights of tears, wondering if the relationship is a ‘lost ship’ or if things are at the page of ‘ship yet to sail’.

This relationship probably captured the best and worst of me. And if given the chance, I would jump at the opportunity to erase all the moments that have placed me in a bad light. Those needy, inconsolable moments when I am much weaker than I know myself to be. I want to take away that unreasonable monster that I sometimes become. DAMNED. I want to be perfect.

Unfortunately, someone else already broke it to me that nothing is ever perfect in life. And that happiness only comes from dealing with what is on your plate and working with what you are given. Afterall, we live in a world of 'never enough'. Still I think I will settle for my plate. It is not in any way the best, but good enough is enough for me.

And there is that gladness that overwhelms me. I have been utterly blessed with a rock, my dreamboat of sorts. It has been nine long years, but I am still being worked on. May that be the best part of all nine; the fact that I am being worked on and yet accepted for who I am. How do I even begin to get past the first nine? I honestly don’t want it to go.

Here is it, the inevitable farewell to nine good years and a herald for (hopefully) more bittersweet moments of truths.

Winks

Mr. S.O has since returned to the phone lines. And at this point in time, all the Telco companies should rejoice and cheer. Start to orchestrate a grand plan for the company dinner celebrating the return of that cheesy couple. My phone juice now drains at the speed of a raging torpedo and the need for a hands-free home phone kit is becoming to be attractive. Extremely attractive.

Mr. S.O is not that interesting. And I am not that needy. That is the awful honest truth. As a child, I used to look at grown-up couples on the public transport and note that they talk far less than they should. And I did the cross-the-heart-and-hope-to-die thing that when I finally meet someone whom I trust to love me more than I trust myself to love myself, I would do more talking than that. Now that I have achieved the first half, I realize there is no way that the second part can be fulfilled.

Do some math with me. Assuming that a person meets SOMEONE/ANYONE at the age of 20. And with 20 accumulated stories/event per year of life, one is only endowed with a measly 400 stories. And assuming that each story takes a day to tell, that would only be entertainment enough for 400 days, which is essentially a year and 1 month; or 2 years and 2 months if a break was taken every other day. And so on and so on. Effectively, couples may stop talking about the past about 3 years into the relationship because everything there know have been picked out of their brain, dissected, put together and dissected again.

Unless of course there are external events. –winks-

That is by the way not a dirty wink. That is a wink that is reserved specifically for a certain special person. Dear friends and wayward readers, this is the part of the post where I turn into the darker side and metamorphosis into a psycho. Most people bestow upon their housemate(s) glamorous name like X or any of the other 25 alphabets that is deemed fitting but I like to call him the wink.

Wink was the reason I had stories to tell, so I should begin with a respectful bow for wink, the only person who introduced conversation into my otherwise boring life. And it may be amazing enough that I will be saying this (you might feel the urge to suddenly go pee in your pants) but wink can be a very considerate and cautious person. Entertaining and helpful at times; I am, in a way, glad to be sharing a place with my dear wink.

This warm fuzzy gladness that surround the glow of my presence is however fast dissolving. I lose my halo when I am deprived of sleep. I turn into the mother of monsters when I lie in bed, kept awake by insignificant measures of nonsense that can be curbed with a little more effort and consideration. And when wink and winkers (read: friends) do not bother to keep their voices to a minimum while discussing their lofty plans to take over the world at 1am, that is when I lose it.

Because our relationship is not one bound by love or friendship, my mind went into over-drive. I wanted to grab some great big slimy hell-of-a-fish and slap the inside of wink’s thick skull while I scream WINK!!! I fantasize about having one of those large solid steel centrifugational rotors that I may use to take a swing at wink’s face with. I wanted to run wink over with winks’ car, anticipating the headlines that read ‘WINK RAN OVER BY WINKO’.

So I confer with my personal board of Elmos, make constipated expressions that can only be telling of the circumstances that I am in. Speed-dial Mr. S.O at the very next available timeslot and begin telling the whole crazy monster of a story from MY SIDE. Filling in blanks with MY tinted shades. The poor thing of a man had to coax me into restful peaceful sleep, which took him hours and no less. Because, friends and wayward readers, I was still geared up to smear Bolognese sauce on wink’s door because I HAD TO LET HIM KNOW HE IS A BLOODY ASSHOLE.

The haze of today. It follows me. I melt latex gloves onto my hand. Glide around dazed and teary for sleep. Steer away from anything grandly expensive since I cannot afford to break them. Stay at where there is someone to catch my oversights. 2 and 2 become 9. And ‘sorry, what did you say?’ became my pet phrase. Twitter my thumbs and do zone out moments that see me going into a psychedelic world of rainbows.

Damn you wink, you chased away my sleep with your endless platter of nonsense wasting your precious calories that you could otherwise utilize.

So that is the story of wink.

My splendid summary:

1) A wink will forever be a half of a blink.

2) Wink can be turn into a story. Or even stories!

3) And a story; is powerful. It keeps you from becoming that silent couple on the transport system. And it keeps the Telco chugging away and the internet moving. The words coming and the abuse going. It keeps the tiny little globe of the world turning.

A Million Bucks

At the risk of sounding endlessly childish and needy, I have to say, ‘I woke up this morning feeling like a million dollars.

Yes. I feel like a million dollars. Even though every bone in me feels as if it is disintegrating into fruit loops. Even though my pants seem to pinch me tighter after all the eating out I have been doing for the past month. Even though my eyes are heavy with the deprivation of sleep. Yes. I. Feel. Like. A. Million. Bucks.

The past week has been a rush of a week and it does not help when I am moody, snappy and prissy. If experiments possess a neck, I would have strangled it thoroughly. Hey, and think about that considering that they have been chugging along and working fine for the past few days. There are no excuses for this state of me. I know its me when I am on the brink of asking certain individuals, ‘What??? Did you donate your brain to the brain foundation or ate it for breakfast???’ Everything seems to present itself with thorns for teeth. Even the timed toaster has to be watched like a hawk to prevent a carcinogenic supper toast.

I never think I would say this. But this is how it is when Mr. S.O is out of phone contact. I lost my nightly debrief of Cliffnotes on how to maintain your sanity and there is no one else around to administer this remedy for my angst-filled and muddled brain. My mind is filled with so many unsaid things that I am oh-so-certain that it will visually spill over and out through my eyes soon. It would permeate every surface in the room, flowing like hot molten larva, dissolving all thoughts, emotions and breathing being.

Till I get my dose of remedy.

And I feel like a million bucks today, because I am anticipating my next available slot in his schedule. Tonight or tomorrow morning, whichever and whenever Mr.S.O feels like saving the world from self-destruction.

Borrowed Thoughts

IF, and IF. They often seem to make or break the numerous things that happened to us. I often wonder if I never have told you, will the outcome be different? But I’m glad I did. It’s better that I told you than regret not telling you, it meant hell lots of difference. What if, doesn’t matter anymore, we both understand it could never be. And now we say goodbye, otherwise I’ll surely never want to let go.

A seemingly nonsense rant/comment by ironcheflady left on the blog hosted by Kenny Mah. But it yields its hidden truth upon repeated reads.

Just thought I should remember

The Rain

I am.

longing for the rain.

I miss the cryptic puddles. Steaming bitumen and raindrops on my face. The reward of turning your head to the rain.

Violent sheets mirror my mood when I prod the silhouette of my umbrella against the wind. Trekking in a thunderstorm is a fight of the fist between nature and me. I am always losing. A personified struggle against God whom I know will always have the last say. It doesn't hurt to try to make Him sense my desperation in all my times of need. Doesn't hurt to make him understand my anger and frustration. Except that He already understood long before I did.

The gentle platter may greet my runners, sprouting from the toes, forming an elegant arch of gold and silver before disappearing into the next puddle. Gone, and just like *that*. Recall the dread of the squishy toes and relief of footprints on dry concrete. The desire for something warm. The half-memory of the last time a car splashed you with muddy rain water. The shiver of delight at the thought of a warm toasty bed on a rainy morning.

The silver dabble. A sprinkling of spots. Not nearly enough to convince you to stop and retrieve the trusty brolly, but more than enough to quicken those half-hearted steps. I remember that wash of relief when you are home before the sky began to pour. That sheer joy of escaping the peak of the storm. Realize that you are safe after all.

Smell the sweet tinge of air after the rain. The loud audible tones of the grass and drainage. The novel mix of sun and water assaulting your nostrils. You remember the clearing of grey, the tempting puddles of mud and the heavy damp that remains.

I long.

For the rain.

Just One Thing

Happiness is like sand. One can never hold it in the palm of ones' hand. It slips past ones fingers and before you know it, everything is lost forever. Contain it in a bottle, and it turns moldy and clumpy. Take a photo of it, but you cannot adequately capture the soft and silky feel of it. It will just look like concrete flooring. Try to remember it, and the color will be forgotten and time will blur your memory of how it feels against your skin.

How does one capture happiness? And keep it happy and stagnant. But still happy?

Melbourne Leg of Things

Memorabilia from Aussie 2009, Spot My Lurking Macbook Pro

The Melbourne Leg of Mr. SO trip to Down Under is not any less exciting than that of the Sydney Leg. Sydney was wonderful because we masqueraded our existence under the idea of a vacation, but Melbourne had its own perks while being the cultural and fashion capital of Aussie Land.

The Melbourne Leg was thus marked by… multiple visits to museums and the likes. The State of Victoria was also very kind to host, not 1 but 2, Melbourne Winter Masterpieces (MWM) for our enjoyment. Generally for all the past years, Victoria has only had 1 MWM per year. But this year was special; they had 2 for reasons unknown to me. So we went to see the ruins of Pompeii and the surrealistic side of Dali.

Dali. was. and. is. great. There is no way else to say it. The beauty of everything was so arresting at the National Gallery of Victoria that I was taken aback. I swore that at the end of it, I was a tad bit overloaded due to the sheer size of the collection. Unfortunately despite its’ size, my favorite piece was not even displayed, much less mentioned.

Pompeii came to life at the Melbourne Museum. Everything was resurrected and I think we saw the oldest bread ever in the history of mankind. There was a loaf of bread that was left in the oven during the eruption. This loaf of bread, blackened from the extended oven incubation, was on display! Imagine that! We also saw jewelery that they used to wear. Thick gold chains and arm bracelets. And of course the infamous body casts of the victims’ last moments.

The Melbourne Museum also housed other exhibitions for bugs and human body and other uninteresting bits and pieces. But the best display would be a depiction of what life would be like if cockroaches were to take over the world. They would mainly lounge all day long in your cow-print leather armchairs and watch cable all day long. I imagine this is the stuff of yh's dreams.

We also spent a large part of our time catching movies, Transformers and Terminator. My first movies ever since coming to Melbourne this year. This is the extend to which I lack a life without Mr. SO.

Walking around also brought us to Degraves Lane, home to the lesser-known winding little arcade stalls of Melbourne. Mini-cupcakes galore. They are the cutest things you have ever seen. Sadly they exist for less than a few seconds for one cannot resist the temptation of popping the entire cute thing into your mouth for an explosion of mousse and chocolate cupcake base.

A Size Comparison to my Handphone Pouch

Part of my love of Melbourne can be seen in the little things you see around town. I love the art/vandalism on the city blocks. I think it lends a little personality to the oblong and lifelessness of the building. I love the posters that go up everywhere telling me of the latest left-wing play available. And I love floor art. This would get you fined in Singapore, so while we are here, we had better be thoroughly amused and entertained.

Hell is a Lifestyle Choice. Spray-paint ads on the bitumen.

And last but not least. This is how desperation looks like. Enabled by the presence of a convenient slave, aka Mr. SO, who willingly fetched a 2 kg durian from 700 meters away. Such is adoration and devotion, I am blessed.

Consolidations

It came to me this morning, when I am lying awake, but not yet fully out of the realm of dreams and desires. I could barely see the rays of sunlight filtering through the blinds, but I had a clear picture in my mind of a photo that I saw yesterday.

Autumn of 2009 in Melbourne

Taken on a whimsical moment with the camera on my mobile phone back in May, it was a day that saw me trekking towards my 20km runs. What fascinated me then were the big fat colorful leaves, the graceful falling and the refreshing cold wind.

I clearly remember the chattering students going about their lazy and busy days. The lady from the catering place was clattering the trays of Dim Sims and coffee cups, on her way to an appointment. The loud snaps and clacks of the professional camera that a nerdy youngster was caressing in his large hands trying to frame every single moment of every falling leaf.

Now as I look at that photo, I am a little irked that I see not the glorious colors and wonderful act of nature. I see an impending tree of morbid limbs and disappearing foliage. I see the loss of moments. I see a naked and shivering core, trembling to its source.

But I am reminded of this post. I am reminded of the joy that Spring may bring to these trees that were busy shedding their leaves a few months ago.

And this is when I finally understood the meaning of docility to grace.

Far from being a conscious submission to God, it is the acceptance that our lives are in the hands of someone other than our own despite ones’ desire for ownership and self-identity. It is recognition that the universe of our future is far more than the transient mortal world of our waking moments. There is a certain release from the medals and trophies of our wanting minds. For what is imminent are not the rewards that we deserve but the riches of those that we will be entrusted with.

I now know not the estimation of the distances of my puny and juvenile life. But I finally see that the destinations are not one of my choosing. That the winds may carry music upon their wings, but one will never be deserving of appreciating their beauty while they go past. There are unfortunately certain privileges and riches in life, that may only be granted on hindsight.

Such is my solemn consolidation on a Sunday morning.

Grey Winter Moments

How can a day that began so late end so prematurely? It makes living so much shorter and easier. If days may pass without a notice and without a care, then life would not be a mess of meandering plains.

I long for a page of clear-minded simplicity.

Good things come to those who wait, with patience. Peace comes to those who keep silent vigil by those moments of violent thoughts. Nodding in efforts to acknowledge their presence and yet maintaining a strong resistance front and a absolute avoidance of succumbing to those thoughts. Is that all what it is about? And if it is, then it is all but a precarious dance between that which is here and there, and what is standing and falling.

Meanwhile, we all stand for long hours under the hot shower in the cruel winter cold, wishing, that everything may be as simple as taking a hot long shower. That the only requirement is a solution of water and soap, and that everything can be eventually washed away.

Sydney in 6 Pictures and a Thousand Words

Now that everything has fallen away and all that are left are the memories and photos, I figured I had better add words to the mix before the moment is gone. Such is my memory, mercifully short in an effort to lose my cravings and addictions.

The past 2 weeks can be summarized using a culinary term, ‘high notes upon high notes’; you will soon see what I mean. Trays of food upon more delicious food, so much so that I am bewildered by the fact that I am still the same weight. Never felt that I grew horizontally, well with the exception of the time that I was in Sydney, I felt that my waistband was some boa constrictor, constricting me.

At the Highly Recommended Hurricane Café in Sydney Darling Harbor

Sydney was great, despite the crowd and the nightly sales. I have always been one who prefers the suburban life to the city hustling one, but I am not complaining. What irked me most about Sydney was the rainy weather. Despite being warmer than Melbourne, it seem to rain an awful lot with most of our photos turning out gloomy and sad, a sharp contrast to our gayful and playful mood.

To escape the tragic weather that hovered over the CBD we took a 2-day trip up to the Blue Mountains. Blue Mountains have always been a place I wanted to go to. Partially because I have heard so much about it and that I want to be able to say I have been and seen it.

On a Stone Ledge at the Wentworth Falls Hike

Relentless is not a word I use often. Words I use often are happy and comical words like ‘funny’ and ‘what???’ and maybe ‘Blardy hell’ said in this ridiculous high pitch tone. But relentless would be the one word that I use, (while summoning all the seriousness that I possess) to describe the Blue Mountains Trip. It was bush walking after bush walking to see eerie spiders, trickling waterfalls all on mud paths that have yet to seen sunshine in eons. All this activity serve only to reminded me that I am all but a highly inactive lab monkey on normal days despite the sports shoe that I wear daily.

Back to the bush walking, I have to admit I love and bask in the tiring nature of all the climbing and walking even though the weather was not agreeable. But there was a point in time where I had to consciously resist the final act of throwing my hands up in the air and exclaiming to all who would listen that ‘I had enough of all the muddy business’. I mean, why is it that the weather is so disagreeable on a holiday? Instead of taking my frustrations out on the innocent people around us, Mr S.O and I sat at one quaint little cozy café where hand-crafted coffee is served to rest our woeful tired feet and body.

Hand-Crafted Coffee and a Hot Chocolate to cheer our Leaden Feet

This picture honestly deserves another rant. I mean what on earth is meant by ‘Hand-crafted coffee’. If there is anything pompous in this world, that must be it. Coffee can hand-roasted, hand-grown and hand-picked, but hand-crafted suggest something entirely. And if your mind is as scientific as mind, you would think that the coffee is genetically-modified, hence the HAND-CRAFTED tag. Hah! Coffee-addictions can make one go loony!

In our Abseiling Gear and on the Edge of the Cliff

Our degree of loony is apparent in the activity of choice the following day; Abseiling. It was almost as if the bush walking was inadequate in pushing our calves to the brink of retirement, so we giddily decided to embark on another adventure abseiling down 60m cliffs which will see us WALKING up the same distance. Genius! Thankfully the weather was good and we did catch some glimpse of the sun despite small showers throughout the day. And all the exercise had another advantage to it, burning away all those chocolate that we have been practically INHALING throughout the time we were in Sydney.

Us at the Sydney Harbour Bridge (above) and the Sydney Opera House (below)

Trips to Sydney cannot be considered authentic unless a visit to the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge have been dutifully paid. And that is how we trot along on the last day of our stay in Sydney, before we return to the cold and shivery Melbourne. It was amazing that we did not pay for transport during the whole time in Sydney. We walked everywhere… chatting and basking in the atmosphere of the city, almost replicating the early dating days when we were both students in Singapore.

Funny how memories always seem happy on hindsight, but the present always feel heavy and mildly suffocating.