FouCault

The bald man - probably the most dazzling philospher of his generation. At least the most radical in terms of renewing (or challenging) how the social studies are approached. His methods / approaches / theories apply to a wide range of disciplines - from history, literature, sociology, psychology -


Quick thoughts on foucault -


The author is dead -


deny "common sense" - look instead for the "constructedness" of systems - that appear natural - speech, routines, classifications - are the manifestation of power relations - of power seeking to systemise, to "naturalise" inequalities.


Crime - reform is a meaner more subtle form of subjugation. The Law, a tyranny not only of the body but enjoining the mind and the soul to be subservient to a politics that erases its traces by defining criminal and outlaw through the structures of language.


Madness - the shadowland of sanity is hardened - made distinct - drawn apart - with the overlaps occulded. Therapy - manacles over the being -


The individual - don't privilege it. Don't believe you exist primarily as yourself - but examine the forces that constitute your being. If there is to be freedom to be found - the consciousness of the how we are contructed is a semblance of freedom.


THeory is practice. Theory that ceases / is not relevant does not even enter into the world.


Discourse - dug / found - rooted in historicity. A fascination with how structures imbue themselves with reflexivity and order. The historicity of truth is part of its being - situated truth makes plainer where the appropirations exist -


"The indignity of speaking for others"


"soemthing essential is taking place : ... the tracking down of all varieties of facism, from the enormous ones that surround and crush us to the petty ones that constitute the tyrannical bitterness of our everyday lives".


Who sings for those who once knew the Spirit?

August 2003

I've actually - 8/28/2003





tried to think up a baby/ children's book for my little niece isabelle - it kinda relates to having a brother and sister, cause my good old lao ta is pregnant again. So anyway - here's how it's set up:

Mum's got a baby in her tum
She told me today
There's a baby on the way
Mum's got a baby in her tum

Ok so after that it's supposed to be sorting of a counting rhyme - as in 3 months, 4 months etc ... then we get to 9 mths and the months INSIDE convert into months outside ... until the baby grows to 1 year old ... It's not only a counting book but an inquiry into prosaic notions of time ... is inside time longer than time out of the womb - is time cyclical - symbolically at least - if numbers recycle themselves (months invariably turn into years ... as well)

Mum's got a baby in her tum
It's been that way
Two months to the day
Mum's got a baby in her tum.

Do you think "Mummy's got a baby in her tummy" is better - there's a stronger beat cause the "-my" off beat is articulated ...

Mummy's got a baby in her tummy
He just turned three
So he's much younger than me
Mummy's got a baby in her tummy ...

I'll probabbly have to read up on the development of the foetus in order to get this nicvely done ... something distracting to think about ...:)









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rather interesting=)

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I don't know, I guess I would add a -my. Like the rhyming couplets - unfortunately, I've only been taught to analyse, and when it comes down to re-creation, I kinda fall into obsolescence... :(

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I think that tum-my is better.

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LOL~

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tummy do sound a little better but even if u wirte as tum, the final stress on mmm makes it sound like tummy.. dat's wat i feel... hehe quite an interesting idea u've got there.. but is the whole thing just gonna be bout time? how bout the development of the baby?

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Wow ok... chim1 baby book...

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hm...I'd rather leave out the "my" though...Sounds a little funny with it. [silent.scream]

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July 2003

Hello - 7/9/2003





Haven't much to say?
Guess not ...
Then why are you here in the first place
Cause I felt sense of ...
Of what? Responsibility to speak those thoughts that creep about in the recesses of your mind ...?
Since you put it that way ... yes ....
Just as i thought - and the place
Place?
Yes, the place ... where were you in your thoughts?
I was hiding behind a bush - out of sight - with someone else
Did you see who the other person was?
Not really but I was holding onto him/her
for your life? Or out of love?
does it make a difference?
It could ... given the way your thoughts always appear in monochrome ...







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*raises eyebrow* haha... mr lim and his psychedelic thoughts. whoosh. =D

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the best often die by their own hand

just to get away,

and those left behind

can never quite understand

why anybody

would ever want to

get away

from

them







Cause and Effect.....charles bukowski

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Oh ho ho - 7/21/2003





yes it's that time of year again when we get bogged down in week 4 and can't see the forest from the trees and every deadline and ruptured vine in front of you is smashing your specs into smithereens - don't forget to pick out the bits from your cornea before they merge and become part of your lenses cause those aren't easily replaceable. Note that the difficulty of walking on air is seldom acknowledged, a skill required to precariously dodge the various shards of light that make up your life, often assumed. Make sure that you turn the combustionable engine one before you zoom into the hidden reaches that fall back and recede from the clear vision of your mind's eye. Once I danced through zero land and hopped on a foot till the time came for me to claim a bride - at which I gulped and woke up and found myself- miraculously only dreaming. My pockets are full and there's no place left for the sweets keychains and ammo. If you shot me now you wouldn't hear a retort in reply cause i've run dry of whisky and of rum. The smartest man on earth couldn't do mental sums without fiddling his thumbs backward and forward till the skin between them went sore if he had the weight of trivialities nagging and bitching at his ear - like I do.



Me misses me books. I'm saddled with bad essays. But at least I have incomprehensible jazz.







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That's deep... Incomprehensible jazz is the best...

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Yea i miss books too...but nowadays rarely get the time to read them

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wow...

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Again - 7/31/2003





how many times have looked at what goes on in my head and fear the worst. It cannot be the worst - for nothing is nothing and the worst cannot be called the worst. If the consciousness were a tool with which we shaped our thoughts, carefully, not these thrown out scraps of interstatial fiddlings, what would the worst be? And now I am become the worst - not I but become because I perceive the worst dripping and sloshing all around me.

I need to go mark - would like to wonder about the trivialities of sending out thank you for coming to College day hope you will continue to support the ever increasing budget of a newly independant institution but will not because my cheque isn't cashed and lately I've been running on faith.





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well, at least u still have faith.

Feel better soon~ *smilez*

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n recently, my faith has been running low. :) take care mr lim~

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faith more reliable than cheques anyway :)

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oh my gosh... is that y u were on the vegetable soup diet? *grinz* -exu-

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I guess you shouldn't have to worry bout the worst, cos there's only better things to look forward to after that? If you think you've been feeling this way cos of the people around you, just try to hang on in there and stay strong yup? Would love to see you smiling more often okay? :D

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June 2003

Zust Zoking - 6/8/2003





You must be pretty strange to try to speak like that, with your teeth in a deranged line-up against that thick slab tongue. You try to make the sounds without moving the wind that clutters your mouth and makes everything sound high-strung. If you did it once, you'd be able to try again, but this time without the help of the Sun. You see he took a holiday the day you came around and now you're stuck in between the noon and the plus one. When you hear crying, pray for the bottomless child whose mother is risen from the slave ship's hour and the waving feted clouds signal to you that the trees waiting for the hanging to be done - the leaves waiting for the reaching to be over and we run for cover because the starships crashing into the moonlight hour and the sparkles are hurting our eyes o'er and o'er here and there and in old everywhere we say and swear the dress you're wearing is a refund from the box beneath the stair-case. I would love you better if O'd seen you more often rather than merely recognise the dark sound of a creaking door open when the late night twinkle of mosquitoes sounds like the drone of a heart beating with the flesh of life in its wing-span. They often come near with sounds that half-awakened spiders creep away from. They often come near to dress your ceek bone in sweat and saliva - that your long forgotten spittle from when you were little. I would have loved you better if from the time we were born to the time that is now you'd sat patiently and let him hit you repeatedly with the brown belt cover and the brass open buckle and felt the violence prick your conscience like the pin drop that makes these night sounds diminish and drop and feel like the felt covers under which we snuggle and try to hide from the night sounds of the creaking stairs and the crying stars and the frightened moon and the broken sun. We fleece the clouds for the clods of a better day. Tomorrow perhaps, we'll have our way.

So when I hear crying I pray for the child whose mother is grieving over the lost opportunities and the screeching cats provide the solemn overture for a final Mass that cannot be left unspoken. If lines were to be unbroken and the circle his course run, then surely my breath is a mere token, of all the left undone.





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How Often - 6/11/2003





Does one try to persist in the memory of the Other, an hour after the death, all greif is swept aside like the dust that accumulates for years in the silent corner gets sucked up by the vacuum of the moment. You cried with he passed away and tried never to recall how those hurting barbs would rear their prickly pokey points and come crashing down like a throny crown O lord show me the way as we go down into the valley of ashes, the slim pits of today compare with the carbon dates and racist hate and furies flying with the Fates of despair. Describe to me an emotion and I'll make it personal, give it shape, hew from the abstract a living stone to colour and protect you all the days of my life and we'll run into the waters before the waters cover the sea, that's right, ride with the tumble-down seaweed brown - but you must move away from the allusions that persist as sound - words become nouns that objectify meaning and make concrete the heartbeats bearing only the trace of waste and gravity. How long how long before the frowns of yesterday take their toil on the foreheads of tomorrow, when the wigs and false teeth fail their duty of concealing all that the past robs us of. We try to remember time and it slips past us like a school boy on tip toe sniggling past the teacher who he's sure doesn't remember his name because it was so long ago- You taught me once in a memory - you taught me once history - but now I can only remember the dull ache of forgetting what year it was when Phil the Second took over the Spanish crown was it even spain in the land where the they call fire caldara - is it even right to claim that sight of lace and satin - all the conventions of grouped lexis falling like an impenetrable cloud - and I'm away that I've used the word like four no just now five times now - even though I thought that I'd try to avoid the simplest of similes craft and sullen art combine to rob me of what otherwise would be Words only Words. You mouth them as the Prince of denmark struts his stuff on the stage if there were a quote to remember you should try to remember words only words - so easy you can recall it at the needle drop at the dropping of a hat words only words - and I seem to smell the heat of a summer's day indeed there is no cultural pretension here for indeed it was a summer's day and the rambling goes on its way as we stand in the sun to watch the swaying players make their presence felt on the stage the last moments before the curtains (but wait - the globe is transparent - they have no curtains) come down and tell us of a seaman found - drowned, clutching clumps of hair like seaweed brown, left open in the sun scorched beach - oh the rhyming leads me to peach I swear it - but its all fast forward and reversed time when you play it out in your mind. I will not go down under the ground because Bobby Dylan has got the worst sound. And I will not go down under to die- when I pray to my God - Adonai - Eloi Eloi Lama -Sabac... - I cannot recall the sounds now - they've drifted past somehow.





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Today - 6/13/2003





I will write badly. As if I had a choice, nothing interesting seems to strike me anymore. Perhaps I'm genuinely becoming strange, eccentric or just plain weird. You no, weirdness is just a pose you carry off so that people who you don't want to talk to won't talk to you. But lately I think I've become genuinely weird. Then again, that awareness may be an indication that I'm actually quite normal and am not weird. Then again, that whole normal/weird complex is a false dialectic manufactured by society's elites who want to cordon off a space for themselves where they reign supreme in their definition of normalcy. Of course I don't mean this merely in terms of a particular society but as a historical-global phenomenon. We've come to regard outspokeness, "balanced views", SMILING to STRANGERS, constructive comments, encouragement and extrovertedness (I'm sure you get the picture) as norms which socially integrated people fulfill perfectly well. Anyway I'm itchy now - so I can't write properly. Thought stutters, half-broken, synapses slipping. Perhaps it is easier to mix yourself in a mode of free form thought than to actually try to work out something intelligible - which is the point of socially accepted discourse. If you've bothered to think about it, perhaps the stream of unconsciousness (?) entries that have recently plagued this page are an attempt at resistance. yes perhaps - that's it. Writing as a kind of therapy - writing to resist the conditionals and conventions of the communicative act. A recourse to discourse perhaps - merely bumming off the puns to regain a certain vitality that I've always associated to language - yes that's right - de-territorialising language - or allowing language to no longer surface only in the strictures of ordained discourse - a "groundless language" (foucault).

Back to basics. I catch myself. Creeing in thought - eccentric moments of wanting to hit someone else awfully hard. Eccentric moments of scratching an imagined itch. Eccentric moments of actually bursting into a lyric or two that has been playing in my head. Eccentric moments of talking out loud to myself. Eccentric moments of prolonging silence when in conversation just so the other person will feel uncomfortable. How strange one becomes, wrapped up in this bubble wrap of books and strange dylanesque. Eccentric moments of trying to recount strange details and hoarding irrelevant information tidbits that only the blue popinjays on a shampoo bottle would recognise.

you know when I was a kid they had this children's programme that had these strange HUGE muppet like chracters - it was called the GREAT SPACE COASTER I think. I wonder if I remember correctly. But there was this character in it - called Gary. But he wasn't human. No he was Gary Gnu. If you don't know what a Gnu is go find out. Anyway I had a schoolmate how used to call me Gary Gnu. Like only the two of us ever made reference to that reference. and like I met him last year - he's a banker now - and like the most natural thing in the world - "Hey Gnu" ... i remember these strange things when after school I sat straight in front of that old black white box TV cabinet - TV only started after 6 pm then and watched these strange prancings. Yes I remember - Gary Gnu was the news reader on that programme - read the news in a silly manner I believe. If anyone has information that might tell me more about Gary Gnu - I haven't searched the Web - maybe in some alternate space - there, is Gary Gnu - reading the news like all Good Gnus (that's right - another line from the prgramme) should.

I am haunted by these black and white pixilations that normally remain white noise. Only in moments of strange clarity, I sense the immediacy of memory and who I have been is jolted, sharp into focus. Lay it down carefully. Whose voice speaks quietly?







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[É÷÷\]

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hahaha.. interesting entry..

-Gabriel

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Mr Lim, i miss you.

Eileen (2D2K) [sugaraddict]

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yea how interesting... [j.O.n. E≤]

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this is probably one of those few entries I have any idea at all of what you're talking about. [NiceShorts]

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=) [public_prosecutor]

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http://briansworld.nova.org/

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finally, somethin direct n easily understandable.......keep it up!

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i watched "far from heaven" n i really hated the way tt woman talked. standard polite answers for every conversation but tt was how her community worked anyway. this gave me a different view on "talking"... what's it for anyway...

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Today I - 6/16/2003







will write conventionally.

7.02 am - need the loo. Late nights do not condition your bladder to store fluid for uninterrupted snoozes into mid-morning. The siezure of sleep is broken.

7.30 am - start thinking about the work I need to do before I'm through with the day. Sigh.

8 am plus? Still lying in bed but unable to work out the purpose of thought ...

8.30 am - get up and brush up. yes that's term I've used for a long time. Brushing Up. Upstrokes only I suppose. But that's all redundant now that I use an Oral B Electric toothbrush. Which has an interesting history. When I went back to the army for the second time after NUS, I had pretty nice Officers working the same office - of course they were nice - they were about my age and had been to NUS at the same time as me ... anyway there was a particular chap who used to drive us out for lunch in his nice car ... and he gave me the Oral B Electric Brush as an ORD present ... with the advice, "Next time you in school, after lunch, when all the other teachers use normal toothbrush to brush their teeth - you can take out your Electric Tooth Brush and laugh at them!" I haven't brushed my teeth in school yet, much less with an Electric Toothbrush. But I suppose if you really want someone to think about you everyday - by them an Electric toothbrush for a present ...

8.31 am- yes i'm done - the Brush ran out of battery and I thought it would be silly to try to use it like a regular toothbrush ... sigh ... keep forgetting to charge the thing. Never mind will brush extra long tonight .... Growing up with both your parents as dental surgeons, NOT brushing your teeth is like major rebellion. Up to JC, I lived in fear of being caught not brushing my teeth ... and I religiously did so. Of course the army meant less time for everything and brushing one's teeth became kinda optional on occasion when I discovered that not brushing my teeth didn't mean they would all fall out ... hmmm quite a shift in mindsets for me. Anyway I'm supposedly blessed with enzymes in my saliva that prevent tooth decay - don't have a single filling in spite of my tardy (these days) brush habits.

9 am - Start work on some stuff. Hard-going. Terrible job organising my thoughts. Much rather read but this has to be done. Get at least a page down. Decide to work on the mechanical bits (the bibliography instead. Am rather pleased to see quite a number of books I've looked at ... One doesn't get a sense of the amount we actually imbibe until we list things out ...

The rest of the day help an auntie fill out a damn long survey form Ambi Pure Air stuff - never heard of it "Oh you're a teacher, no wonder you're so patient in helping me fill out this survey - tennis - lunch of two crispy pratas in Upper thomson - scrounging around for a space to sit and read in orchard and almost having a nervous breakdown in the middle to Taka when the dual forces of wanting to be in crowd and not being able to conceal the sense that disorder is robbing my sense of identity from a distinct purposefulness cave in on me. I want to scream for a moment then laugh at myself a half chuckle. Finger a CD - coltrane's Ascension for a good ten minutes before putting it down and hopping onto an Express 502 sleeping along with the bobbing of a cranky suspension - play scales and finger exercises - eat dinner - play with isabelle - listen to some DYLAN - read a page of delany - realise that I need to do some work - and end up writing a diary entry ...

I just go walking in the rain, when I hear breath, strong like an easy fantasy


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yea...i luv walking in the rain the heavier the better..esp in thunderstorm..gives me a very relaxed feeling [j.O.n. E≤]

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May 2003

Wow-zers - 5/14/2003





The last two weeks have been terribly draining. Been emotionally drained by all that's going around and zapped out psychologically by the deadlines that I need to meet. Sigh - too many things up in the air all at once. Of course, this probably cannot compare with what most people go through - with their numerous projects and subjects and deals to cut and ladders to climb and bosses to please - perhaps sometimes I wish I were made of sterner stuff and were not so easily affected by things.

Sigh - I guess what one's seen or heard or been through does colour the emphasis of one's being. Anyway - I really glad for the holiday tomorrow - even if it only does mean that I'll have the oportunity to work through the day and get ahead of my schedule (used as a generic almost illusory term of course, as if I actually keep a schedule ...)

What I really want to do - is to sleep and wake up to find that all the boring mundane stuff that needs to be done has magically been cleared out - I think to be haunted with what ifs is terrible ... If you could read my mind, i would ask of you this: that you carved out a box there, right there, in between all the brain mush, and let all this get packed in. Then we'd ship all this business of deadlines, gridlines, right-hand margin lines and lines of contact, off on a round the world never to be seen or heard from again journey. And the lines would lose themselves in the space of that box. Because everyone knows that lines in boxes are merely the intersections of space and time and if you spin a box of the mind fast enough - the lines recede, with the ever fading horizon.









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ah bless,feel beta soon.

faith x x x [wild orchid]

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feeling tired eh..go for a massage..hehe..or spa...jaccuzi..wateva=p

take care~ [É÷÷\]

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take leave from sch :)

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I think u need MC..LOL..



juz dropping by to see how you're doing

-bryan(if u still remember) [Outrageous Outlaw]

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ahaha...u should use the holiday to realli take a break...free yur mind from all those deadlines...worry abt them after the holiday..

Jonathan Ee

RVHS

2D 2002 [j.O.n. E≤]

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beautiful box! can i have it for my birthday?? =P [i||uXioN]

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Hey - 5/22/2003





Mr Tambourine man - play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey Mr Tambourine man - play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning, I'll come following you-

And I know that evening 's empire
Has returned into sand
has vanished from my hand
left me blindly here to stand while still not sleeping
My weariness amazes me
i'm branded on my feet
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming ...

Bob Dylan

Gets it right everytime I hear him smile into the guitar chords and laugh into the harp. You know that all the anger of a generation lost in space comes crashing into a moment of tired fizzled out I tried too hard I told you sos.

Ah ...





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Hey yeah I remember that song when you played it in class... Bob Dylan's got some funky background...

Oh yeah if you're still interested in jazz, I've got this really, really insane CD. Mostly acid swingjazz sort, coupled with fusion and new age, comprising of a one time union of the best soloists in the world... fun stuff... [Grandioso]

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i remembered the song you sang for us during graduation i think... =) i still keep the song lyric you printed out for each and everyone of us... =) [i||uXioN]

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A teacher who likes Bob Dylan? Rather much of a coincidence? Btw I used to be a teacher and Mr Tambourine Man is a favourite of mine. Shall have fun reading this dialogue between the teacher and his class. You hang in there. [perrin]

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still remember the time when you played that song in class...miss your lit lessons mr lim... -kel

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Slave to Technology? - 5/25/2003





I've never really regarded myself as one chained by the sheckles of technology to the latest, fastest or trendiest. After all, my computer is several generations old, my laptop is clunky and my palm ... is in good ol black and white. Ok - so I'm not exactly a luddite but neither do I try to be too up to date either. So it did strike me as somewhat significant when I had to return the nifty (ok to ME) handphone that I've been using to the friend that I borrowed it from. Nifty to me - it was a nokia 8210 (I think) - because the phone I had lost (misplaced?) was a nokia 3310. So my friend had another spare phone - a nokia 6110 (?) - a rather large affair, complete with non-detachable antenna. Anyway - I was quite pleased with how the phone looked - at least I could throw it at unsuspecting students who fall asleep in my classes and actually do some damage ...

But on trying it out I realised - horrors - it didn't have a vibration mode! Now those of you who have actually tried calling me know that I hardly pick up my phone cause it's always on silent mode and on the off chance that I feel the vibration, I'm usually too slow anyway ... So to not have a vibration mode on the phone was really - i felt - one step too far in the direction of even worse handphone answering habits ... (even the first generation motorola pager that could only store 6 numbers that I had way back when had a vibration mode ...) And playing with the phone some more, I found that it didn't have a smart SMS function. Yup - you had to key in everything letter by letter. At which point I caved in and told myself that I coudn't survive with this phone. But did I relent and buy a new phone for myself ... not exactly ...

I just switched phones with my mom ... so now I'm back to using that trusty 3210 (which is actually Ms Tan's - my mom is taking care of it while she's in NY) I guess that's a small step in the direction of being a techno snob ...









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hahahax...its seriously time to upgrade [j.O.n. E≤]

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"shackles"...

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Aww man, there should be a law against those. It's so old it's almost illegal... i think... [Grandioso]

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ah well. a phone which you can juz phone with is all well and good. but a phone which you can keep hidden in a shirt pocket is great. and a phone in colour with WAP functions and polyphonic ringtones-- now that's really quite brilliant...

brilliant phone for a brilliant teacher O = ) go get one.

[lassitude]

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Yah...agree with Drew...Fashion police should have you arrested. [eagle eye]

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3210?? haha you are so easily satisfied... i'm not in much position to comment but a colour phone is pretty much the norm nowadays.. haha =P I KNOW wat you are going to say! yes yes, i'm insecure and driven by trends and fashion... whatever... =P [i||uXioN]

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well, what can i say? your phone matches your clothes? =D -fey

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hope ur pocket's big enough. i'm depressed enough already with my 3315. [psst]

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Ooo..No vibration and NO smart SMS function. Geez. I would have died with that phone. [silent.scream]

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Maybe - 5/29/2003





Maybe it's the way you wear your hair that makes them think of you this way. An abstract line goes nowhere like the strands that curl like curtains lost for a rail and nailed still on the window pane caressing the heartaches brought on by drought and rain. Still, perhaps the tone of your voice allures the purring cats whose pawing flick forward on the narrow edge of a half-attended garden hedge, creeping still path forward against backward glance scrounging for a bite to eat in the broken down moonshine of a brick wall flattened rat. Opening up the line, they dine and pounce on the fluttering shadows as if the feathers left behind by the cool wind whips could suggest more than the lingering taste of a rat's tail dallying through luscious lips. No its counterfactual all I think they really hunt to show us all what's made of instinct after the Fall: what is left behind is body and bones a neat rip and tear at the neck - all the maosers eat is head. When you wake up to the squawking sounds of a finalised moment when the sounds are shut off from here to head to there and toes screech and claw to an aweful silence. I've never heard it of course but I imagine it everytime I need to shoo a blood drenched (of course I exaggerate for effect)maoser from the torn plumage of a once complete now replete with the finality of flesh carcase. So we started with love and infatuation and followed on to death and intrigue walking an infinitely tight rope down this strange page fired by the sounds of open ended piano jazz melody closed off by the textures of discord.





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[i||uXioN]

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How Have you been?

I've been fine and dandy - as fine and dandy as a sick person can be. I was running a temperature on Thursday, a low-grade fever of 37.7 degrees centigrade and decided that I would break my vow of never taking a single day of medical leave before I quit MOE because of the current SARS scare. Felt it was the socially responsible thing to do. Spent that evening and the next day (Fri) sleeping a lot and reading in snatches. Finished Robert Graves' "Goodbye to All That" which is a properly British account of his experiences in the Trenches in WW1. Massive understatement throughout. It's amazing how he remembered all that he did and how he managed to capture all of it down in 1929, some eleven years after the Armistice. he probably made notes during the war and was probably a rabid letter writer as well. Perhaps one day these online notes will be given more shape than they already possess.
Anyway, I detest being ill because of the unpredictablity of it all. You can't even be sure of your bodily functions. Your sense of time drifts to become a suspended grainy concoction. You aren't even sure when you're going to get better. I'm much better now by the way and am relieved that it was a mild attack of the gastric flu. I've spent enough time in hopsitals to never want make illness a permanent state of being.

March 2003

Last Minute Man - 3/18/2003





I just got back from climbing / walking up Mt Ophir in Johor. Twas a great experience and the view and being in the outdoors was a wonderful experience. I must say that it was a kinda blessing in disguise that the trekking kids asked me along (male chaperone) last minute cause I probably would never have gone.

It's probably the craziest thing I've done in a long time cause they asked me the day before they were leaving - and yes while it was merely to Malaysia, it's not everyday that you decide to climb a mountain and sleep in a tent the very next day ...

And it's also given me greater insight into the workings of the senir admin of the school, the double crossing hypocrisy that operates almost as a governing principle. Having been in two schools up and having witnessed the behind the scenes scheming and downright lack of integrity on the part of the senior admin, I must say that I am totally qualified to affirm that it's disgusting.

Most of us gripe and complain about the inefficencies of the administration in schools; that the bureaucratic tape is overwheling and that all school leaders care about are the results. But I've witnessed up close how school leaders lack integrity, lie and try to push the blame for their oversight on innocent individuals, behaviour that cannot be condoned but somehow is because we are all awed by the authority that position brings.

At least the trip went off well and there were memorable moments. I suppose acting according to a set of higher beliefs, beliefs that define you as a teacher beyond the boundaries and limitations set by the ministry or by an institution, will somehow pay off in some way. Not that I'm advocating rebellious behaviour: just that I'll refuse to allow the inadequacies of a system limit what I can do. I guess that's a pretty bold claim, but one that I'll try my best to stick with.

For now at least.





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hey juz felt like telling u u're a wonderful teacher. missya and our class=) [É÷÷\]

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Yupz, thankx Mr Lim for coming on thursday nite.Even though I didn't really get to talk to u but i appreciate what u did for us and the main team.=)

Mag

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at least you still enjoy teaching! =) [i||uXioN]

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good for you ;) [downwardspiraltohell]

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So it's come to this - 3/27/2003





So it's come to this. He muttered sitting in a room filled with books. Stacks running from floor to wall with hardly any space between them. So it's come to this moment when I make a choice between reading and living. I never thought it possible that spheres could be kept apart so neatly. But they've managed it. And now it's come to this moment when the choice I make between reading and living is no longer metaphor but is literal. He paused for a moment, recalling the way he used to record his thoughts on the page. But this was not a moment for writing or scribbling and he quickly cancelled the impulse to look helplessly about the room for a piece of paper.

"So? Your decision?" The gnarled voice gripped at his throat.

And he felt the pain immediately. Not as a psychic band tightening around his brain but as a sharp penetration and he wincing uncontrollably couldn't answer. Gasping, he tried to stay on his feet as he lashed out at the books, hoping that they would provide some kind of support.

They'd wired him. No wonder he felt the words so keenly.

I feel my hands: they're awkward in this room. Salty from sweat and palms wet with exhaustion. I taste the encrustation of grime which gathers at the corners or my cracked lips and my hair matted from days of being kept apart from any source of running water. And I grasp for my torso, a reassurance that they've not shorn me into bits and merely retrieved my memory. It's there. I gather myself into a ball, but these are difficult times to be shape perfect and I merely manage to curl up fetal-like.





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*blur* [AnGeL^6587]

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Another View - 3/27/2003





From here, it's quiet. Like the opening of a pack of chips expertly done, the sun light slices into two neat sides the package that was the room. Cutting through the window grilles, the light menaces for a moment but quickly dances across the parquet floor. It's like they say slogan-like, "It's A Brand New Day!" And you crave for a sense of optimism that will shield you from the ravages of living with yourself. You hope that cliches will leave their mark, another branding of sorts, so that you'll be counted and possessed by newness. Opening your eyes to the sun isn't easy when you've got them shut for such a long time but the pain is better to keeping them cloistered and holed up in the uncertainty of the dark. Even when the shades are drawn and most of the sunlight comes through quietly, it's the rays that manage to get in sharply that become all that matters. While the artificial sounds of the morning - the running of car engines, the loud playing CNN broadcast, the rattling of loose gates flung open - rouse you, only the eyes fully opened and taking in the newness of the hour counts as an invitation to take your place in the scheme of things once again.

I potter for a moment. I totter for a second at the top of the stairs as my feet do the slow shuffle down the wooden steps. I haven't counted them in a long while for I am normally in a rush but today my good sense tells me to check that there are still thirteen to the first landing and five thereafter. Thirteen steps to plonk down when I was younger, hearing the reverberating tock of steps that had gone hollow, rotten inside. Then a big finish - yes folks - put your hands together for a big finish - yes he's going to jump from the landing down the final five ...

I greet the similarity of each morning with a dull reply for coffee. I don't really read the papers. I just stare at the obscene intrusion of these pictures into the space that is the kitchen and my mind. All the World comes to me, seeking an audience, and I get irritated. But quickly I fill my sense with the sights and sounds (the news on TV and radio) and the Media is a drug that gets me going.







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So it's come to this ( additions) - 3/27/2003





So it's come to this. He muttered sitting in a room filled with books. Stacks running from floor to wall with hardly any space between them. So it's come to this moment when I make a choice between reading and living. I never thought it possible that spheres could be kept apart so neatly. But they've managed it. And now it's come to this moment when the choice I make between reading and living is no longer metaphor but becomes literal. He paused for a moment, recalling the way he used to record his thoughts on the page. But this was not a moment for writing or scribbling and he quickly cancelled the impulse to look helplessly about the room for a piece of paper.

"So? Your decision?" The gnarled voice gripped at his throat.

And he felt the pain immediately. Not as a psychic band tightening around his brain but as a sharp penetration and he wincing uncontrollably couldn't answer. Gasping, he tried to stay on his feet as he lashed out at the books, hoping that they would provide some kind of support.

They'd wired him. No wonder he felt the words so keenly.

I feel my hands: they're awkward in this room. Salty from sweat and palms wet with exhaustion. I taste the encrustation of grime which gathers at the corners or my cracked lips and my hair matted from days of being kept apart from any source of running water. And I grasp for my torso, a reassurance that they've not shorn me into bits and merely retrieved my memory. It's there. I gather myself into a ball, but these are difficult times to be shape perfect and I merely manage to curl up fetal-like.

The slogan read "In an Age of Total Information, Who Needs Books?" It hung, a silent couplet at the edge of the room's doors. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he peered carefully about. The books where still there. Perhaps he should venture to open one of them. But the thought lapsed into a question and turned upon itself. But what if they see you reading? The couplet on the wall shifted its figurations and now read "Total Information: All You Ever Need To Know"







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hmm.. something for me to study in the extra one week holidays... haha.. [i||uXioN]

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[Enfant Terrible]

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hi! i 'stumbled' across your diary and decided to read it. i hope you don't mind me reading it.

i think you are a great teacher. i'm sure you have great students too.

*stumbled: when i was browsing through the list of singaporean diarist aged over 25 [b|dent]

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Being a Cynic

I've been accused (once again) of being a cynic. This being Valentine's Day, I couldn't help but make some observations about commercialism rampant and the fact that much of the gift giving (and receiving) is hype. A play on the emotions for commercial profit, of course these comments (and more - I must admit I was having fun insulting the trinkets and the fluff and the flowers and the sweets) drew some flak from those who were laden with the bounties of Valentine's Day.
"You're a cynic!""You're just sore that you didn't get anything for Valentine's Day!" (Done with much waving of fuzzy flowers in my face)"You're mean!"
If you told me "Happy Valentine's Day" and I said "I don't believe in Valentine's Day", where does that leave the conversation? Is it not an attempt, and invitation to examine the social conventions that mark this Feb the 14th? Is any occassion "beyond" the marking of convention? So being called a cynic in my face, I will explore that mode of existence:
Little known fact I suppose, by people that call others "cynical", as if it were a term of derision - the Cynics were an important philosophical school of Ancient Greece. Diogenes (320 BC), a key philosopher of this school, believed that stoic simplicity was crucial in battling the luxuries that he found his frivolous age enamoured with. He not only held a disregard for luxury but had a disregard for convention as well. Traditional laws and social organisations he felt, were props which man could do without. He sought to show that man could live free from these externalities. Crates, a pupil of Diogenes', made it his mission to castigate vice and pretense. He wrote satires which exposed the philosophical pretenses of other treatises. All in all, a cynical view seeks to expose in order to get at truth.
I've never pegged myself a cynic. It's too awesome and unpopular a role. To dare to speak your mind in the face of overwhelming opposition is both admirable and scary. But when confronted with blatant injustices, imbalances or just plain silliness of our existence, surely some kind of utterance, in the name of approaching truth, must be made. I understand the attraction of redeeming illusions, having lived under many in my time, but at least let those illusions you cling to be redeeming.
I also think my criticism (rather than cynicism) is often directed at situations or figures of authority. I tend to believe the best of the underdog but am always highly suspicious of persons in positions of power. Which is perhaps why, as a teacher, I've abnegated much of the power and authority that the role should possess. My cynicism, in a sense, bites back. But that in part, is living as you believe.
But cynicism is selective isn't it? The wonderful thing about attitudes is that we choose rather arbitrarily to apply them, with force or for enjoyment's sake. It isn't a creed but a tremendous critical resource that can be called up to maintain your sense of individuality. It is precisely the arbitrary application of any critque, the angularity of thought perhaps, that strives towards the preservation of the self.
So there's no crusading on the part of this cynic (if you insist on calling him that) and I'm sure that there are many people out there who are much more cynical than I am, about a host of things that I believe naively in (such as the belief that ppl really love to write GP essays!).
So if you said "Happy Valentine's Day", I'd still tell you that I don't believe in it - an invitation of course for further conversation ...

Reading / Re-reading

If hunger didn't explain things properly maybe thirst would. The bloated stomach lay clumsily above his belt, a permanent fixture that drew the gaze of every person that came near. The uncomfortable buttons drew the uneven ends of the shirt to an awkward juncture, where the checks met uneasily. He yawned in time with his growling stomach, eager to produce the rhythmic sensation that would repeat itself from body through voice into language. Sucking the air in with the force of a gulp, he listened for the moment when his ears would stop to buzz as he swallowed the gasp and stifled another yawn. Perhaps it was the whisper of hearing his own crackling voice that drew him to experiment with sounds that weren't intelligible. Saliva builds when you don't speak and this began to slosh around in his mouth. He fingered the creases which competed with the prints on his shirt and caved in suddenly, his head hitting the computer screen.

"Once in idleness was my beginning" Lawrence Durrell

The Problems of being Modern

Is one that pits theoretical inaction and the need to DO something to change the predicament the modernist finds himself in. Of course the assumption of predicament is itself questionable as the thought hardly crosses the minds of most individuals. But caught up in the realities of day to day living, trapped in this recession (that's not what they're calling it yet are they) the dense realities of navigating through these huge systems and structures that are products of modernity loom large. It isn't merely a pragmatic mind that learns to deal with these realities. A mind with a highly theoretical bent unavoidably delves into the minutae of everyday life precisely because it is unable to extricate itself from the imaginary chasm between theory and life. The systems and structures of modernity ensure that this is so. We are plunged into its forest of symbolism, without even realising that our world of realities is largely symbolic.
Chinese New Year? Yes. A world of symbolism surely and much of it traditional. But consider the Ang Bao-Hong Bao-Red Packet. A symbol of luck and fortune. But what does it contain? Another symbol - currency. So does the auspiciousness of the red the weight of the symbolism or does the money inside do that? If they both do, do they compete to undermine the symbolic power of the other? Is currency symbolic in a different way here - not merely referring to the power to buy but also pointing towards luck prosperity and fortune? And what if you received notes in a foreign currency? I used to get Hong Baos in Ringget (symbolic tensions come into play in the rhetorical turbulence of these times - symbols of prosperity are intensely nationalistic) and would have to execute an exchange of currencies in my attempt to step away from the multiple symbols and transform my takings into usable cash. Another symbolic transaction. And what of the purely symbolic Hong Bao then - the empty Hong Bao. I've been using the symbolic Hong Bao as an excuse:

"If I gave you a Hong Bao and you only found $2 in it, you would know that I am cheap. But if I never gave you a Hong Bao, there would always be the nagging "what if ..." lingering in your mind ..."

And so value (both monetary and judgement on me) is deferred. And so Derrida meets the bad joke.

But what if I didn't pause to bother about these replications of theory in life? What if I mouthed new year geetings, handed out red packets and waited one year just to do it all over again? Theory is intensely relevant - the above demonstrates our complicity in a highly dislocated sense of tradition and community - but its absence is always appreciated, never missed.

Cultural criticism doesn't need to assert its relevance in an intensely modern age. It makes lucid the nature of the entanglements that we often hardly respond to, entanglements that we sullenly term tradition and culture.