I think I am rather good at letting things go. What I mean is, I don't feel much of a sense of regret at giving things up—things I might have wanted very much. Coming to terms with it isn't too hard. Sometimes it feels worse to be oscillating between two choices, than to decisively give up one of them.
It's good because lack of regret stops me from dwelling on what might have been. Kind of like blinkers on horses; you learn to look ahead, instead of what's behind, or the three other routes you could have taken.
These days I wonder if this is such a good thing. Giving up something isn't hard when you know how to convince yourself and rationalise your decision. But it feels like I'm taking the easy way out. Like I stop fighting to realise what losing something means to me. I'm afraid I will lose something without realising what I've lost, and I can't decide if this is worse (not knowing what I've missed out on), or constantly regretting this loss.
Singapore Lights Timelapse from Weehan Yeo on Vimeo.
I may have eaten some maggots yesterday. This was unintentional; I do not view maggots (or any other insects) as potential sources of protein in my diet. It happened because I decided to make myself instant noodles. Unlike others who eat their noodles plain or with MSG, I eat mine with a combination of condiments, including ketchup.
I thought the ketchup smelt a little different when I opened the bottle. There was a whiff of stronger sour ketchup than normal. However I dismissed the smell as not having had instant noodles or ketchup for some time, like I'd forgotten what it smells like out of the bottle. So I laid on the sauces, fried the egg, and had my lunch.
The truth came to light in the evening, when my mum decided to make herself fried rice for supper. While my dad and I were engrossed with the 9 pm channel 8 drama about philandering husbands, pregnant wives who fall down on doorsteps and potential couples trapped in lifts, we heard an exclamation emitting from the kitchen.
Mum: OH MY GOODNESS.
Dad + I: What?
Mum: There are WORMS. In the KETCHUP. UGH.
Mum disposes of fried rice tainted with maggot-ketchup.
I: Darn, I had a whole bunch of it for lunch.
Dad: Really? It's all right, they're clean.
We resume watching the drama.
I haven't felt sick or anything though, so I assume maggots are probably edible, like how ants are edible. On the bright side, that evening I also discovered how to make tasty (and unhealthy) grilled cheese sandwiches.
Tufty says: (20:34:01)
wtf
Tufty says: (20:34:18)
also, the shit that i scooped up today might have maggots
Tufty says: (20:34:31)
but that is not as bad as yours
Tufty says: (20:34:39)
because i have to scoop shit everyday
Tufty says: (20:35:17)
i scoop so much shit that i can write a book with the title "my life scooping shit"
Tufty says: (20:35:28)
or maybe "my 2 years scooping shit"
Tufty says: (20:37:45)
on saturday, i spent more than one hour just scooping shit
机会只献给懂得珍惜的人，奇迹只出现在睁开的眼睛面前。
骄者必败。三人行，必有我师焉。
忍一时风平浪静，退一步海阔天空。
By some miracle I won my three games today at the selection trials for the Asian Amateur Baduk Championship, so I'll hopefully be competing in Korea from 18 to 22 September. I was rather lucky, because my openings in all three games weren't very good, and I won them mostly by merit of my opponents' carelessness. Especially my last game, which everyone agreed was a gone case for sure. I just lost my grip on the game. The worst thing you can do during a match (or examination for that matter) is panic because your brain just goes blank.
Watched The Haunting in Connecticut with Karen, Dan and House after the competition. This marks the first (and hopefully the last) time I pay $10 to scare myself. I scare very easily. The only other horror movies I've watched in my life are 倩女幽魂, The Village, The Devil's Backbone and The Others for class, Dorm during orientation, and Final Destination during a class chalet. I realise some of them aren't really horror movies at that.
In summary the plot is kind of silly (although the sepia portions are really quite creepy) but I freaked out anyway. I think I only literally watched half the movie. The other half was obscured by my jacket.
有一些人，在你的心目中占据崇高地位，仿佛神一般。你会觉得这些人完美无缺——他们不可能有弱点，更不可能做错事。也许你可以亲近他们，但总带着敬仰之心。
而当你察觉他们软弱，当你看见他们的错误，当你发现那崇高的距离其实不远，当你发现其实他们也是人的时候，你会失望且悲伤。看见他们时有种无助、不知所措的感觉，因为对你他们身上依然有着依稀光辉，但那淡淡光辉背后你也能看见一条条裂痕。两种相对的、矛盾的心情，很难释怀。
混合双打（mixed pair）是由一男一女组队的比赛，二对二。它也是一个残酷又可怕的游戏。一盘棋导致男方气得内出血，女方紧张得整颗棋子湿淋淋都是汗。到最后棋艺是否有所进步可想而知，但两人肯定炼出一个’忍’字来。
当然，没有那么可怕，不然怎么会年复一年地自讨苦吃。双打赛常常会出现奇迹（如果是你赢就叫做‘奇迹’，输的话叫‘不可思议’），如：因为以为轮到搭档下棋而超时、死棋神奇地复活、活棋莫名其妙地死去、在厚到不能再厚的地盘里做活、等。这里不宜笑别人，因为这样‘奇迹般’为对手争得胜利的蠢棋自己下过很多，尤其今天下了不少（so sorry Dan）。
这样的棋实在刺激，不仅下棋的人紧张得要命，看棋的人常常也不禁屏住呼吸，心中惊呼：‘这么大的断点为什么四个人八只眼睛都看不见？！’前年到泰国比赛时，杨老师索性不看，让棋局顺其自然荒谬地下完。
唉。希望水平可以提高一点，不要下出太多太烂的棋。-_-
We all make snap judgments. They are why we dress formally for interviews, and the basis of 30-second elevator talks—human beings often come to decisions with little information.
Sometimes we're right, and sometimes we are not. More so the latter when we are talking about complex issues and objects that defy easy summary. For example, human beings.
It is difficult to know someone well. We come up with all sorts of tests to assess a person's values and ability. First impressions are often wrong, and most people are pretty nice once we get to know them better.
People also change. The person we know today will be slightly different from the one we knew yesterday. Needless to say, it is ignorant and very silly to believe that someone we have not had contact with for several years remains the same person we knew.
It is even more ignorant and silly to pass new judgments upon said person through tiny snippets of information gleaned from sources such as Facebook or blogs, and based on our inaccurate and incomplete assumptions.
There is a parable that illustrates this—it is the story of the six blind men trying to describe an elephant. We only know a minute portion of what is really going on, yet we judge based on them. As thinking, inquiring human beings, we ought to know that this is irrational. Do we make scientific conclusions without repeating tests? Do we trust experiments riddled with errors? No. We all know this.
The bottom line is: do not judge (or worse, mock) someone you do not know well. All it does is reflect badly upon ourselves, as people who are unthinking and immature.
COME BACK SOON PLEASE.
I am trying to cultivate a sort of madness in my life. Meetings, outings and gatherings are piled up, like a winter hoard, to stave off the empty recesses of boredom. And I look between the nooks and crannies, so I can fit in more, and then at the end of the day collapse, exhausted, into sleep.
我喜欢深夜。我喜欢深夜的宁静。我喜欢深夜里听歌。但是深夜不睡觉有损身体。
多数愉快的事情和好吃的东西都对身体有害。
Today I discovered that my June revolves around tuition. I discovered that I don't know grammar. Not the way it is meant to be taught anyway. I don't recall ever having learnt it properly (simple present tense, past participle, continuous, future). Until fairly recently I couldn't tell you what verbs and nouns are.
This is how my childhood moved out of its physical home into the ethereal world of memory.
one day
the cool white walls will overrun with fuzz
the sharp green tang of freshly-cut grass
musty with age
we will seep into dull sepia
then into dust
then into nothingness
our outgrown shoes cast aside
too late to retrieve
Over the course of the last year, my brain developed the charming ability to integrate the ringing of the alarm clock into my dreams. I hear the alarm going off, but instead of waking up, my brain invents reasons that seem so logical, such as this alarm authorises you to sleep longer, or oh that is just the bell of a passing train. This happens when I am particularly tired. It is my subconscious' way of keeping me asleep longer. The upshot of it is that I sometimes find myself waking up an hour later than I should have.
Lately though my (most-of-the-time) punctual self has begun to fight back. This morning the following exchange occurred in my head:
Alarm rings cheerfully.
Subconscious self: What is this noise? Clearly it is a siren that has been activated, because you are an undercover agent invading this place. Ignore it.
Alarm is silenced. It rings again later in five minutes.
Subconscious self: The siren again! Disregard it and continue your invasion.
The above scenario is repeated twice more.
Punctual self: Zomg. Subconscious self, what are you doing, I am going to be late!
Subconscious self: My plot has been discovered! Alas! Just five more minutes then.
Punctual self: Oh all right.
I go back to sleep.
I wake up after the additional five minutes. It is twenty minutes past the time I was supposed to have done so, but it is okay, as I factored in this the previous night while setting the alarm. I enjoy a (relatively) leisurely breakfast and read the papers.
I think I've been reading too much the last few days.
Today I blew a fortune on books at Kinokuniya with Ying Xian. Suffice to say that $30 worth of book vouchers scarcely covered the amount. In an attempt to assuage my guilt, three of the books are meant for my brother. It is part of a cunning ploy devised by my mother to tempt him into reading things other than manga scans online.
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
Going Solo, Roald Dahl
The Book of Dead Philosophers, Simon Critchley
Unpopular Essays, Bertrand Russell
What do you care what other people think?, Richard Feynman
Tuva or Bust!, Richard Feynman
A Brief History of Time, Stephen Hawking
Right now I'm reading The Beautiful and Damned by Fitzgerald. It's absolutely lovely—the poeticism with which he draws out words for a description:
He watched her for several minutes. Something was stirred in him, something not accounted for by the warm smell of the afternoon or the triumphant vividness of red. He felt persistently that the girl was beautiful — then of a sudden he understood: it was her distance, not a rare and precious distance of soul but still distance, if only in terrestrial yards, The autumn air was between them, and the roofs and the blurred voices. Yet for a not altogether explained second, posing perversely in time, his emotion had been nearer to adoration than in the deepest kiss he had ever known.
Something tells me I will be a long time in completing the architecture books. It is very hard to stay on non-fiction when there are stories lying around. Oh but I have all of June to do it anyway. Since QY is going on his exciting adventure in Inner Mongolia, I shall do whatever the hell I want in the meantime.
I look forward to owning my home, just so I can assemble my books on shelves where I can see them clearly. At the moment they are haphazardly scattered everywhere, on tabletops, floors, and underneath dressers. This is partially attributed to the fact that all the bookshelves in the house are completely full. The fact is that all those regularly read are lying about homeless, whereas their unloved counterparts sit snugly in wooden cubicles.
Why not give away those we don't read anymore? Good question. Unfortunately majority of the books aren't mine, and you never know if you'll need them again ('When? You've never read them.' 'I will read them when I have the time to.' 'You never have time.' 'When I retire I will!'). In short I am trying to sort out the books we own, but it seems so futile because three quarters of them stay on the shelves due to the above reason. Oh well.
Several weeks ago while out with Xiu, I got a shirt that says:
DUCHAMP IS THE ORIGINAL MODERN ARTIST. HE GAVE US THE FOUNTAIN OF FORTUNE.
I got it because the art geek in me could not resist the temptation (also there was a promotion going on). My one major beef with the above statement is its use of 'modern'. I assume it's supposed to mean 'contemporary', but in the context of art history, Modern art generally denotes those created in the period from the 1860's to 1970's. In fact, Duchamp would be on the tail-end of Modernism—his works are precursors to Postmodernism.
That aside though, it's actually pretty true. On a literal level, looking at some of the most financially-successful artists today (such as Damien Hirst, the favourite posterboy for successful sale of artwork, and for making use of financial institutions like auction houses), much of their artwork is derived from Duchamp's original concept of Readymades, or art created form modified objects. Hence you can say that Duchamp is indeed the origin from which their fortune springs.
On a more figurative level, one can say that art as a discipline found a fortune in Duchamp's work. Towards the end of Modernism, artists were increasingly looking for a new form of expression that excluded the perceived self-absorption of Modern art, which focused very much on the individual. Duchamp's (deliberate) upsets turned out to point the way forward in conceptual art, which continues to thrive until today.
(I wrote this now and then inside my head. Like when I'm waiting for buses to arrive. I miss art. Or rather, I miss dealing with a subject I know well enough to discuss off the cuff.)
I like drawing organic objects. They allow for mistakes—you can never tell even if the proportions are off. The half-open garlic on the right looks a mess. I didn't create enough contrast in texture between the skin and the smoother clove inside, and the shadows on the clove are weird.
Understanding Architecture
The Story of Architecture
Frank Gehry talks: architecture + process
Come August, I will be studying architecture at NUS.