Diary of the 2020 lamppost
YEO XIN YI
My photo shows how the past months in fighting COVID-19 has been gloomy and challenging, just like how the clouds on the left side (represents the past) are grey and the lamppost is lonely on his own. But the sun hidden at the right side represents the future, where there is sunshine and hope, that we can defeat COVID-19. The lamppost is not alone too - the surrounding bushes are together with him and this represents the Singapore spirit, solidarity as we head towards the bright future. This shows my reflection on the past while looking forward to the future.
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pACKING UP
ZOU JIAYUE
“Hey, just calling to make sure- you don’t need help with packing?”
“It’s alright. I just have to throw everything away before the agent comes on Monday.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Man, I remember secretly coming over during sec school, when your mother was --
… Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
The elevator dragged him up to the 4th level, where muscle memory guided him to #04-127. New Year decorations on the door swayed gently, the glitter more grey than red. Faint pencil marks on the walls brought him back to one of his earliest memories, though not a very good one. She was never supportive of his artworks.
“My senior also went to Lasalle and he got a real job. You don’t understand.”
“How can you earn money with useless scribbles? I say these things for your own good!”
He glanced at the kitchen, and he could almost see her, bending over the stove with a soup bowl. He hurried to the living room.
Two SingPost boxes were arranged by his side. Old CDs, transparent drawers, those went into the bigger box to be deposited at the Salvation Army. Broken clothes hangers, utility bills, they were dumped into the smaller box, for a ride down the rubbish chute. She never threw things away, even keeping his Rosyth-crested letters amidst the mess.
“Why does your mum have such a funny accent, did you come from Chee-na?”
“Shut up! If you say anymore I’ll tell Ms. Chang!”
“She’s so weird with her clothes and her loud voice and-- ”
The letters were crumpled up and stuffed deep into the trash box. Armed with boxes, he took a deep breath before stepping into the kitchen, into the musty smell of dried herbs. The windows were open the day she went out, so they were still apart until he closed them 182 days later. Rain had splattered in, leaving marks on the cold tiles that resembled soup stains.
“What do you mean? I started preparing this last night and now you tell me you’re not hungry?”
“But everyone else don’t eat such weird stuff! It’s so gross, my science teacher tell me large intestine is for poopoo!”
He opened the cupboard abruptly, causing plates and pots to slide down like a rockfall. Although he reached out his arms, one of her clay pots, the small one with the bright blue flowers, landed with a sharp cry, as if chiding him for his carelessness. It had travelled over 3800km to a foreign country, seeking a better life, but spent the next twenty years in a small, cramped kitchen. Those flowers tolerated flaring flames, but was defenceless against the heights.
“When I was young we obeyed our parents without a word, now you dare talk to me like this? Have you forgotten your 弟子规 ? When parents reprimand, you accept!”
“Maybe I’m older now and I don’t want to follow your ancient Chinese orders, because that conservative propaganda is outdated, just like you and your soup!”
He gave up on picking up the fragments and left the kitchen. He thought he was more mature, enough to face what he had run away from, but certain memories scraped off the scab of old wounds, exposing raw flesh underneath. Maybe he should have called a friend to help after all. He sighed, walking straight past his empty bedroom into hers. When he was shorter than the doorknob, he used to tiptoe into the room in early mornings to scare her. She could still laugh a high-pitched jingle then. As he pulled out her bedside drawer, the familiar Huawei phone came into sight.
“StarHub had a lottery draw and I won this, I don’t need it.”
“I have no use for it! Don’t know why you youngsters stare at it all day.”
He rummaged through the drawer, and found a crumpled glittery card, the Optimus Prime he traded with his racecar, the Percy Jackson book overdue for 16 years, the torn drawing from his E-Math textbook, and his shattered phone, received the day he turned 14 and broken in an argument 20 days later.
Before he knew it, he felt the cold rectangle in his hands. Her wallpaper was bare, showing only preinstalled apps and WeChat. A click on the lonely green icon directed him to her ‘recently contacted’. The picture of a dog appeared right on the top, which was strange, because that was the profile picture of his old WeChat account. He provided her with his phone number once, but the phone got stolen and he had to re-register for everything. After that, it didn’t seem necessary to give his new number; they both spoke a great deal whenever he visited, but neither ever listened.
Me: Accept my friend request, I’m your mother.
Me: Shared link: 10 food you can’t eat with rice! The 3rd one may kill you!
Me: Voice message (0:36)
Me: Is this the way you talk to your mother? Cannot even reply yes or no?
Me: Missed call 29 June
Me: Shared link: Steamer chicken soup (20 minutes) recipe
Me: [Picture]
Me: I was tidying up the house and I found your old toy
Me: Are you busy this weekend?
Me: Good job on the art exhibition. I saw it on Channel 8.
The sun had set a while ago, leaving a patchwork of black and orange. He cried a little, silently, in the darkness. He remembered things he did not tell his mum too, secrets he kept, and words spoken too late. He didn’t tell her that his girlfriend was also coming to visit the Sunday 175 days ago, that the subject of a painting in the exhibition was a blue-flowered clay pot, and his biggest secret, the one thing he should have said before the accident, was that the phone was not won in a lottery, but bought with his first month’s salary.
“I love mommy!”
"Don’t talk with your mouth full! Kindergartens here spend so much time on writing useless cards…”
“It’s alright. I just have to throw everything away before the agent comes on Monday.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Man, I remember secretly coming over during sec school, when your mother was --
… Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
The elevator dragged him up to the 4th level, where muscle memory guided him to #04-127. New Year decorations on the door swayed gently, the glitter more grey than red. Faint pencil marks on the walls brought him back to one of his earliest memories, though not a very good one. She was never supportive of his artworks.
“My senior also went to Lasalle and he got a real job. You don’t understand.”
“How can you earn money with useless scribbles? I say these things for your own good!”
He glanced at the kitchen, and he could almost see her, bending over the stove with a soup bowl. He hurried to the living room.
Two SingPost boxes were arranged by his side. Old CDs, transparent drawers, those went into the bigger box to be deposited at the Salvation Army. Broken clothes hangers, utility bills, they were dumped into the smaller box, for a ride down the rubbish chute. She never threw things away, even keeping his Rosyth-crested letters amidst the mess.
“Why does your mum have such a funny accent, did you come from Chee-na?”
“Shut up! If you say anymore I’ll tell Ms. Chang!”
“She’s so weird with her clothes and her loud voice and-- ”
The letters were crumpled up and stuffed deep into the trash box. Armed with boxes, he took a deep breath before stepping into the kitchen, into the musty smell of dried herbs. The windows were open the day she went out, so they were still apart until he closed them 182 days later. Rain had splattered in, leaving marks on the cold tiles that resembled soup stains.
“What do you mean? I started preparing this last night and now you tell me you’re not hungry?”
“But everyone else don’t eat such weird stuff! It’s so gross, my science teacher tell me large intestine is for poopoo!”
He opened the cupboard abruptly, causing plates and pots to slide down like a rockfall. Although he reached out his arms, one of her clay pots, the small one with the bright blue flowers, landed with a sharp cry, as if chiding him for his carelessness. It had travelled over 3800km to a foreign country, seeking a better life, but spent the next twenty years in a small, cramped kitchen. Those flowers tolerated flaring flames, but was defenceless against the heights.
“When I was young we obeyed our parents without a word, now you dare talk to me like this? Have you forgotten your 弟子规 ? When parents reprimand, you accept!”
“Maybe I’m older now and I don’t want to follow your ancient Chinese orders, because that conservative propaganda is outdated, just like you and your soup!”
He gave up on picking up the fragments and left the kitchen. He thought he was more mature, enough to face what he had run away from, but certain memories scraped off the scab of old wounds, exposing raw flesh underneath. Maybe he should have called a friend to help after all. He sighed, walking straight past his empty bedroom into hers. When he was shorter than the doorknob, he used to tiptoe into the room in early mornings to scare her. She could still laugh a high-pitched jingle then. As he pulled out her bedside drawer, the familiar Huawei phone came into sight.
“StarHub had a lottery draw and I won this, I don’t need it.”
“I have no use for it! Don’t know why you youngsters stare at it all day.”
He rummaged through the drawer, and found a crumpled glittery card, the Optimus Prime he traded with his racecar, the Percy Jackson book overdue for 16 years, the torn drawing from his E-Math textbook, and his shattered phone, received the day he turned 14 and broken in an argument 20 days later.
Before he knew it, he felt the cold rectangle in his hands. Her wallpaper was bare, showing only preinstalled apps and WeChat. A click on the lonely green icon directed him to her ‘recently contacted’. The picture of a dog appeared right on the top, which was strange, because that was the profile picture of his old WeChat account. He provided her with his phone number once, but the phone got stolen and he had to re-register for everything. After that, it didn’t seem necessary to give his new number; they both spoke a great deal whenever he visited, but neither ever listened.
Me: Accept my friend request, I’m your mother.
Me: Shared link: 10 food you can’t eat with rice! The 3rd one may kill you!
Me: Voice message (0:36)
Me: Is this the way you talk to your mother? Cannot even reply yes or no?
Me: Missed call 29 June
Me: Shared link: Steamer chicken soup (20 minutes) recipe
Me: [Picture]
Me: I was tidying up the house and I found your old toy
Me: Are you busy this weekend?
Me: Good job on the art exhibition. I saw it on Channel 8.
The sun had set a while ago, leaving a patchwork of black and orange. He cried a little, silently, in the darkness. He remembered things he did not tell his mum too, secrets he kept, and words spoken too late. He didn’t tell her that his girlfriend was also coming to visit the Sunday 175 days ago, that the subject of a painting in the exhibition was a blue-flowered clay pot, and his biggest secret, the one thing he should have said before the accident, was that the phone was not won in a lottery, but bought with his first month’s salary.
“I love mommy!”
"Don’t talk with your mouth full! Kindergartens here spend so much time on writing useless cards…”
TRIFECTA
RAEANN LEE
i. fragments
There's a thought experiment that goes something like this: In Ancient Greece, when myth still lived amongst men, there was a great hero who conquered many ferocious monsters. His name was Theseus, slayer of the Minotaur. As was the case with all heroes back then, he sailed a worthy ship. His craft was as famous as Jason's Argo, and his journey hasn't quite the notability of Odysseus' odyssey, but it is relevant to us nonetheless.
Back to the experiment: Suppose his ship was placed in a museum. And then the ship, like all things made by human hands for human use, started to decay. Plank by plank, dessicated, incurable aging weakening it with a litany of chemical and biological reactions. Therefore, a plan is hatched to ensure it does not remain a hollowness of its former self like a rotted nut — replace the ship as it decomposes, plank by plank, thread by thread.
The new planks are functionally identical to the old ones. The replacement of the bed in which he slept has sheets that are perfectly the same shade, pillows filled to exactly the same volume of the old ones.
But. There's always something lacking, wouldn't you agree ?
The new planks are functionally identical to the old ones, but they do not have the memories. They have never weathered the biting salt of the seas, never had barnacles painstakingly scraped off them by a great Grecian hero's hands. The bed — say less of the bed ! It is a fine bed, but it has never been slept in by one as great as Theseus, much less the man himself.
Another addition to this experiment, of my own conception of course, is that we should remove Theseus' ship from the museum, for there is a high chance it is a British or American museum that has no business presenting a Greek artifact as its own, and there is an even higher chance that ships were not built to be shown off. That is for necklaces, bracelets, the occasional anklet. A ship is meant to be used and lived in and sailed and tested.
Suppose we go forth then, in that ship, in that vessel. Suppose we sail the high seas with laughter and anger and pain in our hearts. Suppose then, that this is Theseus' vessel in name alone, but that it is ours to make what we will have of it.
In this case, then, the thought changes. It is no longer the same ship it was. But the question now becomes: what fate says that nothing new can come after a legend has gone past ?
ii. moirai
The stone table seated three young women who seemed as if they had always been there, though that was clearly not the case. After all, the location of the table had just been built not months ago.
The middle of them, jocular, absentmindedly tapped out a melody with slender phalanges, a symphony with instruments of mica, knuckle and fingertip. "Well then," she said, brightly. "What have we here ?"
The leftmost one, more of a girl than a woman, scoffed. "Pales in comparison."
"Oh, sister," chided the rightmost, looking weary. "We've been over this. It's inevitable. And, it's not even finished yet."
"And are all inevitabilities supposed to be celebrated ?" The leftmost girl's features contorted into a scowl. "I rather liked the old one. Do you know, it had off days ! And charging stations !"
The rightmost protested, appearing on the verge of rolling her eyes, "But there will be more changes in the new —"
"Both of you." The middle one spoke up then, and though her voice was only slightly chiding, the other two instantly ceased speaking. It was clear she wielded an invisible authority over both of them — of course, that was normal. As their mediator (though unofficial), she had to first be respected (or feared) by either side to be one.
"It wasn't about the facilities, was it ?" The middle asked the left girl first, kind as a mother, and caught off guard, the girl nodded before she realised her actions. Rather sulkily now that she'd been exposed, so to speak, she cast her sullen gaze downwards and muttered to no one in particular: "It's the memories. On every brick, every tile. The amphitheatre, the classrooms, the canteen. Can't replace those in a new setting."
"I know." The middle nodded solemnly. "Nothing truly replaces such things."
"We've got no choice but to look forward." The rightmost girl interjected. "What's done is done."
"Nevertheless...won't you miss it ? They will, most certainly."
"Of course we all will — no complaints, sister, you know it to be true yourself." The middle one spoke again, turning a knowing eye to the rightmost girl. "I'm sure we can all agree on this, however — Athena's found herself a rather...darling ? No. Rather...interesting place to cast one of her fragments upon as safeguard, hasn't she ?"
They lapsed into silence, or rather, there was nothing else that had to be said. Fate had been discussed, pasts had been contemplated and
futures had been left up to the decision of the campus' future inhabitants.
Clotho vacated her seat first, fingers already weaving together a new tapestry. In a space of time as quick as the rotation of a spindle, she was gone.
Lachesis rose next, sparing no second glance, the only thing left behind being a tap of her measuring-stick upon the table — and even that, too, faded into inaudibility.
And finally, Atropos stood up, scissors gleaming dully in cloud-covered daylight, and vanished with her sisters.
Moirai left the new school alone, and as the sun broke through the clouds, the construction workers, finished with their break, returned to continue their work.
iii. afterwards
It is an uncertainty before us, maw yawning wide. There are many uncertainties in the world, from the fluctuation of quantum particles to the ephemeral flickering of our feelings, but that is what makes the world what it is, full of wonder and excitement and discovery. There will be joy, and there will be grief, and there will be triumph and there will be sorrow, but there are just as many seas to traverse and journeys to be made.
We shall sail on this remade ship of Theseus, king of Athens, loved by Athena, and though it might not be the same as it once was — memories of that are to be treasured, that they happened at all. And travels are made, into that unknown, so that more good recollections cannot be made in a better age.
There's a thought experiment that goes something like this: In Ancient Greece, when myth still lived amongst men, there was a great hero who conquered many ferocious monsters. His name was Theseus, slayer of the Minotaur. As was the case with all heroes back then, he sailed a worthy ship. His craft was as famous as Jason's Argo, and his journey hasn't quite the notability of Odysseus' odyssey, but it is relevant to us nonetheless.
Back to the experiment: Suppose his ship was placed in a museum. And then the ship, like all things made by human hands for human use, started to decay. Plank by plank, dessicated, incurable aging weakening it with a litany of chemical and biological reactions. Therefore, a plan is hatched to ensure it does not remain a hollowness of its former self like a rotted nut — replace the ship as it decomposes, plank by plank, thread by thread.
The new planks are functionally identical to the old ones. The replacement of the bed in which he slept has sheets that are perfectly the same shade, pillows filled to exactly the same volume of the old ones.
But. There's always something lacking, wouldn't you agree ?
The new planks are functionally identical to the old ones, but they do not have the memories. They have never weathered the biting salt of the seas, never had barnacles painstakingly scraped off them by a great Grecian hero's hands. The bed — say less of the bed ! It is a fine bed, but it has never been slept in by one as great as Theseus, much less the man himself.
Another addition to this experiment, of my own conception of course, is that we should remove Theseus' ship from the museum, for there is a high chance it is a British or American museum that has no business presenting a Greek artifact as its own, and there is an even higher chance that ships were not built to be shown off. That is for necklaces, bracelets, the occasional anklet. A ship is meant to be used and lived in and sailed and tested.
Suppose we go forth then, in that ship, in that vessel. Suppose we sail the high seas with laughter and anger and pain in our hearts. Suppose then, that this is Theseus' vessel in name alone, but that it is ours to make what we will have of it.
In this case, then, the thought changes. It is no longer the same ship it was. But the question now becomes: what fate says that nothing new can come after a legend has gone past ?
ii. moirai
The stone table seated three young women who seemed as if they had always been there, though that was clearly not the case. After all, the location of the table had just been built not months ago.
The middle of them, jocular, absentmindedly tapped out a melody with slender phalanges, a symphony with instruments of mica, knuckle and fingertip. "Well then," she said, brightly. "What have we here ?"
The leftmost one, more of a girl than a woman, scoffed. "Pales in comparison."
"Oh, sister," chided the rightmost, looking weary. "We've been over this. It's inevitable. And, it's not even finished yet."
"And are all inevitabilities supposed to be celebrated ?" The leftmost girl's features contorted into a scowl. "I rather liked the old one. Do you know, it had off days ! And charging stations !"
The rightmost protested, appearing on the verge of rolling her eyes, "But there will be more changes in the new —"
"Both of you." The middle one spoke up then, and though her voice was only slightly chiding, the other two instantly ceased speaking. It was clear she wielded an invisible authority over both of them — of course, that was normal. As their mediator (though unofficial), she had to first be respected (or feared) by either side to be one.
"It wasn't about the facilities, was it ?" The middle asked the left girl first, kind as a mother, and caught off guard, the girl nodded before she realised her actions. Rather sulkily now that she'd been exposed, so to speak, she cast her sullen gaze downwards and muttered to no one in particular: "It's the memories. On every brick, every tile. The amphitheatre, the classrooms, the canteen. Can't replace those in a new setting."
"I know." The middle nodded solemnly. "Nothing truly replaces such things."
"We've got no choice but to look forward." The rightmost girl interjected. "What's done is done."
"Nevertheless...won't you miss it ? They will, most certainly."
"Of course we all will — no complaints, sister, you know it to be true yourself." The middle one spoke again, turning a knowing eye to the rightmost girl. "I'm sure we can all agree on this, however — Athena's found herself a rather...darling ? No. Rather...interesting place to cast one of her fragments upon as safeguard, hasn't she ?"
They lapsed into silence, or rather, there was nothing else that had to be said. Fate had been discussed, pasts had been contemplated and
futures had been left up to the decision of the campus' future inhabitants.
Clotho vacated her seat first, fingers already weaving together a new tapestry. In a space of time as quick as the rotation of a spindle, she was gone.
Lachesis rose next, sparing no second glance, the only thing left behind being a tap of her measuring-stick upon the table — and even that, too, faded into inaudibility.
And finally, Atropos stood up, scissors gleaming dully in cloud-covered daylight, and vanished with her sisters.
Moirai left the new school alone, and as the sun broke through the clouds, the construction workers, finished with their break, returned to continue their work.
iii. afterwards
It is an uncertainty before us, maw yawning wide. There are many uncertainties in the world, from the fluctuation of quantum particles to the ephemeral flickering of our feelings, but that is what makes the world what it is, full of wonder and excitement and discovery. There will be joy, and there will be grief, and there will be triumph and there will be sorrow, but there are just as many seas to traverse and journeys to be made.
We shall sail on this remade ship of Theseus, king of Athens, loved by Athena, and though it might not be the same as it once was — memories of that are to be treasured, that they happened at all. And travels are made, into that unknown, so that more good recollections cannot be made in a better age.
horizon of introspection
TAN KHIN TENG VICTORIA
The girl stands under the vast sky. This is the spiritual realm, the materialisation of her inner soul. The gladiolus flowers that float above the water, signify remembrance, and represent one’s past experiences remembered by the soul. The sunrise, commonly representative of the future, illuminates the sky, bringing forth hope. Here, she peers into her own soul by reflecting on the past to better understand herself as she faces the future. We must learn from our past to solve the hardships we face in the future so that we can see the beauty of our lives and the world.
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Achilles Come DOwn
KATRIEL NG JYIN ZI
roped into war built on a vengeance,
invulnerability had made me vulnerable,
for the burning cities of troy
razed my heart to the ground
left me bitter, left me cold
broiled a great inferno of anger
down to the core of my soul
but you, my patroclus,
all my heart belongs to you
let the greeks fall, i could care less
for an unjust, power-hungry king
you’ve come and undone my anger
my grief and my pain
you have made me gentle once again
let king agamemnon trade his life
for the thousands of warriors’
lost to the pestilence bred from his greed
let the king’s cowardice and anger,
let his pride and arrogance,
die alongside him, for us
it is them that i loathe,
it is you that i love,
yet how could i have let you go
oh, so recklessly into battle,
yet how could i have let you go
oh, so faithfully to your doom?
let me trade my life for yours
let me wear your armour and
wield your sword
let my cowardice and my anger,
let my pride and arrogance
die alongside me, for you
invulnerability had made me vulnerable,
for the burning cities of troy
razed my heart to the ground
left me bitter, left me cold
broiled a great inferno of anger
down to the core of my soul
but you, my patroclus,
all my heart belongs to you
let the greeks fall, i could care less
for an unjust, power-hungry king
you’ve come and undone my anger
my grief and my pain
you have made me gentle once again
let king agamemnon trade his life
for the thousands of warriors’
lost to the pestilence bred from his greed
let the king’s cowardice and anger,
let his pride and arrogance,
die alongside him, for us
it is them that i loathe,
it is you that i love,
yet how could i have let you go
oh, so recklessly into battle,
yet how could i have let you go
oh, so faithfully to your doom?
let me trade my life for yours
let me wear your armour and
wield your sword
let my cowardice and my anger,
let my pride and arrogance
die alongside me, for you
THE LAST SHOW
SHERMAINE LIM SHER MIN
This is a one-man show. Teng glows, radiant in the heat of the spotlight. His delicately powdered cheeks which have been dabbed with the finest powder curl into a coy grin, and with a flick of his wrist, the fan in his hand cracks open majestically.
It’s the beginning of his act, an act he knows by heart. It has been ingrained in him for many years– through the subtle influence of his Mother’s career coupled with his own intensive training, such a classic of the Wayang (theatrical performance comprising puppets, human dancers and opera singers, referring to Singaporean Chinese street opera) show has made an indelible mark on his memory. This is the legacy that he has been honoured with, generations before him gracing the stage as he is now, putting on extravagant performances which culminated in lavish after-parties, as their brilliant talents and never-ending applause rose to the height of status. When it comes to the art of Wayang, there is no one better than the Teng family, whose royal lineage runs in the blooming talents of each generation. Like a monarch’s crown, this honour bestowed unto Teng has left him with an almost impossible threshold - a legacy.
Wisps of excess powder drift around him, akin to the seeds of a blown dandelion. It adds to the aura that surrounds him, as he basks in the ephemeral glory of the show. Teng recalls a time when he was ridiculed, pushed around by the kampong (olden day villages) ah bengs (dialect: a stereotype applied to a certain group of youths for their boisterous tendencies) for his interest in Wayang. All those years spent dedicating himself to his art, whilst the others played catch, tikam tikam (traditional game of luck where players picked random numbered tickets which were traded for prizes) and caught river frogs. He relishes the tall feathers of his headdress, not regretting the easy compromise between that and the frivolous feathers of the Chapteh toy (traditional Asian toy consisting of feathers attached to a rubber or plastic sole). Once he had finally reached the age of 7, his mother allowed him to follow her troupe, moving out of the stuffy confines of his Ahma’s (grandmother) house and upgrading to a new lifestyle that entailed chalices of luxury.
Mellifluous tunes roll off his tongue, the remnants of the lingering sweet sensation intoxicating him. It reminds him of his younger days when Ma would regale him with the tales of her most recent shows. Their ever-changing lodgings were always palatial, and Teng immerses himself in the memory of his many exploits in the show, recalling the friendships forged with the showmen, the exotic parties, and the applause that trailed them everywhere.
He twists dexterously, sweeping his arms in a circular motion, as the sleeves billow weightlessly around his head. Make no mistake: Teng is in control here, as he skillfully manipulates the silk’s direction with his arms, a skill he has mastered through tireless practice. At once, it suspends in the air, fluttering exquisitely like a blanket of butterflies in the open.
The lights crank on, and Teng settles into his final pose, rolling his head towards his audience in a fashion iconic to Wayang. His show-stopping smile wavers, as he peers into the audience of Primary School students, the supposed admirers of his work. Today’s weekly assembly had revolved around ‘our Nation’s History’, and what better way to do that than with a real-life Wayang performance. How exotic indeed.
The caked makeup clings to his face, as he begins to feel the fragmented layers flaking off. A smattering of applause rings through the stuffy hall, as the students applaud him out of deference. Suddenly the heat of attention becomes insufferable. He shifts his weight awkwardly, muscles tensing as he resigns to enduring through the bout of hollow claps. Their applause doesn't match their unenthused eyes, which flick over to their watches ever so often. What’s the use of this archaic formality of applause, he wonders. Especially when it used to trail him so effortlessly. A teacher comes onstage, bequeathing him with a bouquet of flowers, which he graciously accepts while pressing his thin lips into a tight smile. It doesn’t matter if his overlined lips are smudged. The show’s over.
Wayang. A hemorrhaging art form, with culture trickling away in tandem to its decreasing audience. As the English dominance grew, so did the number of empty seats in the Grand Theatre. From Grand theatres to cheap tentage, from imported silk to synthetic cotton, the irreparable blow that Wayang took had left a gaping wound, its bold hue waning as heritage trickled away. It was a travesty compared to the shining glory it had once been, dulled down into a mere historical artefact.
As with all good things, he knew, sadly, that the glory of Wayang was ephemeral. The tides of time had drawn back, and when they returned, they returned with a foreign crowd: the debris of modernisation. The belligerent kampong boys who wore singlets, played cricket fighting, and engaged in heated dialect battles of tongues came back in stiff suits. It was as if they had gone through a corporate machine, been whitewashed and cleansed of the crude Hokkien-ness (asian dialect) that ran in their blood. The diverse landscape of tongues had now streamlined into one, with their dialects receding into the unknown in favour of linguistic homogeneity.
What has happened to our Singapura? Teng laments the lost heritage. He looks out into the sea of students, idly fiddling with their bags. There is not one person out there who can speak a sentence of dialect, he sneers to himself. A dazzling cosmopolitan, an emporium adorned with wealth, built on the land that had been reclaimed from water. The river had been dried out, replaced with a hard ground on which withstood magnificent skyscrapers that towered over the financial scene of our heartland.
We prospered, leaving behind our roots in favour of the sky.
The value of art is determined by our audience; and unfortunately for Teng, his is an audience of children indifferent to his art. The outlandish makeup, anachronistic costumes, the foreign language that rings queer in their ears. The curtains fall, and Teng retreats into the shadows of the backstage, as the dying light of Wayang begins to burn through the final ends of its glorious wick.
It’s the beginning of his act, an act he knows by heart. It has been ingrained in him for many years– through the subtle influence of his Mother’s career coupled with his own intensive training, such a classic of the Wayang (theatrical performance comprising puppets, human dancers and opera singers, referring to Singaporean Chinese street opera) show has made an indelible mark on his memory. This is the legacy that he has been honoured with, generations before him gracing the stage as he is now, putting on extravagant performances which culminated in lavish after-parties, as their brilliant talents and never-ending applause rose to the height of status. When it comes to the art of Wayang, there is no one better than the Teng family, whose royal lineage runs in the blooming talents of each generation. Like a monarch’s crown, this honour bestowed unto Teng has left him with an almost impossible threshold - a legacy.
Wisps of excess powder drift around him, akin to the seeds of a blown dandelion. It adds to the aura that surrounds him, as he basks in the ephemeral glory of the show. Teng recalls a time when he was ridiculed, pushed around by the kampong (olden day villages) ah bengs (dialect: a stereotype applied to a certain group of youths for their boisterous tendencies) for his interest in Wayang. All those years spent dedicating himself to his art, whilst the others played catch, tikam tikam (traditional game of luck where players picked random numbered tickets which were traded for prizes) and caught river frogs. He relishes the tall feathers of his headdress, not regretting the easy compromise between that and the frivolous feathers of the Chapteh toy (traditional Asian toy consisting of feathers attached to a rubber or plastic sole). Once he had finally reached the age of 7, his mother allowed him to follow her troupe, moving out of the stuffy confines of his Ahma’s (grandmother) house and upgrading to a new lifestyle that entailed chalices of luxury.
Mellifluous tunes roll off his tongue, the remnants of the lingering sweet sensation intoxicating him. It reminds him of his younger days when Ma would regale him with the tales of her most recent shows. Their ever-changing lodgings were always palatial, and Teng immerses himself in the memory of his many exploits in the show, recalling the friendships forged with the showmen, the exotic parties, and the applause that trailed them everywhere.
He twists dexterously, sweeping his arms in a circular motion, as the sleeves billow weightlessly around his head. Make no mistake: Teng is in control here, as he skillfully manipulates the silk’s direction with his arms, a skill he has mastered through tireless practice. At once, it suspends in the air, fluttering exquisitely like a blanket of butterflies in the open.
The lights crank on, and Teng settles into his final pose, rolling his head towards his audience in a fashion iconic to Wayang. His show-stopping smile wavers, as he peers into the audience of Primary School students, the supposed admirers of his work. Today’s weekly assembly had revolved around ‘our Nation’s History’, and what better way to do that than with a real-life Wayang performance. How exotic indeed.
The caked makeup clings to his face, as he begins to feel the fragmented layers flaking off. A smattering of applause rings through the stuffy hall, as the students applaud him out of deference. Suddenly the heat of attention becomes insufferable. He shifts his weight awkwardly, muscles tensing as he resigns to enduring through the bout of hollow claps. Their applause doesn't match their unenthused eyes, which flick over to their watches ever so often. What’s the use of this archaic formality of applause, he wonders. Especially when it used to trail him so effortlessly. A teacher comes onstage, bequeathing him with a bouquet of flowers, which he graciously accepts while pressing his thin lips into a tight smile. It doesn’t matter if his overlined lips are smudged. The show’s over.
Wayang. A hemorrhaging art form, with culture trickling away in tandem to its decreasing audience. As the English dominance grew, so did the number of empty seats in the Grand Theatre. From Grand theatres to cheap tentage, from imported silk to synthetic cotton, the irreparable blow that Wayang took had left a gaping wound, its bold hue waning as heritage trickled away. It was a travesty compared to the shining glory it had once been, dulled down into a mere historical artefact.
As with all good things, he knew, sadly, that the glory of Wayang was ephemeral. The tides of time had drawn back, and when they returned, they returned with a foreign crowd: the debris of modernisation. The belligerent kampong boys who wore singlets, played cricket fighting, and engaged in heated dialect battles of tongues came back in stiff suits. It was as if they had gone through a corporate machine, been whitewashed and cleansed of the crude Hokkien-ness (asian dialect) that ran in their blood. The diverse landscape of tongues had now streamlined into one, with their dialects receding into the unknown in favour of linguistic homogeneity.
What has happened to our Singapura? Teng laments the lost heritage. He looks out into the sea of students, idly fiddling with their bags. There is not one person out there who can speak a sentence of dialect, he sneers to himself. A dazzling cosmopolitan, an emporium adorned with wealth, built on the land that had been reclaimed from water. The river had been dried out, replaced with a hard ground on which withstood magnificent skyscrapers that towered over the financial scene of our heartland.
We prospered, leaving behind our roots in favour of the sky.
The value of art is determined by our audience; and unfortunately for Teng, his is an audience of children indifferent to his art. The outlandish makeup, anachronistic costumes, the foreign language that rings queer in their ears. The curtains fall, and Teng retreats into the shadows of the backstage, as the dying light of Wayang begins to burn through the final ends of its glorious wick.
mask up
VERA ANG RUI WEN
2020 is such a crazy, different year. Before this happened, no one had to wear masks on the streets, we could enjoy our daily lives. COVID-19 transformed everyone’s lives. The whole country went under lockdown, the longing for freedom to carry on with our daily lives grew. However, even as we face uncertainties, we should hope for the best and mask up.
The cost of being human
ALEXIS CHONG TONGWEI
Herein is a company of two and five. A carriage for dual hearts for one. The men proffer mine a seat, as I dismiss their bind of chains. ‘Why?’ they pry, for a gentlemen’s coat threshes in the wind to unearth the intrusive heart within. I present a mannered curvation of lips and genuflect, throat as if nectar. ‘The purpose to reside among equals,’ I simper. Ilina abides by me, assenting to the proposition of men. She ensconces herself in the carriage, of stoic nature. Ilina is sundered from the rest of we women as if Moses parted the Red Sea for the contrast as arrant as that of the queens of opposing chess. We are gentle in title solely as she is gentle in disposition. For she fleets around with her diary clasped to her bosom, palm stained with ink.
A dapple of sunlight scintillates the stipple of herba as we traipse to the castle over the hill. I wrench mine ogle from the arbor along the path, slim boughs dribbling with drupes of plum. I regard the hunch of Ilina’s spine as she inks the diary of the curves of her palm, pupils dilated. Paragons and arcanum emboss the folio of words begotten, for words are but drams from the feast of the mind. I crane mine neck as mere mortal supping ambrosia from the flask of the gods, for a flame ere death smolders with the glow of a thousand sol.
“Dear Diary, we are on a disproportionate chessboard, and I am situated in the belly of the monster. This Garden of Eden is that human fists hast bedaubed the chessboard with white. Thou semaphores rent hands and riven souls for mine flesh bears the blight of humankind. Thou resides among equals, for the swell of the forsaken seat beside me blotted with ink. Thou hath eschewed me, derided me, and decried me—your reason be? I am an African-American. Hath not the palm of a genteel maiden, borne of the land of honey and milk? Hath not the shoulder of the Knights of the Round Table, oppressed by the weight of the obsidian sword? Hath not the blisters of cherubs, cantering past swathes of grass? Hath we, not a heart that beats and eyes that moisten? Hath we not a deserted seat beside us and the reverie of a neverland?”
“Cease thy progress,” I bellow, as the carriage gyrates to an impasse.
I unbolt the carriage gate, twinging my dress as I nether myself ground wards.
I meet the orbs of Ilina.
To be human.
“May I enter?”
A dapple of sunlight scintillates the stipple of herba as we traipse to the castle over the hill. I wrench mine ogle from the arbor along the path, slim boughs dribbling with drupes of plum. I regard the hunch of Ilina’s spine as she inks the diary of the curves of her palm, pupils dilated. Paragons and arcanum emboss the folio of words begotten, for words are but drams from the feast of the mind. I crane mine neck as mere mortal supping ambrosia from the flask of the gods, for a flame ere death smolders with the glow of a thousand sol.
“Dear Diary, we are on a disproportionate chessboard, and I am situated in the belly of the monster. This Garden of Eden is that human fists hast bedaubed the chessboard with white. Thou semaphores rent hands and riven souls for mine flesh bears the blight of humankind. Thou resides among equals, for the swell of the forsaken seat beside me blotted with ink. Thou hath eschewed me, derided me, and decried me—your reason be? I am an African-American. Hath not the palm of a genteel maiden, borne of the land of honey and milk? Hath not the shoulder of the Knights of the Round Table, oppressed by the weight of the obsidian sword? Hath not the blisters of cherubs, cantering past swathes of grass? Hath we, not a heart that beats and eyes that moisten? Hath we not a deserted seat beside us and the reverie of a neverland?”
“Cease thy progress,” I bellow, as the carriage gyrates to an impasse.
I unbolt the carriage gate, twinging my dress as I nether myself ground wards.
I meet the orbs of Ilina.
To be human.
“May I enter?”
Jar of memories
ARISSA BINTE KAMARUZAMAN
aeons ago,
i traveled through the wonderland of Geylang Bazaar,
that sold
kebayas,
mosaic lamps,
antiquities,
and then behold:
the glass jar.
light skittered off its edges, spinning and spilling the colour of yellow – the colour of memories, so bright and mellow.
ever so often,
i save and savour memories in the little jar –
say, the old receipt from Old Airport Road,
say, the old angbaos from my old por por,
say, the old NLB card that fed my old reading habits.
when i flew to Paris,
i could hear the memories going clink clink clink in the bag
that sat between my feet, singing the musical magic of
hellos and goodbyes.
when i finally reached my in-laws’ home,
jetlag-ridden and all,
the first thing i wanted to do was to muse over jar-held memories.
it must have been misfortune
as it fell
clink clink clink
across the carpet,
drawing wounds in glass and broken hearts.
all i could do was to sink solemnly unto the floor, with my lips
ajar,
speechless to see
a jar
and its ugly new scar.
it’s been three years since that day,
and
i’m still stuck in this land of love
and
heartbreak,
still thinking:
was it my fault bringing the jar over
and
having it scarred
and
marred?
the glass jar cries day after day,
breaks and breaks
and so i’ve taken it upon myself to console it with
fresh bric-a-brac –
say, the new tickets from the Paris Metro,
say, the new Bucherer bracelet bought by my mother-in-law,
say, the new gift cards feeding my new shopping habits.
just yesterday,
i wanted to check on the old stuff, wanted to
recall something about home, anything at all.
i thought maybe it’d help me recall
days fooling around at the dragon playground,
or jostling through MRT crowds at peak hour,
or mouthing Majulah Singapura without knowing the words.
only, everything old is now buried too
deep.
who’s to know whether burying my hands in an item
b r e a k i n g a p a r t
will break it for good?
i’ve come to realise what wasn’t obvious to me before:
memories can’t be recalled from
a jar.
i traveled through the wonderland of Geylang Bazaar,
that sold
kebayas,
mosaic lamps,
antiquities,
and then behold:
the glass jar.
light skittered off its edges, spinning and spilling the colour of yellow – the colour of memories, so bright and mellow.
ever so often,
i save and savour memories in the little jar –
say, the old receipt from Old Airport Road,
say, the old angbaos from my old por por,
say, the old NLB card that fed my old reading habits.
when i flew to Paris,
i could hear the memories going clink clink clink in the bag
that sat between my feet, singing the musical magic of
hellos and goodbyes.
when i finally reached my in-laws’ home,
jetlag-ridden and all,
the first thing i wanted to do was to muse over jar-held memories.
it must have been misfortune
as it fell
clink clink clink
across the carpet,
drawing wounds in glass and broken hearts.
all i could do was to sink solemnly unto the floor, with my lips
ajar,
speechless to see
a jar
and its ugly new scar.
it’s been three years since that day,
and
i’m still stuck in this land of love
and
heartbreak,
still thinking:
was it my fault bringing the jar over
and
having it scarred
and
marred?
the glass jar cries day after day,
breaks and breaks
and so i’ve taken it upon myself to console it with
fresh bric-a-brac –
say, the new tickets from the Paris Metro,
say, the new Bucherer bracelet bought by my mother-in-law,
say, the new gift cards feeding my new shopping habits.
just yesterday,
i wanted to check on the old stuff, wanted to
recall something about home, anything at all.
i thought maybe it’d help me recall
days fooling around at the dragon playground,
or jostling through MRT crowds at peak hour,
or mouthing Majulah Singapura without knowing the words.
only, everything old is now buried too
deep.
who’s to know whether burying my hands in an item
b r e a k i n g a p a r t
will break it for good?
i’ve come to realise what wasn’t obvious to me before:
memories can’t be recalled from
a jar.