Far From Being Japanese.

Muji sent a small catalog just this past weekend.  Flipping through the pages you’d be reminded of how organized the Japanese are — clean layouts, a consistently minimalist approach, an interesting dash of bright colors here and there — a stark contrast against an always crisp and fresh background.  Almost always white.

So kawaii.  Everything just goes well together.

And I’m reminded of Natsuo Kirino’s characters in her novels. Of  the methodical manner with which Haruki Murakami’s characters carry on the daily affairs of their lives:   a right place for everything, a time for every endeavor, an eye for the smallest of details.

I guess to the Japanese, this aphorism holds most truth:  God is in the details.

I, on the other hand, a slob is most ways, can never be Japanese.

 

Anyway, Christmas.  I don’t really feel it here.  Orchard Road is now filled with Christmas lights and the weather is certainly colder.  But but.  There’s just nothing to it.  I ran out of tickets from Singapore to Manila so I’m stuck here, and I’m spending the holidays in Hong Kong and Macau instead.  I can’t wait to do the Macau bunjee jumping.

 

Maybe New YEar in Bali.  We’ll see.

Two more eyes from Sunday shopping.

got new eyeglasses today.  sat on my old glasses when i was traveling back to Manila, two months back and contact lenses are becoming a little too inconvenient and time-consuming, so i spent this evening in Chinatown doing eye tests, had charsiew noodles with dumplings and roasted duck while waiting for them to finish fitting the lenses into the Oakley frames.

i think i look better without them.  bugger.  but i have no choice leh.  I had to use my not-so-good Singlish trying to bargain for a better price, good thing the Filipina saleslady intervened and gave me a better price.

This coming week is something I need to  physically and mentally prepare myself for.  A lot of make-or-break stuff, high-stake projects:  a major pitch presentation that i am leading, a global submission for a pro-bono project, another pro-bono project, a company event that i’m organizing, global brand presentation, an adaptation work for Indonesia, requests from Turkey and Saudi Arabia.

No choice but to fight, so help me God.

Cycles and Tradeoffs.

Feeling a little bit disappointed.  About not being able to hold the different pieces together.

Things at work not turning out the way I want it to, feeling a substantial lack of control.  I feel flimsy and insignificant.  I’ve overspent this month.  Schedules are always ruined, chores postponed.  People neglected, obligations set aside.  Chaos.

I guess this will pass, soon I hope.  This has happened before, of course, a lot of times.  It’s just that when you start having too much, it’s so easy to neglect a lot of things and before you know it you’re exceeding decent boundaries.  Time, money, privilege, fun.  Good times.  There are times when you’re drowning in it, and you just can’t control — until you run out of it after your expectations have been met and exceeded and then you find yourself wanting more at present.

A vicious cycle.

A mad rat race.

If things were much simpler, life will be a walk in the park — and banal.  Drearily commonplace and predictable.

A trade-off.

this week’s reads

the good times

:-)

Passed by Ansiang Hill yesterday to buy this week’s reads.  This new book by a Singaporean author is good for some light and quick reading.  I remember having a quick smoke outside the artsy fartsy book store, and the wind was a bit cold.  The faint afternoon sun made everything look beautiful.  And steady.

I want a smoke.  Now.  Heading to the gym in a bit, and buying a new pair of eyeglasses in Chinatown.

October. Manila.

After about two years of embarking on this so-called life-changing adventure outside of good old Manila, Paolo, a 26-year old advertising executive trapped in a short and plump body of an adolescent, decided to go home on a typical two-day weekend – more out of whim than expediency actually, but he figured it would be of impeccable timing since his little brother is celebrating his 7th birthday.

And.

so.

Two days before the departure date he purchased the ticket for this completely random and unplanned trip, his head full of thoughts of familiar sights, the faint sound of his little brother’s laughter, the incessant honking of the jeepneys fighting the rumbling murmur of the city, the happy chaos of his third world country, the comfort of home—that warm and fuzzy feeling that makes one feel like an egg sitting on a container, snug and happy.

A day before his departure, another super typhoon was all over the news—the second to hit Ketsana-ravaged Manila that week. Oddly, he wasn’t too worried about his flight; in his mind, the perfect time to get scared was when the plane is already about to crash, suspending fear as he felt it was being overly disruptive.

Fear has always been impolite that way, so he was wanting to give it a lesson. Again, he filled his mind with happy thoughts, a canvas filled with moon and stars. He thought of yummy KFC Hot and Crispy Chicken, cooked Pinoy-style, thick yummy gravy made from chicken fat, oozing on top of crispy chicken skin—fried to perfection, of pork adobo sprinkled with fried garlic, of sweet longganisa and tapa served with fragrant garlic fried rice, of Purefoods corned beef with lots of onions on it and Tender Juicy Hot Dog.

His stomach grumbled, his appetite severely aroused. He couldn’t help it – he needed some form of release. He willed himself to forget the fact that he just gained 5 pounds after moving from Bangkok to Singapore and consequently pigged out on a disgusting amount of greasy Pinoy food before the trip. Gastronomic masturbation is evil. Pure evil.

It was an uneventful 3-hour trip, and he was happy to find that Paul, a good friend, was on the same flight. If this plane crashes, I have a friend dying with me – a comforting thought, he said to himself.

He arrived in Manila about 9 in the evening. It was cold and rain was pouring. He then went to the hotel with his mom and his brother and sister.

That very same night he got an invite for a small party: drinking with friends, met some new people, got drunk. He was back to his room at 4AM, and woke up at 10AM the next day to have breakfast with his family. Then headed to the gym.

The gym was located on the 8th floor of this old building in Makati, a height that gives you a far-from-panoramic albeit nice view of Ayala Road, the main artery of the city’s central business district. After lifting some weights and workin the treadmill, our pudgy guy approached the corner of the space and looked through the glass walls, looked down the road far beneath him and surveyed the familiar sight with concealed delight. Of people walking and moving and busy like ants, of the small buses and jeeps and this office building where he used to work. He gazed at the old coffee shop where he left his wallet a few years back, the food shop where he’d buy cheap steak for dinner, this dodgy road that leads to this and that and…

He likes saying the word dodgy. Dodgy dodgy dodgy. He likes the sound it makes. And the way it makes the tip of your tongue touch the back of your upper incisors.

Dodgy.

Dodgy.

Like pudgy.

He is a pudgy dwarf.

Anyway.

He found it amusing, standing there and just looking out. Cause it felt like looking with a new pair of eyes. Or the way you find everyone cute when you’re drunk. Or when you’re high on drugs or something. Yeah, looking out the window, all the common and familiar sights became extra-special—like hovering the mouse pointer on Google map and bits of notes and pop-ups come out when you point to a certain spot. In his mind, he sees a familiar spot and looking at it after two years made him think of all the things connected to it in the recent past.

He was staring at the road like a retard for about 5 minutes. Then he went to the shoulder machine, and tried to remember how it was like 2 years back, sitting on the very same spot, using the very same machine.

It felt the same. But different.

Saturday afternoon he took advantage of the dollar’s might over the peso through obsessive retail therapy. This behavior has to be curtailed. Late night he was out again, invited to another party and pleasantly surprised to find all his friends gathered in one place.

And found himself gymming the next day with a very bad hang over.

And now he’s in the airport, three hours too early for boarding time, munching on panini and potato chips, reminded of the why he hates Philippine airports –the primitive system (which is omnipresent in Manila by the way), poorly implemented processes, rules that are in place but constantly being ignored, the shabby and rude personnel with their ill-fitting uniforms and unprofessional behavior incomparable to that of the snappy and smart-looking Singaporean and Thai airport guards and customs officers.

His two days in Manila felt like an entire week, the same way the dollar’s capacity to acquire is magnified by the currency exchange rates. This would have passed in a blur in Singapore, where life is always lived on the fast lane, where a supposedly leisurely stroll along the Orchard shopping lane is stressful in itself. He found it strangely funny—why he couldn’t explain it – why life in Singapore feels so fast.

Oh yeah, he’s been living in Singapore for more than a year now. That was really fast. Just last week, he had his last Philippine credit card cut. Next week, he is filing for Singapore permanent residency. The way he thinks about it – well, it’s something like a dream—you know that artsy-fartsy type of dream with the frames blurred a little bit along the edges, like a series of images from a lomo camera where everything seemed far and old and distant and nostalgic while in fact they’re not? Little by little he could feel the sturdy raft drifting farther away from the shore… with him looking back to the shore, now slowly becoming a small dot on the horizon.

But he’s always looking back.

And it’s only 3 hours away.

Paolo is an egg, feeling snug and happy. or something that rhymes: Feeling snug like a bug in a rug. LOL.

September 21. Cocaine.

It was annoying, having your flight delayed for three hours. So I sat in the plane, trying to finish my book and it was hot because they couldn’t turn the aircon on just yet as it has not taken off.

It was relatively a turbulence-free ride. The food was okay, I watched Wolverine: X-Men Origins and they gave us ice cream. Looking across the isle, I saw that it was a see of blond heads. A few black heads here and there, but then I was reminded I’m off to some farang/ang-mo/bu-le/affam country.

After landing, I hurriedly rushed to the restroom and then proceeded to the passport check. It was a terribly long queue and when it was my turn, I handed my arrival documents to a nice-looking red-haired Australian lady with a long and smooth face. She spent a few minutes looking at my visa, asked me where I’m staying and for how many days. Took me about 10 minutes and a short middle-aged man behind her caught my attention, scanned my passport, asked me a few questions and signed my disembarkation card—more like another seal of approval.

So off I went to the luggage conveyor belt and I felt two taps on my left shoulder. When I turned, I saw gigantic Aussie lady in a tight-fitting blue uniform. It reminded me of a veterinarian clinic uniform, so yes, she looked like she belonged to a farm instead.

Anyway, she asked to look at my passport again—I nonchalantly gave it to her with a fake smile – I was starting to get irate – she saw the other guy’s signature so she let me go, just like that.

The Perth airport is ugly by the way.

So I got my mid-sized black Muji bag from the conveyor belt and started walking towards a long queue for the luggage check. I was waiting behind a tall white guy—his passport was being checked by a fat lady in the same blue unfrorm. They were done in a jiffy so when it was my turn, she looked at my passport, and asked if I was traveling alone, to which I replied yes and instead of letting me proceed—she asked me to go past this scary looking door instead. The doors looked like one of those large forbidding entrances to military torture spaces. So I went in – obediently, as I was not in familiar territory – and I waited until the same middle-aged guy I met a while ago came up to me and had all my luggage x-rayed.

It was okay.

Then he led me to another corner of the space – laid out my main luggage and put on his gloves. Something about the blue gloves made my heart beat faster—he looked like one ofr the CSI Miami guys.

He started opening the bag and laid everything out on the aluminum table, as if he were dissecting a fresh cadaver —clothes from Zara and Topman, underwear from Zara kids, my belts from Celio and calvin Klein, Mac laptop and Sony camera chargers, SKII facial masks, GNC vitamins, NIVEA facial wash, Hope in a Jar moisturizer, Strivectin eye cream, Nike running shoes.

I was getting pissed. And it felt a bit humiliating. In my mind, I was asking: fuck, I was pulled out of the line because what – I’m Pinoy? I’m traveling alone and I’m wearing a hoodie? Do I look like a drug addict? Do I fit one of your arrestable profiles?

Anyway, I kept my cool.

He inspected my other stuff – my hand-carried Topman sling bag with my other camera in it, the ipod suffle, my wallet, my books – Time Traveller’s Wife and The World is Flat by Friedman. He was trying to be friendly, smiling and asking me sorts of questions – is this your first time in Perth? Yes and it looks boring. Why are you here? Visiting a friend and I just want to travel. Who’s your friend? Where did you meet?

Etcetera.

And then he started turning my laptop on. I panicked.

Any movie files in it, he asked. I said yes and in fear of it getting confiscated or anything, I volunteered the information: Wait, there’s porn it it.

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong about porn, let us just take a look at it “– so he handed it over to another guy and he brought it to a separate room.

I was highly uncomfortable and it the entire thing was proving to be HGHLY disruptive – while all I wanted to do was to chill, drink some beer, eat and go cycling and shopping and fuck it. All these people looking at my stuff, invading my privacy.

I felt like I did something terribly wrong, like I were some kind of a criminal entity. The feeling was disgusting. And infuriating.

Anyway, the guy started swabbing my wallet , my credit cards my employment pass – and the lady who was doing it came up to the guy interrogating me and declared it was positive for cocaine traces.

Absurd. Fucking absurd.

SO they went on asking me about drugs etc etc.

OKAY – fine, If you want to send me back to Singaproe fine! I have all the fucking money I need and I will buy a ticket NOW NOW and go back home – this was the thought I had in my mind, I was so fucking annoyed.

But still, I was a little bit too scared, I answered politely and answered everything truthfully – I don’t use cocaine – not when I was in Bangkok and Singapore. Marijuana in college and ecstasy a long time ago.

Okay, they started swabbing my camera and the other guy came back with my laptop. Fuck it, he viewed all my porn. Whatever happened to privacy???

A LOOOOOOOOONG wait after that and the middle aged guy started packing my stuff.

“You can go now and enjoy!,” he nonchalantly said and courteously led me to the final exit.

And then I asked: “Wait, what about the traces of cocaine??? You said you found traces? I’m worried about it.”

To which he replied: Uh we figured those were coins and money and credit cards so cannot pinpoint you for drug possession or anything.

Fuck it.

Anyway, I will enjoy me stay here as much as possible. I will never go back to Australia—there are better places like Europe and Tokyo anyway.

It’s soo cold. I’m loving the weather.

October 21.

nother post-party Sunday—early afternoon, minutes just after waking up, feeling a little bit too woozy, he headed to the kitchen to cook pasta with fish, sun dried tomatoes and pesto. One of his usual weekend experiments, he’d throw in whatever ingredient readily available and deemed to be “appropriate” for the task at hand. A task at hand—how very clinical and expedient, no? So Singaporean.

Anyway.

It was good. He never made it a point to taste whatever it is he’s cooking, reserving that special right until the whole “task at hand” is concluded, to be surprised by how edible and pleasing it is.

He took some time, munching on the soft mushy morsel in mouth, scraping some of it off his palate with his tongue as he thought of the previous day—acquainting himself with the ungodly hours of Sunday, commuting to the far east, taking a ferry ride and cycling nonstop for about two hours, sweat and sun and dust and fun.

Sweat and sun and dust and fun.

A few weeks ago it was a paintball game: bruises and scratches and paint everywhere. Months ago it was about climbing the world’s tallest indoor via feretta, whatever that means.

He’s getting the hang of it, bringing people together and creating a venue for healthy interaction.

Generating fun.

How oxymoronic isn’t it – to be using the words “generating” and “fun” in one sentence? A little bit unusual, or robotic.

Reminds him of how his former creative director dreaded the terrifying and unfortunate combination of the words “CG” and “overnight” in one client brief, sent through e-mail.

Well yeah, this is not a very fun place to be with. I guess everyone knows that.

So he felt like he did not have a choice but to exploit his creativity and to “generate’ fun: if they could create beaches out of sand from elsewhere in Sentosa, then something can be done.

And so he’s having too much of it – fun. And ideas in his mind, waiting to happen.

And building an infallible support system at the same time. That makes everything a little less foreign. And easy.

There is always remedy for boredom, despite his being afflicted with a very short attention span.

Something to look forward to.

Fuel.

So what’s next?

 

 

October 22.

I went to the doctor earlier this morning to get a medical certificate.

Here in Singapore, MC submission is mandatory, else the HR people deduct your absences from your precious vacation leaves. Unlike in Manila or Bangkok when you can simply record absences as sick leaves, giving one all the freedom in the world to skip work to get a dose of mid-week happiness.

A bit disconcerting though; the clinic was an onerous 15-minute walk from my apartment, and the splitting headache and the stuffy nose didn’t help. As I came up to the reception desk, I found myself staring down at the bosom of a fat lady in its 40s, which never looked up and was just about to finish tinkering with its computer when it proceeded requesting for some pertinent documents – my green card, my passport, and my medical insurance ID.

I looked at its bloated face and the badly drawn fake eyebrows.

And I decided to meet it with feigned cool nonchalance, but truth is – I’m always bothered by receptionists’ steely demeanor, their lack of good manners, of acceptable professional conduct.

It’s probably just too jaded. Or miserable sitting in that quiet and seemingly forgotten corner of an old building, Oh big bucket of lard.

It ushered me in, to room number one. I opened the door and saw the doctor sitting behind his desk, busy unfolding a piece of paper the fat receptionist handed over to him through this small rectangular counter hole. I was asked by the doctor to sit down as he started asking me questions—when I started feeling unwell, if I already took some medicine. His face was pale, framed by neatly combed and slightly damp hair, and wore a crisp wrinkle-free shirt. His face had wrinkles but overall he had good Chinese skin – typically Singaporean, immaculately prim and proper. But there was no trace of being human in his face–he was an automaton.

I felt dizzy sitting in the doctor’s room. Hospitals and doctors scare the hell out of me, like they’re always out to say something is wrong with you: accomplices of the Grim Reaper, bearers of bad news.

Mortality, rigor mortis, pandemic, disease, decay, rotten flesh.

Now I’m stuck in bed with a really bad headache, tinkering with my new camera and googling corny jokes. I got a really nice one:

What is Beethoven doing now?

He’s de-composing.

Some box

The pilot just announced that somethings wrong with some “box” in their system. So they’re looking for a replacement which should only take a few minutes.

:-/

Delayed

Aboard flight QF72 and we were supposed to take off 25 minutes ago. This is my first flight to Australia and I’m a bit pissed about this hour-long delay.

And it’s a six-hour flight. The getting-there part is always very exhausting- I think it’s an untapped market gap that business people can look into.

But what can be done? A lot I guess. I just don’t know exactly what it is.

blah monday

this is not a very happy day.  i just probly woke up on the wrong side of the bed but but.

i’ve been trying trying to figure out what’s wrong, in more rational terms, but i couldn’t.  everything just feels wrong.  the only thing that felt right today was probly my outfit–classic fitted white dress shirt, jeans, brown leather belt and brown leather sneakers.  there was something relaxing and refreshing about wearing an outfit as basic as that and it made me feel better.

hope it gets better tomorrow.

the new boss came to the office today.  for a quick greet-and-meet session.   a tall and voluptuous european lady.  she looked a bit stern.  nothing remarkable in her features or facial expression, everything was as plain as a blank sheet of paper.  d