Did You Know It's Christmas?

When I was on the way home from the Christmas Eve service, I heard this song again: 

Someone in the car then remarked that it makes him a little uncomfortable, asking Mary repeatedly did-you-know because she did know, albeit partially, about these things.

Well, I think that's a-little-too-matter-of-fact way of looking at it. The way I look at it:

First, I believe the questions are somewhat rhetorical -- indeed Mary knew; the angels told her some things, even though most likely she knew not the full implications of what was about to happen to her. Which brings me to the second: the tone of the question is not interrogative but jubilant. Like the chorus in a play, we are called to sing along the heavenly hosts, eager to share our own excitement, the generations down the line who have been blessed, saying Amen to Mary's Magnificat: I shall be called blessed (Luke 1:46-55). In effect, the lyricist also calls us to put ourselves in Mary's shoes, sharing her joys of being chosen as an instrument of God. In fact, moments into the song, the word that immediately occurred to me was vicarious -- in other words, we are called to take part in the Magnificat, transcending the timeline gap and experience what Mary experienced, particularly her joy, vicariously. This perspective (heavenly host singalong) is certainly unusual and as there is a dash of dramatic irony too, since we already know what is going to happen, Mary didn't. All in all, it makes you think. Literary spices are useless if the ingredients are stale in the first place. 

So ponder. Sing. Don't eat too much. Did you know you are going to have a blessed Christmas?

Caesius

Unfortunately I haven't had many chances to answer 'caesius' when asked what my favourite colour is. What I would like to tell foremost is the reason why it is my favourite. It's a soft colour and pairs quite well with any other, sure, but it is a little bit more than the mere visual quality -- it's rather synaesthetical. Caesius is foremost the colour of emission spectrum line of caesium, the alkali metal that is its namesake. It invokes the alchemist, the transformer of things. Secondly, well, it is the colour of the sky and the sea, the two great expanses that we are sandwiched between. There is a poetic quality to it -- it evokes Genesis' "the waters above and the waters under". One poet expressed this quality like this: "The dolphins that stitch the sky to the sea", and yet another. It reminds us that we are part of the firmament that stitches the sky to the sea. That we are the waters between, our hearts sky-blue expanses, transparent and vast. 

Sidetracked

Treading on the dampened track, heavy fatigue-laden steps, soft whisper of night breeze, the night sky awash with moonshine, rivulets of sweat streaming down, breath punctuated by wheezes, vast expanse of track neatly divided by white bold lines, bad timing of 14:02, roughness of the track on bare feet, cars and buses gliding almost noiselessly outside, the orchestra of crickets, low constant buzzing and intermittent sounds by tiny fiddlers, mate-calling, peering into a puddle, looking for moon's ghost, submerged mirrory watery city found instead.

An Open Letter to A Friend Whose Friend Has Just Taken Her Own Dear Life

Dear J

I'm sorry your friend has just committed suicide. I know you had just talked to her a few months back and I know you blame yourself for not talking her out of her suicidal tendencies. I cannot claim to understand your sorrow, since it has never happened to me, though a loss, a death is something that plucks the same string in all of us, playing the same rueful tune, rippling to the very core of our souls, so let me try a few words.

The first time you told me, I referred you to an article where a father struggled with the death of his son. Let me repeat a particular sentence, as it has stubbornly repeated itself in my mind: 

It is impossible for you to go on as you were before, so you must go on as you never have.

I know you are sick of people telling you to get over it, so I'm not going to tell you to. But you must. However long it will take, you must. And do not lash at those people. If they bothered to tell you, they care for you. Listen, J, as I have told you before, it takes a strong character like yours to be able to wear one's heart on one's sleeve, but an exposed heart gets cut more. Victor Frankl said that the sun needs to endure burning to give out light. You have a big, healthy heart, J, that's why you are bothered about this in the first place.

Channelling your grief into something else might work. I see that you have started running again after recovering from your injury. I swim, or write silly letters like this. The obliterated place is literally 'against the letter', so I would use words to construct the obliterated back. Remember the ankle injury that cripples you, forcing you to wear ankle guard like a clumsy Robocop? It has healed, hasn't it? The big gash in your heart will someday close, too, and you will be able to run again, be it on the field-track or the life-track.

I believe in a proper closure. That's why we have funerals, to mark the closing of a life. We have New Year's Eve celebration, to mark the closing of the year. I don't know what is your version of closure, but I hope you will find it. Attend her funeral, talk to her parents, write her a letter, write her family a letter, let go of a helium balloon to the vast sky, take a night walk in remembrance of her; do what you can do. Mark it as a closure to a chapter in your life -- a bitter chapter indeed -- and start a new chapter. Take your time, but do not dwell so long -- grief is like quagmire, the longer you stay, the longer you will get stuck.

Remember your big heart, J, the one with gashing wound and has to endure nuclear fusion to shine?
Glow for all to see.

Yours

Revisitation

I've come to realise that a part of growing up is to revisit childhood memories. You see, as a child we tend to be fascinated by every little thing, and our memories are glossed over, filtered through the rose-tinted spectacles. When you have grown up then, to those fond memories do revisitations, or as Kierkegaard put it, Repetition.
I'll give you an example. My mother makes really mean croquettes, and as far the child me was concerned, Mom's croquette was the damnedest thing ever to touch his palate. My father used to work out of town and occasionally brought a durian or two home. Again to the child me it was the most delectable thing ever. And I can tell you, the croquettes or durians I have since devoured can never compare to those I had, simply because I have associated Mom's croquette as the mark of a happy ocassion and Dad's durian as a sign of his coming home.

What I'm saying is you may need to peel off the extraneous layers of gloss on your memories, but then again maybe not -- why bother with that which has become the ideal, the unattainable? Maybe if factual information is important to glean, then you need to. But at least you need to recognise them as they are, and when you revisit the memories again, no need to suffer unnecessarily because the scenery isn't as magnificent as you remembered, the food isn't as delicious, the people aren't as kind, and so on; and chase after that which have become etched shadows in your mind. Because growing up includes an acknowledgement that you will never catch them.

Little Words

A little while ago, someone asked me to retract a comment I have made. I did what I was told, but behind my one-word compliance and the act of deleting that comment, was a torrent of daggers. Of pejoratives, of expletives. Like a cartoonish scene where it is calm and warm by the fireplace, but by the window the droplets incessantly knock the glass like bullets from a submachine gun. Up to this moment I still wonder why I am so bitter -- understatement -- about the little incident; after all it was just one sentence, one line. A dim, flickering light in the midst of high-flux spotlights, making no difference in or out of existence.

If I want to be brief about it though, perhaps the reason goes something like this: As someone who aspires to use words to make a living, I produce every line with careful consideration, and this one was no exception. Wordsmiths take pride in their creations, and when those flickering children die, the wordsmith die a little. The issue was what I said can be interpreted as libellous, somewhat. But exactly that was what I took pride in in that statement -- it can be interpreted as praise or scorn. For those in the know, the interpretation can mean that the person in consideration is lenient, lenient to a fault perhaps, but nothing scornful. For those not in the know, this nuance would be absent. Thus I was playing the classical ambiguous statement -- crusing along the fence -- here. It explains the situation quite nicely with a veiled nuance, without giving too much away. "Witty enough," said the self-editor in me.

Let me digress. Words and mouth are quite intertwined. The mouth, being the producer of the spoken language, is subject to a lot of metaphors. Needless to say, they are related to speaking and eating. But: speaking produces, eating consumes; isn't that antonymic? But there is an excellent example which manages to unite the above ostensible opposites:

Jesus answered, "It is written: 'Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.'"
-- Matthew 4:4

And how interesting indeed that the one who spoke of these things is also known as the Word, or Logos in the original Greek. The mouth is then a point of reconciliation. Words are bread. Words nourish us. Indeed these are true for the words from the Scripture. But we bear semblances to the Word, after all we are in his image. Thus the words we produce indeed nourish sometimes, though at most other times they destroy.

In this way our words are powerful, our tongues are tongues of fire dancing a dance of destruction. And I'm reminded of this everytime I recall that little incident.

It doesn't help to abate the internal pouring torrent of expletives, though.

How Zeus Unites All There Is

[Ms. Freedman / Sophomore English / Period 5 / Journaling prompt: Write a one-page story in which your favourite mystical creature resolves the greatest sociopolitical problem of our time.]

I can't exactly say what the greatest sociopolitical problem of our time is. And that's befitting of the title 'the greatest', it refuses to be captured in a few words. But I will try to explain it as I understand it. It probably can be summed up in one word: fragmentation, but give me the luxury to elaborate, if you please.

I would start with countries. Countries are strange -- people need to be segregated, given different identities, possessing different cultures. Ms. Freedman, I came from a third-world country. My great-grandmother travelled the rough seas to settle down there. Wars had been fought, blood had been spilled, our land had been occupied, our people had been slaves, because -- because of our exotic spices? Mr. Duma, our economic teacher, said that countries specialise and trade is beneficial. Tell that to our plundered land, to our raped women, to our children forced into labour. Tell them! Just because you happen to be born on one side and we on the other; no, it doesn't give right to you or I to treat the other side like trash. Countries need not be separated like this.

The very fabric of our economy is in shambles. I don't know about stocks and forex, probably you do, Ms. Freedman, because it seems like nowadays everybody's uncle is dabbling in stocks and forex. I am always bewildered at how people can make money based on changes in stock price and currency exchange rate. Where does it come from? Someone's gotta pay for it all: a man's fortune is another's misery. The feeling is somewhat like when how I sweat at the thought of air-conditioning -- where would the heat go? The law of equivalent exchange -- we will pay for our cool air somehow, maybe we are. Is this thing called economic structure a big Ponzi's scheme like the one cooked up by that Madoff guy? Would our children or theirs pay for the price eventually? Seriously, Ms. Freedman, how does one sleep with these thoughts? 

My mystical creature would be able solve this. I choose Zeus. Alright, Ms. Freedman I know it's cheating -- 'mythical' is not exactly 'mystical' but fussing over minor differences may be someone else's greatest sociopolitical problem ever, you know. Anyway, Zeus. As in Zeus the ruler of the gods. The one in the presence of whom all heads, mortals and gods alike, must bow. The one who wield the thunder bolts. The one causing static tingling in the electronics section... OK, that must be a different god, but I digress.

Having reigned over naughty immortals (who acted suspiciously similar to adolescents, mortal ones), he should know how to reign over us mortals. He would establish good governance, unified every country into a federation, set up a sensible economic system, etc., etc. No, he won't be a communist leader, nor will he be a fully democratic one. Before Aristotle was, he is; so I would presume he knows something about moderation.

Having said that, I would advise not to rely on him completely. After all, we are mortals and he isn't. The word devil may have its root in the Greek word diábolos, slanderer, but I am more persuaded to believe that it goes back to the Sanskrit word deva, god. It reminds us that the angels can fall, the Morning Star banished to the depths of Hades. Which fits wonderfully to Milton's Paradise Lost, where the Greek gods are cast as the fallen angels. See? I did my summer reading, Ms. Freedman.
Alright, Ms. Freedman, can we drop this farce already? I've told you how my favourite mystical creature resolves the problem. Well, the problem is still there, and it's not going to mystically resolve itself. So we've got you and me and a bunch of other people. Not mystical in any way, but that's the point.

Freedom

[2011 'O' Level English Language Paper 1 Section 1 prompt.]

She was running away. What from, that, she would have to get back to you later -- there was too much adrenaline coursing through her veins, confounding her thoughts, like an overcast black cloud with few flashes of lightnings of recollections. She sensed the cool wetness of grass under her feet, the twinges of pain from the cuts and bruises on her limbs, metallic smell from slight lacerations near her thighs, chilly breeze coming from gaps through her torn skirt and blouse; all dampened from adrenalinic numbness. The undergrowth was thinning and she came upon a clearing; she picked up her pace even more, until the sky is covered again with lush green foliage. The open sky somehow instilled a deep fear inside her, as if she were a furry little rodent keeping out of the sight of the flying talons who rule the sky. Her body felt mechanical: her bare feet trod the muddy ground hard, her arms flailed with reckless rhythm, her breathing heavy and puffed; she was not in control of any of these -- her body had executed the self-preservation programme that seated her conscious mind in the backseat.

The Tale of a Fallen Angel

[Six-word story challenge.]
Overeaten, she fell with mighty-loud thud.

The Natural Philosopher's Guide to Science

I think chemistry so be a sub-discipline of physics and be called "valence shell dynamics".
It doesn't deserve a separate Nobel prize category any more. It is largely predictable by theory as this current prize was. Yes, the experimental discovery should be awarded too
-- A comment

You could almost hear it. The collective sigh of chemists all over the world, I mean, over similar sentiments as above. Of course as a chemist-in-training I should say something in apologia. Though as soon as I said that, I realised that the epistemological perspective of the field is nowhere found in my training. So treat this piece as what I thought I knew about chemistry at the meta-knowledge level, and why I found the aforementioned comment distasteful, to say the least.
I will begin with definitions, like all good epistemological pieces should. To be sure, physics is the study of physical things and how they behave, in other words, the physical laws. Technically then, chemistry is certainly a subsidiary of physics, but so is biology, geology, climatology and every other subject studying the tangible, because the tangible obey physical laws. Such classification then becomes useless, the field too bloated, which defeats the purpose of classification in the first place.
As such, we must recognise the two kinds of classifications here: the technical one and the utilitarian one. So, an attempt to unify chemistry under the grand umbrella of physics is technically proper but not useful. Utilitarianism here is of course anthropocentric -- Man is the measure of all things, said Pythagoras. The study of behaviours of valence electrons has implications in the chemical industries -- from paints, fertilisers, cosmetics, foodstuff, to drugs -- that are paramount to our lives that they need a separate category. This is even truer for the engineering fields, the direct spawns of physics, that the industry would benefit from clear distinctions. As important is the utility to the academic learning. The massive amount of knowledge has to be compartmentalised -- the size of the field should be roughly learnable within a four-year bachelor's degree. Imagine if a physics degree also requires you to learn chemistry to the level of the current chemistry degree -- how long would that take, and how useful is that for the learner who doesn't intend to go to grad school? And the utility values to the industry and academia are intertwined. The training during the four-year bachelor's should be at least enough for the learner to have a basic grasp of the field to start out in the industry (or his curiosity piqued enough that he would choose to go to grad school, but that's another story).
Sure, the divisive line blurs when one talks about physical chemistry for example. Does thermodynamics belong to the realm of physics or chemistry? Sticking to utilitarian value, one should resist classification then, and embrace both labels, because, why not? The separate classification of chemistry should serve to make clear; when it does not serve this purpose and potentially misleads instead, then the classification has ceased to have any utility.
In a talk I attended where Aaron Ciechanover, 2004 Nobel laurate in Chemistry, was the speaker, someone, evidently an organic chemist grad student, asked about the role of synthetic chemist in increasingly biological approach in drug industry. He gently rebuked the questioner regarding the absurdity of such division. In short, he lamented the current state of affairs where science departments are so isolatedly fragmented they are not communicating and collaborating with each other. When I think of these things, strangely enough I am reminded of Victor Frankenstein, whom Shelley described as a 'natural philosopher' if my memory serves right, and his creature. That there was a time when the hard sciences are united on a front called natural philosophy, before it has inflated to the the sewing of appendages that barely fit each other, the chimeric monstrosity it is today.
-- 
Recapitulation so far: It is of utility value to have chemistry as a separate field from physics. This argument may not apply to other fields, so I'm going to offer another argument that applies in all cases. First, if you haven't seen the xkcd's Purity spectrum, go see. Hoewever, as you might suspect, chemistry is not just applied physics, biology is not just applied chemistry and so on. You see, at some point, neuronal connections (biology), neurotransmitters (chemistry), and a bunch of other stuff, as a system, gains enough complexity to become your mind, your consciousness -- picture gestalt, that which the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. You can't go from physical laws to understanding schizophrenia because the interactions involved have become intricately, impossibly complex to unravel. Such property of complex systems is called emergence, and fields are systems of knowledge. Consequently, while you can say how pure your field is compared to to others, it doesn't make one field any more complex than the others, thus any more worthy of study compared to others.
Bottom line is: dividing sentiments are not useful. There is no point in arguing whose field is more significant. What the scientist must do is make distinctions when necessary and useful, and not make them when unnecessary and useless. Carry on that spark of lightning that keeps a burning fire inside Frankenstein's creature's heart; that keeps him alive, that leads him to search himself, that pushes him to wrestle with his creator, that makes sewn appendages move as one.

Wordsmith

One of the tasks of a writer is: to give forms to the formless, perhaps even primal, instincts, urges, train of thought, notion, that lurk behind the curtain of the unconscious, at the back of one's mind. Good writers make you go: "Wow, my thoughts exactly." Deep inside, the reader already knows and the writer simply crystallises the knowledge into cluster of words. It sounds Jungian, but I do believe the collective unconscious exists, in one form or another.

Unfortunately, this talent to crystallise comes at a cost. Almost all writers are afflicted with some sort of mental problem; think of poets and their associated tragedies. This is not suprising: literature verily reflects humanity, and the curator of the knowledge of humanity, the writer, stands in the midst of it all, the vortex of which may corrode the soul. I said 'may', because there is another possibility which is the very opposite: it may temper the soul. Wilfred Owen drank from his bitter cup -- his experience of war -- that's the source of his art. There were other writers who got drunk from their own tragedies and took their own lives. But there are also those who swallowed the poison and rose up stronger. To the writer, the act of writing may be itself therapeutic, redemptive even. Their darkness precipitated from the hearts to the pages. The grief percolating between the lines.

But they are they; and it remains to be seen what will become of the rest of us, each a writer of our own lives. Will we join the ranks of the tragic or otherwise? Yes, each of us should consider himself a wordsmith; it's not the matter of being a professional or a dilletante, but simply being one is part of being human. Your words will outlast you, outlive you, and I do mean 'outlive' you in terms of vivacity:

I asked the servant Leo why it was that artists sometimes appeared to be only half-alive, while their creations seemed so irrefutably alive. Leo looked at me, surprised at my question. Then he released the poodle he was holding in his arms and said: "It is just the same with mothers. When they have borne their children and given them their milk and beauty and strength, they themselves become invisible, and no one asks about them anymore."
-- Hermann Hesse, The Journey to The East

So, back to writing, shall we?

On Kierkegaard's Repetition

So once again the girl was not an actuality but a reflexion of motions within him and an incitement of them. The girl has enormous importance, and he will never be able to forget her, but her importance lies not in herself but in her relation to him. She is to him, so to speak, the border of his being, but such a relation is not erotic. From a religious point of view, one could say it as if God used this girl to capture him, and yet the girl herself is not an actuality but is like the lace-winged fly with which a hook is baited. I am completely convinced that he does not know the girl at all, although he has been attached to her and she probably has never been out of his thoughts since then. She is the girl—period. Whether, more concretely, she is this or that, the loveliness, the loveableness, the faithfullness, the sacrificial love for whose sake one risks everything and sets heaven and earth in motion—that never enters his head.

...

He bit the chain that bound him, but the more his passion seethed, the more ecstatic his song, the more tender his talk, the tighter the chain. It was impossible for him to create a real relationship out of this misunderstanding; it would, in fact, leave her at the mercy of a perpetual fraud. To explain this confusing error to her, that she was merely the visible form, while his thoughts, his soul, sought something else that he attributed to her—this would hurt her so deeply that his pride rose up in mutiny against it. It is contemptible to delude and seduce a girl, but it is even more contemptible to forsake her in such a way that one does not even become a scoundrel but makes a brilliant retreat by palming her off with the explanation that she was not the ideal and by comforting her with the idea that she was one’s muse.

-- Repetition, S.A. Kierkegaard

The above extract is the crux of Repetition. It tells of a young man who is in love, yet agonises over it. But why? Yes, initially he fell in love with the girl, but thereafter he realised that the girl is a trigger of sorts, that awakened the 'motions within him', or what Constantin called it later, 'poetic awakening'. You can say that he fell in love with Love itself, namely the embodiment of all the poetic qualities of erotic love: the thrill and palpitations, the devotion, the sacrificial.

No one is ever safe from being in the young man's shoes. In fact, Repetition itself was written autobiographically to some extent. Be wary, then, of falling in love with love; it will only bring you agony.

Falling in love with love is falling for make-believe
Falling in love with love is playing the fool
-- Falling in Love with Love; Lorentz Hart, Richard Rodgers; sung by Frank Sinatra

Murakami on the Poolside

That day I woke up a little late. My head still cloudy from excess of sleep, I showered, then made a cup of double-dose coffee (somehow one packet of instant coffee wasn’t enough nowadays). I sat at the lounge, absorbing caffeine and morning news. I sorted out the plan for the day: I would go to the campus sports complex for a swim. I mulled over this a little while. I was having doubts whether since the previous day had been a public holiday, so the pool might not be open. I decided I should still go, carrying some books so I could go to the library to study – that’s the contingency plan, and in any case exams were pretty near.
So I started out. It was an hour before noon but the sun was not out. It looked like it was going to rain, but my mind was already made up. On the hour-long journey, I read the book I was currently reading: a collection of short stories by Haruki Murakami. I had just finished one novel by Murakami and decided to read his other works. In no time I reached the sports complex.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the pool was open. My usual routine when I swim alone was to swim 60 lengths for endurance training. For club training, there were more sprints which can quickly exhaust you. With leisurely pace, I could usually do it under one and a half hour. As I stretched, I prepared myself mentally. The length itself was not a problem – usually the first few tens of laps feel draining all right but after that you will not feel anything much – you would even feel time is standing still, a taste of eternity, if you will. The problem was that usually my mind tends to wander and I don’t want to think about depressing things in the middle of a swim. 
At the end of fourteenth lap I heard the lifeguard’s whistle. Oh no, I thought, must be lightning alert. A thunder growled far away to confirm my suspicion. I sat at a bench near the lockers and the water cooler, not sure whether to call off the swim altogether or to wait. I decided I would wait. The droplets of water started to come down. It was not particularly a heavy downpour, but it was steady and the sky was particularly dark with thunder clouds. After a few tens of minutes some of the swimmers gave up and went to shower. I waited until I was more or less dry and then picked up Murakami from the locker to read.
Murakami’s works are quite unusual, though perhaps it is that very novelty that appeals to people. Some of his works have no moral of the story. It was just an episode of someone’s life, with nothing particularly interesting that the reader should learn about or philosophical questions to think about. They rarely have conspicuous conflicts, followed by steep rising climaxes and resolve – most of the time it was flat. As someone trained in literature, I found his works refreshing.
The slices of life Murakami describe themselves may not be very interesting but his style of writing has the no-pretense, honest quality to it, his meanings not buried in complex metaphors, which only adds to its realism, the impression that the happenings may very well happen right then at someplace.
There is also quite often-recurring motif of existentialism, like you feel the you you see in the mirror is not the real you. I suppose everyone feels a little bit like that sometimes, and the way he describes it flows fluently. I do feel like that sometimes. In a swimming event, for example, I would psyche myself that the one swimming is no longer the limited I but someone else. Then the I that observes the other I will feel distant like a faraway echo of ages past. 
After sometime, I arrived at Firefly. After few sentences I realised that that short story must have been the one expanded to the novel Norwegian Wood, which was the one I had read before. I hesitated for a second whether to skip the short story but I read on. As I said, Murakami’s powers lie not in the plot but in his descriptions. I re-tasted being in Watanabe Toru, though somehow this Toru felt a little different. After a while I realised that all the names of the characters were missing, as if they were still rough sketches blurred at the edges. I recalled the particular scene about the firefly, though I felt it had no real significance in the novel. In the short story, though, the firefly scene was in the spotlight and a little carried away by the story, I was swept with a wave of loneliness.
Right before the very last paragraph, I happened to look up and saw a swimmer in the pool. Apparently there was no more lightning. I replaced the bookmark and stored away the book. When I walked away from the lockers, the sky cleared up and the sun came out from its hiding place. I plunged into the water. As I glided, I saw at the bottom of the pool my own shadow tangled with brilliant strands of light. 

And time stood still.