Slow. I. Am.

We'd been playing for nearly 3 hours. The second match was won by SP and Nic; and we would have gone into the third set had SP not have to leave.

As SP hurried to his bag, Nic said to no one in particular: 'It's power and determination'.

I gave a faint smile.

'Actually, it's fear...' came SP's reply, almost cheekily.

Then, somewhat retardedly, I blurted out: 'Wait a minute...are you talking about the game or him being late to meet his gf for lunch?!'

Can't deny I'm slowwwww.

Here I am

I am not proud to say this, but here I am, at 21:40hrs on a Friday evening, still in office - and the only one at that.

Just fired off an email that I am already late in replying. Now one more to go.

I'm feeling ok though, coz the weekend is here and I am going to enjoy it. It just feels so good knowing that tomorrow is Saturday: no having to wake up early, no shirt and pants, no dreaded office to go back to. I will slack, have a good breakfast at the kopitiam, maybe do some clearing up of my room. And on Sunday - so looking forward to it - i will meet the guys for our regular games.

But now - got to finish up what needs to be done!

If you - anyone - are reading this, I hope you have a wonderful weekend too! =)

In conversation with...

I was in a particularly good mood this morning because i had a good night catching up with Eug yesterday. Spotting a healthy tan that he got from his recent cycling trip in NZ, he was telling me about his trip over dinner. When he asked how long was it that I've not cycled, I replied rather embarrassingly: almost half a year, i think.

Then, in a bid to justify my lack of cycling, I added for good measure: I don't really like cycling in Singapore; it's always the same route; i'd rather cycle in M'sia, anytime.

Well, my excuse was somewhat proven valid when he ventured that he's also grown tired of cycling in Spore. 'It's boring', he said. But of course, he could say that and get away with it - he just finished cycling for some 21 days in NZ; Singapore roads are so obviously incomparable to that in spacious NZ, not to mention what must be awesome views of the landscape!

I realise, speaking with Eug brings out the best (of manners, speech etc) in me. (Not that i'm not in my best always or that my best is so bad!) Coz he's such a gentleman, he speaks good and proper English - no slang, vulgarity or anything - and he speaks thoughtfully and is a man of purpose and wisdom. I thus have to hold up to his standard, lah. And oh yes, he refers to his wife as 'my wife', which he says so respectfully and makes singles like me feel so estranged. haha!

As we both work in the same sector, i could express my opinions and talk about things which would otherwise not make sense to or interest others. Like how we dislike doing minutes, our philosophy towards work, how people skills/EQ matter more than hard skills, how i've grown disillusioned with the system, among others. For once i could talk about things and feel that they are not irrelevant comments.

Interestingly, he shared with me that there are two schools of thought with regard to work: one is that you work very hard to meet all the deadlines; the other school believes that you should not meet all your deadlines, so that the system can identify and then rectify the imbalance; that is, your boss will pick up the signals, know that things are not working and make adjustments accordingly.

I never put it down to these two schools of thought but after hearing it, i do think that there are many people whose working mode resemble or conform to the two descriptions. I probably come close to the first, but i think i am making a conscious effort to move into the second.

In any case, i ain't going into any analysis. I've had a good conversation over dinner with Eug, and as is always the case when you speak with someone more experienced, i've gained from his wisdom. This reflective point aside, of course it had to be good catching up with a friend. That's why i was in a good mood this morning.

A good book, not (necessarily) a good movie

I didn't plan to talk about the book again. But it just so happens that it has been adapted into a film that is now showing in the cinema. And the movie's got really bad reviews, it seems.

This shouldn't come as a surprise, for a well-written novel does not guarantee or necessarily translate into a good movie. More so for Gabriel Garcia Márquez's work, for its beauty lies in the writing, not the story. It is through Márquez's words and descriptions that a poignant story is told, his sensitivity and insight into humanity conveyed.

His sentences are often long but always thoughtful, and he uses dialogue sparingly but always with purpose and to heightened effect whenever employed. And he likes to dwell on the passage of time, perhaps because it elicits the constant that is love, no matter its form or manifestation.

Above all, his ruminations on love are moving, sometimes they astound even, somewhat like how one moves appreciatively along in an art exhibition and comes across a piece that silently stirs one's heart, because it conveys something that resonates in you. Here is one such passage:

She clung to her husband. And it was just at the time when he needed her most, because he suffered the disadvantage of being ten years ahead of her as he stumbled alone through the mists of old age with the even greater disadvantage of being a man and weaker than she was. In the end they knew each other so well that by the time they had been married for thirty years they were like a single divided being, and they felt uncomfortable at the frequency with which they guessed each other's thoughts without intending to, or the ridiculous accident of one of them anticipating in public what the other was going to say. Together they had overcome the daily incomprehension, the instantaneous hatred, the reciprocal nastiness and fabulous flashes of glory in the conjugal conspiracy. It was the time when they loved each other best, without hurry or excess, when both were most conscious of and grateful for their incredible victories over adversity. Life would still present them with other mortal trials, of course, but that no longer mattered: they were on the other shore.

A bookish habit

‘You know, you could actually borrow all your books from the library,’ said K, as he averted his gaze from my sight, as though fearing that his suggestion might be interpreted as an accusation.

Of course he must have felt that way – lawyers can’t do better at hiding their intentions, can they? (This is the moment to cue the Big Wide Grin.)

We were having coffee at Yakun, and the topic of books came along, because I knew that he knew that I was reading Love in the Time of Cholera (which I've finished by now). It was a fantastic book, we both agreed.

Inevitably, my habit of buying books was brought up, and I remarked that I must stop buying more books until I finish the many half-read, unread ones in my possession.

That’s when he made the absolutely sensible comment that I could get the books I want from the library. In fact, he made the remark twice, perhaps unaware himself. (Now, lawyers tend to repeat themselves to give emphasis to their points, don’t they? Cue: Another grin.)

I felt guilty, but I remarked, almost incoherently, that it’s different for people who like books. (As if book lovers do not include the large number of diligent library users who borrow books frequently!)

My reasons for not preferring to borrow books and desiring to buy books are like two sides of the same coin. Borrow from library: I almost always can’t get the books I want, i don’t like to and can’t be bothered to make a reservation, and I like to take my time to read my books. Buy a book: I can find the book that I want, I can get it as and when I fancy, and I can take unhurried pleasure to read my book.

I should qualify, though, that it is not just any books that I buy. I try to determine that it would be a book that I like, that it is a book worth having because I may read it again or revisit some of the words, sentences or ideas it contains, if not for reference purposes, then for the simple fact that i enjoy perusing them again. Oh, and did i mention that i get my books (which aren't that many really) at enormously discounted prices?

Janadas Devan had a piece in The Sunday Times (Jan 6, 2008, p. 33) which expressed very well the sentiments of those who love books:

For the truth is I’m a book addict as well as a reading addict. I like books as physical objects – the fresh smell of new books, the musty smell of old ones; the feel of soft calf-leather binding, the look of a well-produced trade paperback; the texture of battered old copies, picked up at second-hand bookshops, heavily scored by their previous owners; books I have inherited from my father, filled with his marginalia. If my library were destroyed by fire tomorrow, I would weep.

But the chief reason is I adore books, the physical objects – the printed words, on paper, between covers. People like me will soon be antique, together with our books.

My sentiments exactly.

Words of love. Love of words.

"For they had lived together long enough to know that love was always love, anytime and anyplace, but it was more solid the closer it came to death."

Reading the words in the 348-pages book that flow so evocatively that it often seemed what was being described was a natural depiction of reality and not imagined by words, one sometimes feels as if one's breathing were suspended. It's as if reading without stopping is compelled by the sheer lyrical magic of the prose. Here's more, and if you like it, go grab a copy and read it.

At his back, a woman's voice seemed to read his thoughts:

"My God, this is longer than sorrow!"

That was all she said, inhibited perhaps by the resonance of her voice in the darkness, for the custom of embellishing silent films with piano accompaniment had not yet been established here, and in the darkened enclosure all that one could hear was the projector murmuring like rain. Florentino Ariza did not think of God except in the most extreme circumstances, but now he thanked Him with all his heart. For even twenty fathoms underground he would instantly have recognized the husky voice he had carried in his soul ever since the afternon when he heard her say in a swirl of yellow leaves in a solitary park: "Now go, and don't come back until i tell you to." He knew that she was sitting in the seat behind his, next to her inevitable husband, and he could detect her warm, even breathing, and he inhaled with love the air purified by the health of her breath. Instead of imagining her under attack by the devouring worms of death, as he had in his despondency of recent months, he recalled her at a radiant and joyful age, her belly rounded under the Minervan historical disasters that were crowding the screen, he did not need to turn around to see her in his imagination. He delighted in the scent of almonds that came wafting back to him from his innermost being, and he longed to know how she thought women in films should fall in love so that their loves would cause less pain than they did in life. Just before the film ended, he realized in a flash of exultation that he had never so close, so long, to the one he loved so much.

They called each other Tu again, again they exchanged commentaries on their lives as they had done once before in their letters, and again Florentino Ariza tried to move too quickly: he wrote her name with the point of a pin on the petals of a camellia and sent it to her in a letter. Two days later it was returned with no message. Fermina Daza could not help it: all that seemed like children's games to her, most of all when Florentino Ariza insisted on evoking the afternoons of melancholy verses in the Park of the Evangels, the letters hidden along her route to school, the embroidery lessons under the almond trees. With sorrowing heart she reprimmanded him in what appeared to be a casual question in the midst of other trivial remarks: "Why do you insist on talking about what does not exist?" Later she reproached him for his fruitless insistence on not permitting himself to grow old in a natural way. This was, according to her, the reason for his haste and constant blundering as he evoked the past. She could not understand how a man capable of the thoughts that had given her the strength to endure her widowhood could become entangled in so childish a manner when he attempted to apply them to his own life. Their roles were reversed. Now it was she who tried to give him new courage to face the future, with a phrase that he, in his reckless haste, could not decipher: Let time pass and we will see what it brings. For he was never as good a student as she was. His forced immobility, the growing ludicity of his conviction that time was fleeting, his mad desire to see her, everything proved to him that his fear of falling had been more accurate and more tragic than he had foreseen. For the first time, he began to think in a reasoned way about the reality of death.

- Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

all in a night

i just came home from sx's home not long ago. Never a games person, tonight i was introduced to WII, having played it at her place only a few hours ago. Yes, i'm not very updated on game consoles and until today i only knew the existence of Game Boy, Playstation and XBox. (if it's any consolation, jw doesn't know it either; he's still at Bridge and Poker, he says.)

Tam says after tonight my 'cool factor' would have upped a little. Great.

sx, by the way, is a lawyer who works nearly 7 days a week. She gets home, i suspect, usually past midnight. Take today for instance, the bunch of us met for supper way past 11pm. But SX came after 12.30am - from office. It's a Saturday alright.

She invited us to her place to play WII - that's why i'm still awake at this hour - and during our supper and at her place, she had quite a couple of calls. We joked that her social life starts after midnight; and being the nice folks that we are, we wanted to make sure her social life materialises.

We played tennis, boxing, wrestling and bowling. i think half the time we were laughing and amused by the graphics more than enjoying the game per se. This is probably what the creater had in mind, for you don't have to be a pro gamer to be able to enjoy the games. You don't even need to execute any precise hand movement with the gadget to hit, box, wrestle and bowl; they are all programmed in such a way that you only need to move your hands, press a few buttons, and things will work themselves out; nothing sophisticated or complex.

Still, Jo struck powerful serves and trounced us all at tennis, except once when julie - finally - dethroned her. Tam provided value-added entertainment: she commented how Jo's girls - her doubles' players - could strike before hitting the ball whereas ours couldn't (in other words, Jo's an advantage); and how her girl always ended up falling and missing the ball. When her wrestler (Cartilo or something) exhibited limited movement, she remarked that the person who created the character had forgotten to programme the attack moves. Funny, funny. Coming from the dimpled girl.

When at last it was time to stop, the host reminded us that she had to - yes - continue working (at home). I asked if she's going back office later (Sunday, that is) and her answer - no surprise - is yes.

It was cold outside and there were condensed water droplets on my bike's handlebar. Dressed in a singlet and riding my bicycle down the road, i was shivering with cold as i felt the chilling air bite my skin. So i pedalled hard - the first time i was on the saddle after many months off the road - hoping my body would generate warmth quickly and provide some protection against the biting cold.

4:30am: Hair still wet, i decided sleep can be delayed still. Hence this.