I've moved!

Hey people, I have defected to Livejournal. This is my new blog:

http://jumbiez.livejournal.com

Blogspot has been good to me, but I shall have to bid it a fond farewell.

7/8.

In retrospect, it is hardly surprising that I have chosen New Year's Eve as the "right moment" to start blogging again. For someone which has an irresistible (if hugely superfluous) penchant for the theatrical, it is hard to resist the boundless rhetorical potential that an occasion like New Year's Eve exudes.

Much of this rhetorical potential stems from the fact that New Year's Eve is a particular day where you begin to anticipate the future that lies ahead. There is a certain ethereal charm about today, because New Year's Eve represents a threshold between not-so distant memories, and a tentative, but undeniably exciting future. The confluence of these two elements at a single point in time makes for a heady brew of bittersweet reminiscence and unbridled hope for the future.

Of the above 2 emotions, the former is basically an incoherent outburst of regret about things well past -- emoing, in essentials. The latter treads the fine line between such incoherent outbursts and an objective, rational evaluation of what lies ahead. Hence, at the risk of sounding like a raving idiot feeling too much angst for his own good, I shall seek to explore in greater depth the second option.

It is relevant here to talk a bit of the nature of time. As much as this delineation between years is (if you think about it in a cynical and mechanical fashion) an artificial and consequently irrational construct, the fact that our lives are built around this supposedly "artificial" conception of time forces us to construct realities within such constraints.

One reality that is particularly pertinent to yours truly (and most other readers of this blog, I trust) is the school term. The start of every school term on the 2nd of January represents a multitude of opportunities for students, and a chance for us to exploit them to the maximum. We makes New Year resolutions, promising to be a better person, and start fulfilling these promises with much passion and energy once the term begins. And yet, as the year goes by, fatigue will always contrive to creep in, we start to see failures, and finally, we corner ourselves in a sort of half-defeat, fighting on because it just doesn't make sense to just give up, but doing so with the grudging acceptance that our real dreams, the ones that seemed imminently possible just a few months back, have all but evaporated.

Because of such pessimism, I am a bit skeptical about making New Year resolutions. What, though, is a New Year without something to look forward to? Especially given the fact that I will be entering a new school, making new friends, it seems just a tad misanthropic for me to stop making promises, however empty, to myself. So just for the sake of it, I will continue to hope.

One promise I ought to make to myself, perhaps, is that I ought not to botch up the start of the school year in anyway. One reason why dreams disappear after a while is because you take a wrong step, and screw things up before they even begin. This is a prospect that is dangerously imminent, especially since I am entering completely uncharted waters by stepping into junior college. Despite the proximity between my alma mater and my new school in both name and location (and elitist sentiment), the dimensions and workings of both institutions are vastly different.

The social workings I will have to adapt to are a particular problem for me. Those who know me (and for that matter, those who have tried to know me) will understand that I am not a social animal. Quite the converse, I am reserved and impeccably odd in front of strangers. I thus do not enjoy making new friends, and adapting to new social circles in any way. And yet, junior college is essentially one massive ecosystem of people waiting to be recognized, to be understood, to be befriended. The process of getting to know such people is complicated by the fact that, having spent the most part of puberty in a single-sex environment, junior college lends the impression of being an ostensibly sexual place, for want of a better word. I am thus confused (and maybe a bit bemused) about how I ought to act.

This is where the chameleon in me begins to emerge, and I start to think about adapting to the situation as it calls for. The only problem is, do I know what the situation is in the first place? Do I wish to be the quiet, scholarly nerd, or the outgoing funny-man with a truckload of bad jokes to boot? Or should I instead shut up and not care about anything at all?

Instantly, I feel inclined to apologize for my behavior. For one, I have descended into the "incoherent babbling" that I so intended to avoid. Secondly, and more importantly, I am beginning to feel like a hypocritical, two-faced sycophant for even contemplating the guise of the chameleon, and I am disgusted with myself. Without going so far as to say I have had a sudden epiphany, I have suddenly realized that all I have to do in 2008 is sort of... enjoy myself.

In truth, the only real new year resolution I have to make is to make 2008 a year to remember. Looking through the entirety of this blog has made me realize that I take myself too seriously, and thus try to refashion myself into something I am not. Just like the school term is forced to work around the year, my emotions, and even my persona, fluctuate according to what I perceive to be injustice or idiocy, or quite simply, an artificial burden of expectation. 2008, then, must see a new me emerge, someone who defines himself as what he is, and not what he ought to be.

I am already 26 minutes into 2008. And I trust the next 525,934 of them will be memorable ones to come.

Grades.

I find it terrible that a post intended to break a 7-month long hiatus from the blogging scene is unfortunately devoted to something as unpalatable as test scores. In a very twisted sort of way, though, it merely proves my point -- that something as insignificant and minute as a blood-red scribble at the top of your Mathematics paper, for instance, can crush your hopes and dreams and mire your ravished soul in insurmountable emotional turmoil.

This infamously dictatorial grip that grades have on an individual's emotions are painfully obvious in the reputedly elitist establishment that I purport to hail from. The contrast between the obnoxious arrogance that accompanies massive expectations in this melting pot of wannabe-elite dickheads and the forcible humility and anguish that characterizes those defeated by their grades is disgusting, repulsive, and pitiful (if only because it looks so pathetic). A case in point is a friend of mine who was so recently vanquished by his English grades. His dejection was possibly quite understandable -- after all, English was something he could "always count on" for good scores. Still, it didn't quite explain his abrupt change in disposition, where he instantly dropped all (pretensions of) pleasant good humor, and suddenly descended into a sort of self-deprecating brooding. Indeed, the only time where he decided to make even the slightest whimper was to snap back sarcastically at me when I tried (obviously to no avail) to cheer him up.

Instantly, the intelligent reader (of whom I doubt there will be very many) will catch that my reason for only just starting to detest the concept of testing is very personal. And I wouldn't argue otherwise. It is clear that what initiated deep reflection about the establishment of testing is the fact that a certain someone went all ballistic towards me because he was mad about English. And yet, however self-indulgent and subjective the entirety of the following exposition will seem, there is undoubtedly going to be an element of truth hidden somewhere inside. Maybe.

After all, if you think about it, it must mean something that tests can provoke such a massive, if unintentional, revision in attitude. Often, that revision is negative. As evidenced by the aforementioned example, tests only serve to exacerbate tensions and generate altercations. Fundamentally, tests play on our inherent, and possibly inevitable, fear of failure. Nobody, not least the supercilious sons-of-bitches that walk the halls of our sacred institution, likes to fail. Indeed, half of us don't even believe that we are capable of failing. Being housed in an ivory tower, shielded from the cold realities of... reality, instills in the average RI boy a sense of invulnerability. It lends itself very well to the whole idea of invincibility, then, that we are known as the "hope of a better age" -- as if we deserve to be assured of a future in various positions of leadership simply because we are categorized as being uniquely Rafflesian.

Tests, then, are seemingly intended, at least in a chronic-overachiever sort of context, to further solidify and ground us in the impression that we are better than all the mere mortals who maraud outside the sacrosanct halls of RI. We are thus subject to test upon test, assessment after assessment, because testing is apparently an important step in "gauging progress" and to prove beyond doubt that we are smart people.

The crushing truth of believing in such a misguided delusion, however, is that we tie our fates to tests. To prove that you are worthy of a H3 in literature, for instance, you need at least a 3.2 GPA. If you somehow scrape a 2.4, but manage a 100% for literature, I hardly think that RJC will consent to let you take advanced literature in JC, because you "cannot cope with the coursework". Does it mean you stink at literature? Hardly. Will you take it to mean that way? Certainly. And why is that so? Because the establishment's idea of grading is that it is a sort of litmus test -- are we suited for the vast depths of academia, or should we consign ourselves to mediocrity?

The point is that grades are not indicative of ability. This is particularly true for subjects where grading is ostensibly subject to personal preference (hello, Aruna!). And yet, people trust grades, mostly because of an innate inferiority complex that betrays an outward portrayal of confidence. We never trust our own judgment -- numbers are infinitely more reliable than us. And thus that red scribble on the top of an English paper is allowed to reign supreme over simple common sense, and govern our emotional well-being. The boy whose English grade so disturbed his fragile mental equilibrium, then, is allowing an injudicious measurement of "metacognition" overrule his claim to the throne of God of the English Department.

The reader ought to beware, of course, of the implications of agreeing wholeheartedly with this blog post. I am not advocating the complete abolition of testing. That is patently ridiculous, because of various (and very obvious) practical issues, and because it is not my place to comment on something I have been similarly consumed by. I fear just as much as the next person of failing my Mathematics test (although that is a foregone conclusion at this point in time), and doing badly for Social Studies, and acknowledge that a failure to achieve a scholarship of some form because of poor grades is testament to my failure in life.

Perhaps, if anything, this is a testament to the fact that we must all come to embrace the inequalities extended to us by an unequivocal conformity to that regrettably draconian process known as test grading.

What a Wonderful World...

I am quite fascinated by the very angsty undertones this blog is starting to assume. Fascinated, but not particularly pleased with this gradual assimilation of teenage hormonal imbalance, because I personally believe that outward expression of emotional turmoil rather impairs one's intellectual development.

Which is why I have decided, on the eve of the Chinese New Year, that this blog should begin to talk about happy things in general (good grades, happy-ever-after-stories....erm... good grades), and shed the gloom and doom that so pervades this increasingly Gothic mass of HTML and C++.

Think happy thoughts... think happy thoughts...

It should seem extremely fortunate that the Gods have heard the happy thoughts I am trying desperately to conjure, and acquiesced to my will. For, in the past 2 weeks, marvelous things have started happening. In fact, quite aside from the fact that the Mathematics department has found time to ravish my already devastated Mathematics grade, life's been quite the bed of roses thus far.

It all started last Friday, when for some odd reason I hit form, and began debating with a sudden clarity, a magical perspicuity. Everything just sort of fell into place, and I started impressing the judges. For once in my debating career I was actually saying things correctly. And the rosy little cherry on top of the chocolate fudge cake came when the judges decided I'd done well enough to win my first ever Best Speaker award, and at the National's no less. And unless I am becoming arrogant (or at least, more so than I already am), I seem to be debating with far more confidence and accuracy than I normally am.

And just a few days ago, I was playing around with the drums, and sounded pretty good. Good enough, at least, that Kelvin should decide I was Buckley Talentime worthy, and should drum for them at the New Year's Performance! In fact, quite aside from the fact that they should replace me later on with a more proficient drummer and that Buckley should go on to lose horribly, I was for once being recognized for whatever musical ability I should possess.

Right now, as I mooch around in front of a computer screen and blog for all the world to see, I'm beginning to think this is a sign of things to come. Good things, mind, and I'm not complaining. The New Year looks to be a good one for me, if anyone.

But truth be told, I am rather afraid. 4th place at Talentime is not a good sign for Buckley. Nor does it bode well that so many happy things should be happening to me all of a sudden. What if I should suddenly run out of steam at NCS, then we crash and burn? Will I even speak in NCS?

But wait -- I apologize for letting all my insecurities loose in one miserable paragraph. You must realize, that for someone who should interpret being "Between Worlds" as a poor, deranged soul contemplating suicide, it is very exhausting to suddenly write of Best Speaker trophies and Talentime 1st-placings.

At any rate, whilst I begin to reprise my role as the eternal online pessimist, it must be noted that, quite possibly, the outward expression of an inward insecurity is a means of balancing my emotional equilibrium. It is a sort of internal check and balance, through which I cathartically stave off the beast that's roaring inside of me.

Which should mean that my blog is no more the media of entertainment I intended it to be. In fact, unless one should derive sadistic pleasure from watching the angst-driven, misery-motivated rants of a poor, tormented soul, then why bother?

Go think some happy thoughts of your own.

We are the Champions... or not.

So we're not the champions. We didn't even make it past the semi-finals.

I don't know why I'm writing this entry only now. In fact, I don't know why I'm even writing at all. The miserable aftermath of defeat, the raw emotion in the face of disappointment has all but faded, making writing about the VJC Invitationals a pointless typing exercise. Not to mention, I have better things to do, like get a start on my holiday homework.

Perhaps the reason why I'm persisting in typing out this entry is because I need to get some unspoken, psychological burden off my chest. After all, for someone to get beaten at the hands of a particularly incompetent opponent certainly generates a degree of mental duress.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. To be honest, I really don't feel particularly affected by losing. Maybe it's because I've grown used to playing an unimportant, peripheral role in most of my endeavors, performing the duties of the perennial loser, that losing isn't really painful any longer. There isn't very much emotion compelling me to waste a good part of my holiday writing this blog entry.

It could, of course, be a subconscious desire to flex some of my considerable literary muscle that drives me to write. There is very little point in keeping a blog at all if you don't show off a bit. After all, a blog is a fashion statement, and my writing's the digital equivalent of the Gucci emblem.

But nobody really reads my blog anyway. Save for a few precious souls, nobody actually finds this URL worth the extra line of HTML on their blog. And if all I wanted to do was drool over my own work, there are better ways through which I can admire myself. My (as yet undone) Commonwealth Essay, for instance, beckons. There really isn't any point writing a whole entry just for this purpose.

Quite possibly, though, all I really want to do is thank a couple of people. I'm very bad at expressing gratitude by word of mouth -- maybe it's to do with my ego. Or conservatism. Whatever the reason, there is little embarrassment involved in thanking others online.

So to all my teammates -- thank you for being there. To Anish, Marvin, Samuel and Benjamin, thank you for supporting me and bearing with my incompetence. I'm glad to be part of this team. Special thanks goes to Jing Song, and especially Chere, coaches who aren't really getting paid very much to watch us screw up on the floor, but go ahead with it anyway.

It's quite possible that the people I'm thanking will not read what I've just written. At any rate this is a particularly dry entry, with a particularly uninteresting motives.

But whatever the case, these people are people who have plied their faith in me whatever the odds. These are people who automatically earn my respect, and no matter what, they are the champions...

... or not.

Death.

This is such a terribly, terribly, morbid title. To fit a terribly, terribly, morbid week. Here's a list of terribly, terribly, morbid events to compliment the mood.


Steve Irwin: Crocodile Hunter unfortunately hunted down by giant stingray. Oh, the irony.

Yew Zhi Hao: Died of mysterious cardiac arrest. Nobody really knows him, but everybody's really sad.

Random Individual in Obituary: Died miserable deaths. Relatives grief over him and spend bomb pasting his black-and-white picture in the Straits Times.

It's just so strange how people tell us that life is important, but only really decide to respect him after he dies.

Hmm. I wonder why.

Steve Irwin has bouquet after bouquet of flowers dumped in front of his home, and people plastering virtual turtles next to their MSN nicks, only when he decided to get stung to death by some stingray's poisonous barb, but not when he had the balls to pounce on massive crocodiles or wrange with vicious pythons.

Then Zhi Hao, who has legions of individuals dressed in the white of RI pouring in to pay their respects to him only after he is killed by a cardiac arrest, and not after he won the PM's Book Prize.

And then we have all these old people who have their pictures plastered all over the newspaper, only after they die of some unfortunate disease, but not when they were alive and working their butts off earning you some dinner.

Hmm. I wonder why.

It's amusing in a very convoluted sort of way, perhaps, that we people only realise that the people close to them are important and significant when they decide to leave us altogether.

Whenever our loved ones are getting on with their lives and doing something for us, we ignore their presence -- like they're a mere, inanimate entity to be disregarded. Yet, somehow or another, when loved ones decide to lie in their graves and not do anything, we decide to respect and love them with all our heart.

Hmm. I wonder why.

Suddenly, I'm beginning to realise that our world is a terribly, terribly, morbid one. Strangely enough, we seem to respect death more than we do life, respect uselessness over usefulness, inanimate over contribution. The dead command honour and respect that all us living mortals can only dream of.

In fact, it's no wonder that the Romans enjoyed watching gladiators getting mauled and killed by lions. Maybe they figured he'd be better honoured after he was dead than when he was alive. And maybe Osama was really a good man, because he decided to murder all those people in the World Trade Center because he wanted them to be honoured for heroism beyond their dreams.

Maybe, if I became some form of high-ranking official in the UN, I would possibly make suicide a legal course of action for poor, neglected individuals. After all, why slog your ass off trying to become the prime minister when leaping off a building earns you just as much attention?

Damn, the world is a terribly, terribly, morbid place.

Hmm. I wonder why.

Truth and Politics

When you're small and innocent, you take it upon yourself to act grown-up. We take it upon ourselves to parade around in pants about 7 sizes bigger than our waistlines, wear spectacles when we have perfect 6/6 vision, or indulge in Shakespeare when we scarcely understand Enid Blyon.

Ah, the good old days.

I've been waiting, and waiting, and waiting for the time when I would be able to fulfil dreams of understanding Shakespeare, pose around in some really funky pants, and look intelligent with a blazer over my neatly-pressed long-sleeved shirt. The material, the tangible attests to my... maturity, for want of a better word.

But to be truthful, although I am blessed with charming good looks and a frankly brilliant mind (and a big ego to spare), I find myself regretting it all. Because at a ripe old 15 years of age, I'm supposed to be able to redefine, to comprehend... to understand.

But as I conquer unknown after unknown manifested in your average test paper, new unknowns are tossed in the way, hoping to somehow or another trip me up in the course of my merry romp. Trigonometry, medical pamphlets, French... trigonometry...

... and Man.

You will be tempted to turn away from my blog right now, because those who know me will expect the literary reminescings of an angsty kid with too much thinking time to spare. And they're probably right. I think about nonsense all the time. But the thing that preoccupies my (highly intelligent) mind the most is Man, and why we act the way we do.

Adults always tell us that innocence is a virtue, that ignorance is a shield that we are forced under for our own good. And I told them that it was poppycock, and utter hypocrisy. Why in the world are we forced under a barrage of Einstein and Newton when ignorance is what the world seeks?

But adults don't refer to the raw knowledge we extract from textbooks and teachers. Adults refer to Truth. They will for us to preserve the youthful innocence that denies Truth passage into our lives, that protects us from the anger, the volatile emotion that Man wreaks upon Man. And they ought to know, because they are warriors battered by years in the face of Truth.

I fear for my friends. For the past year, there has been politics. The cruel reality of power and corruption is hung for all to see as peer struggles for control, for popularity, for the floor. Peace is disrupted, sides are taken, and friendship is absconded. Everything is inconsequential, except for a ruthlessly utilitarian race for the finish.

I fear for myself. As far as I have tried to avoid taking sides, tried to stand by the sidelines, I fear that I am being corrupted, that I am being dragged into the battlefield against will. I fear that I will awaken to find myself abandoning the innocence of childhood for the macabre of adulthood.

I fear.

So much.

And so I desist.