Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts


Tuesday, July 26, 2011



Generation T


According to Wikipedia, I belong to a generation at the edge between Gen X and Gen Y. The accurate dividing line, of course, depends on demographics and other factors, statistically. Realistically, we could just go by the distinguishing characteristics. Even then, rarely does a person fit neatly into any typical group.

I think of myself as belonging to a transition generation. Not as a term, but as how I would describe it here---that is, a generation that experiences both [temporal] sides of a cultural transition. Of course, the same might be said about almost all other generations, as it is unlikely that a generation span could go by without any significant transition taking place. Taking this to the abstract level, then, I would prefer to define this transition in the sense of inducing a way of thinking that encompasses both the old and the new cultures.

I was born into a culture of traditions, albeit one whose strictness had faded. There was an abundance of moral education on one hand, and superstitions on the other. Then science and technology brought widespread change of lifestyles, and thence came the culture of pragmatism, driven by what is effective and convenient. I have enough ties to the old culture to keep it in my life: childhood impressions, respect for the elders, memories of a time when the old way was the good way... I have also tasted enough benefits of the new culture to want to stick to it.

We who have witnessed this transition are in a position to understand the driving factors and, in a way, balance the best of both worlds. Have things changed because it was necessary or simply because it was possible? With a bit more effort we may also understand the ways of the generations before and after: what makes them think in a certain way that might at first seem ridiculous or outrageous. Some superstitions are simply poorly-justified or out-of-context good advice; some unscientific ancient medical beliefs might actually be beneficial though not for the reason stated (rather than confusing uneducated patients with explanations, better to drive home the importance of obeying the instructions using simple analogies). Likewise, "improper" behaviour patterns of the younger generation are likely a natural response (or even aspiring effort) to the values deemed important at their age, in the era.

Just as "the old generation" in our point of view may blindly follow traditions, or "the new generation" blindly follow trends, so may we prone to blindly rejecting their ways as bad. Trying to understand a common pattern should be considerably easier than trying to understand individuals with all their subtle flavours---which is what we need to do in our relationships anyway.

Transition or no, we can probably take more pride in being a thinking generation---whose span ideally has nothing to do with time---one who cares to try to understand rather than judge, lest there ever be a need to put "-ism" behind "generation", too.


Much of the inspiration for this writing has come from Arthur C. Clarke's "Childhood's End", which painted a much more impressive picture of "generations" differing in more than one sense of the word.



Friday, July 15, 2011



An Exercise in Palindrome


Writing exercise.

Warning:
Dark theme, owing to--

Credits:
Heavy influence from Christopher Buckley's political satire "Thank You For Smoking" as well as David Sedaris' twisted fable "Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk" for the plot idea.


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No Love Lost
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It was really rather ironic, he thought, that this was where they'd first met.

He lit his cigarette, took a deep drag on it, and blew a cloud of smoke that blended into the imaginary swirl of her lingering perfume before vanishing through the window frame.

"I know you'd mind this, but--" He shrugged. "Hardly matters now, does it?"

Her gaze bore on his face, emotionless.

"Not that an apology would do any good at this point, anyway."

He fiddled with the cigarette in his fingers. Now that it was all over, he suddenly felt like spending a while longer with her.

"You wronged me first, remember."

He watched as pain registered across her face. She struggled with it for a long silent minute, fists clenched, jaws tense-- and then it was gone.

"We've all got to do what we've got to do."

She had said the same thing when she was leaving him, that first time.

Nothing personal, you understand. Was it really this easy to take a life?

It was her front-page article, crammed with privileged insider information that should've stayed within the bedroom walls, that had brought the company crumbling down in scandals and driven his brother to suicide.

"Don't give me that betrayed look. I know you never fully trust me. None of us is blameless, here."

In the end, it was simply a matter of who outwitting who.

Understanding dawned. She was smart. He suppressed a morbid urge to laugh. She was staring at him.

"With this," he gestured to his wine, the glass still untouched, "we're even."

He poured more wine from the bottle, filling her glass to the brim. It was deep red, a fitting colour for the occasion.

She contemplated it. "So you've come to tell me that you're going to overlook the past because you have further use for me?"

A thin smile formed on his lips. "I would think it poses less danger to my life compared to having a spying journalist in my house." He leaned back on his seat. "And I do intend to have you pay for what you've taken."

She gave him a sharp look as she drained her wine glass.

He took a cigarette out of his pack, and mockingly offered it to her. "You really wouldn't try a smoke?"


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For the second version/part of the story, please read the above paragraphs from bottom to top.


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Line palindromes in literature:
- James A. Lindon, "Doppelgänger" story-poem
- Jonathan Reed, "The Lost Generation" video-poem
- Douglas Hofstadter, "Crab Canon" dialogue (from "Gödel, Escher, Bach")

Crab canon in musical literature:
- J. S. Bach, "Canon 1 a 2"



Friday, April 23, 2010



The Elements of Companionship


I want to believe there is nothing sacred about love. That it is as commonplace as the smile you exchange with the nameless someone who works on the same floor. That it is as down to earth as the passion you pour into your art. That you can have much of it to give to many.

I want to believe there is nothing complicated about love. That it is as easygoing as extending your arm to a frail woman alighting from the bus. That it is as natural as greeting your elders at the dining table. That it can come and go leaving your heart as capable of it as before.

And then there is trust.



Tuesday, July 28, 2009



Propositional Logic


Found this draft on my computer; I seem to have written it about a year ago but somehow have no recollection of it. ^^0 Anyway, just for amusement.

---


Propositional Logic


'I love you' is somehow very difficult to say.

"If I were to propose to you right now, what would you do?"

Disapproving look. "Don't joke about such things."


'I love you' is somehow very difficult to say. He tries to go with 'I like you' instead.

"If I were to kiss you right now, what would you do?"

"Hmmm? I'd kiss you back."

"...Are you serious?"

"About as serious as you were."


'I like you' is somehow very difficult to say.

"If I were to ask you out right now, what would you do?"

"...Are you drunk?"

"I'm not! Can't you tell?"

"All right... so... what happened?"

Exasperated sigh. "...Nothing. Forget it."

"Hey, if anything, you can always talk to me, okay?"


"If I were to say I love you right now, what would you do?"

Long stare.

Nervous glance.

Thoughtful frown.

Seems like it will be scenario number three...

Soft smile. "Why don't you try it and see?"


---



Tuesday, June 24, 2008



Let It Rain


I wasn't particularly concerned about the dark clouds,
because I always bring an umbrella with me.
I was already seated comfortably in the bus
before any rain fell.

Rain fell.

We passed by a man walking along the side of the flyover
with nothing to keep the still-scarce drops from hitting his dress shirt,
and yet, unhurried,
because (or so I suspected) there was no shelter in immediate sight anyway.

I glimpsed a small smile on his expression,
as though he was finding humor
in the harmless misfortune.

I thought, then,
that the only time I'd ever believe in love at first sight
it would be for the capacity to laugh at life like this.


Jurong East Central, +/- 11 a.m.



Sunday, April 06, 2008



Charlie and the Teenage Angst


Not sure what to call this -- reflection? fanfiction? Anyway, this short piece of prose was inspired by a line of dialogue in the movie Charlie Bartlett, which both Eka and I have high opinions of after watching.

Yet untitled, and probably a little mushy. =P Fanfiction-ish in the sense that references are made without explanation, so it may be difficult to understand if you haven't watched the movie (well, if you haven't but can still understand, I'd be delighted to know). It also means spoilers.

---

The boy is everything he is not, even back in those years -- sweet talk and refined manners and prim looks that scream at school bullies to get him.

He sees no malice, though, and that is why he hasn't been quite as stern as someone in his position should be. He knows this species: teenagers vying to be recognized as adults, taking charge of things in all the wrong ways, while in truth their stubbornness and cynical perspectives speak louder of how immature their minds still are.

This kid would've been no different if not for his actual capacity to stir troubles at such a scale.

That may have been his mistake, to leave alone a misguided aspiration that ends up robbing him of his job and family and the life he's been trying to piece back together.

Yes, he is game enough to admit his part in this wreck, and that, strangely, is one point where he can connect perfectly with the kid -- they make mistakes; but all their mistakes, they make in earnest.

Yet, seated in the makeshift theatre, he has to admit that the kid fixes his mistakes a little better than he does. It may be an advantage of youth to be so fixated on a dream -- when one road crumbles, he grabs his dream and moves on.

Roads are for destinations, not the other way round. For him who has spent years following a road to a dream that lands him somewhere he no longer wants to be, it might as well be that all this mess has gotten him out of it.

The curtain closes on the smiling face of his daughter, looking straight at him. He assumes it means the worst part is over.

Their relationship might have been fine before this boy came along, and a total disaster after; but without that episode, it might never be as good as it will be from now on.

That may have been his saving grace, to not kill a clumsy flame that later goes on to rekindle the meaning of all that's important in his life.

---



Thursday, March 16, 2006



Article


On a whim, wrote an article on poetry writing today. Interested parties can find it here.