Archive for the ‘uncategorised’ Category

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April 25, 2007

Is it disturbing that now I find straight people – particularly straight men – extremely irrelevant to my life? Whatever happened to my staunch avowal that I would never become one of those gay men who look insularly into their own community. Looking at all those photographs from blogs of my old schoolmates – in clubs, in restaurants, at the beach: I feel strangely disconnected from their normality. No one ever points to them and shouts ‘faggot’, no one ever questions their (sensible) t-shirts and ties, or their sexy halter tops and miniskirts. It’s all so – damn – normal.

I’ve always craved, in part, for that. Now in my interaction with friends from so long ago, it’s hard to share with them gay things: we move in totally different spheres. They have Zouk, I have St James on Sunday. They have Quiksilver, I have Instant Karma. They have Byford, I have Calvin Klein. It’s just like there’s this insuperable wall between us, a wall of fashion magazines, airy pop music and branded clothes.

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March 27, 2007

So things with the G have ended acrimoniously. I was incredibly pissed off for a while, but then after that I just got over it. Very Katharine McPhee. It’s funny how I have a habit of moving on – at the point of rejection I feel like a complete failure, then barely a day later I feel normal again. As I grow older I fear that I will grow up to be like Edna St. Vincent Millay:

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

That feeling of utter dejection – remembering lost loves, even the briefest encounters, illuminating them with my imagination (the lives we could have shared, the loves we could have assured) – leaves me breathless and for a moment it feels as if I’m going to die: that air steward who lives in Edinburgh, what’s his name? who wanted to fuck, but I couldn’t because I was afraid of pain then. That filmmaker, the first one who fucked me (what was his name? Daniel? Dan? Danny?), what’s happened to him? And the countless Jewish guys I’ve dated – once, twice, three time’s an alarming record – whatever happened to them? So many questions, so many alternate existences, only one life I have. Sometimes I wish I could retrack my steps, like deliberately not saving when you’re playing Pokemon so you can go back to that crucial moment before killing the Mewtwo. (I mix my metaphors liberally.)

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March 21, 2007

So. Things have become complicated over here, and I’m so glad that I rejoined the parent company for an internship. In the past two days I’ve been so exhausted I barely have any time to think, let alone fret about the circumstances of my love life. Oh, I fall in love too easily. I fall in love too fast.

I blame Z for doing this to me. Had his lusty roving eye not fallen upon the G’s AC-ruggerness and tophood, I would not have met them at Taboo and G would not have known me when he bumped into me the following day at St James. Now I wake up and think fondly of him. But, you know, as with all things with me (the O, random other guys, chicken pox) this will pass soon. Grrrr. Brrrr.

This should not be happening. I’m tough as nails. I haven’t allowed myself to feel any affection for anyone in a long time – almost four months now. Hence the numerous encounters. It’s much easier (and more fun) to drown your loneliness in sexual predation. Not to mention, of course, extremely validating. The past three months have shown me that I’m not that ugly after all, that I can land myself good-looking guys with a modicum of intelligence, not just those mingers in toilets with hair in all the wrong places. Which is a step forward.

SO. The G hasn’t called yet, and I’m starting to feel a bit anxious. Damn these tops of all shapes and sizes, they’ll use you and they’ll lose you. But don’t you ever for a second get to thinking, you’re irreplaceable.

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March 9, 2007

Three months ago it would have been so easy to pack up and disappear. Now – now – things are so different. Somehow, the heart that I misplaced – through calcifying, fossilising, deadening it so that I wouldn’t feel the edge of loss, the suffering, the ever-present pain of losing friends, time, myself – the heart that I misplaced I found again. Somewhere, at the point where Crystal found her new boyfriend and Jane found her new boyfriend and Salman found a life beyond the police force and suddenly I was all alone, I stopped feeling. It was easy to lose myself in the numbing rhythm. What else was there in my life? Nothing. I woke up, feeling nothing. I collapsed out of bed, feeling nothing. I took a bus, feeling nothing. I did my work, feeling nothing. I stood in line, feeling nothing. I came home, feeling nothing. I fell asleep, feeling nothing, dreaming nothing. (The nights upon nights without dreams were the worst.)

But now life is so fresh and so new and so various. I’ve met and fallen in love with the best people. (I didn’t think I’d find any more friends who could be loyal and true to me – difficult, obstinate, taciturn me – but I did. And now my perfect world – so static, so true – has fallen apart, and new, fresh, feeling has rushed in, and I’ve never felt so much more exhilaratingly alive. Alive. And now when September comes I will have to pack everything into a bag and bid everyone goodbye. And now – now – how will this be possible? How will this be easy? What could I even do?

This is getting very emo and boring.

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February 12, 2007

I can be a shockingly vindictive person. In school, I feuded with a girl for almost two years. She’d had the audacity to call me a “faggot”. I responded by calling her “thunderthighs”, screaming at her from halfway in the canteen, hurling abuse at her in various languages as she passed me in the corridors. I fed rumours about her. She apologised in an email, but by then I couldn’t have cared less about the original source of discontent. I was borne up by a wave of exhilaration, the exhilaration you get when you know you’re making someone’s life miserable. And I loved it.

Three years after that, I feel bad. Growing up can do these things to you. Hm.

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January 23, 2007

pict1004.JPG Lunch at Thai Express today with Amogh was a riot. Some friends you don’t see in months and yet you still talk to them like no time has passed – Amogh’s one of them. As I grow older I realise that some people will always be part of your lives. I think Amogh’s one of them. He’s been with me through thick (him in sec 3) and thin (me in J1). He was there when slowly but surely outed myself to everyone. And he’s never really given a shit about what others think of me – he’s just always been there. In a very unhealthy “i’m straight and very bad with emotions” way.

Today he revealed something that has been weighing heavily on his mind – that he wouldn’t be able to find a hot eligible Brahmin girl. Ok all you Brahminahs out there – you want him, you got him. Tell me and I’ll get back to you. Heh. My advice was to marry a Chinese, so he’d have hot Chindian children. But he would have none of it, for fear of parental retribution. Alas, the woes of the caste system! And I thought being gay and Chinese was bad.

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Arbeitstag

January 20, 2007

pict0981.JPG Well, this is why I love my job: look at what came in the mail today! A review copy of Kylie’s Showgirl concert recording. We loves. And what a great CD it is! Kylie has never sounded better. Her vocals are absolutely stunning – especially on the exuberant “Spinning Around”. To think she’s just recovered from breast cancer. Have I mentioned that we loves?

Friday was a crazy day. I was busy recovering from Thursday night’s preview or Little Children, which was a tough cookie to chew on. It reminded me a lot of Babel, but better. Though both films touched on how convergent lives can affect each other through coincidence – a light brush here, a slight crush there – Babel‘s problematic pacing paled in comparison to Little Children‘s dry ironic wit. I’m probably going to do a comparative review to kill two birds with one stone. Oh and btw – Patrick Wilson is. So. Hawt.

Friday evening I interviewed Addie, owner of Taboo. A real dear if there ever was one. I wish I had his zen-buddhist life-philosophy. Then I rushed down to the Pump Room (at Clarke Quay) for a party in aid of AfA. There I got into a bit of a kerfuffle with the staff. I tried to bring Jinesh in, and she was so incrediby uppity and snooty about it: “How many people you wanna bring in? This is 40 bucks a head you know? And you get to drink wine and have food.” I gave her a piece of my mind. It was not pretty. But I was. Then we rushed down to Cafe del Mar’s opening, and I was shocked at how many white people there are in Asian Singapore. Yum.

pict0996.JPGWell I’m exhausted from the weekend’s proceedings. I leave you with a picture of the adorable Tim. Who is as usual eating. We went to Max Brenner’s. I had a rather delish crepes suzette.Perhaps he is grimacing because of the loss of his beloved Zul. Perhaps he is grimacing because the chocolate has given him a heart attack. We shall never know. Here is Tim, with Belgian waffle:

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January 7, 2007

There’s something about Ciara’s “Promise” that really gets me going. I’ve listened to it like 47 times in a row and it’s still going on repeat. I can hear Prince (when he was good) and Janet Jackson (when she was sane). There’s something distinctly gorgeous about the direction in which she’s taking her crunk. The slightly dissonant harmonies hypnotise. It’s a really strange lovesong – you don’t really get a sense of the beloved at all – perhaps there isn’t even one. But Ciara dominates and takes over the song with her sultry declarations of love. Maybe that’s why I love it so much – like all good lovesongs it really is an exercise in self-aggrandization.

Hm.

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Full of Sound and Fury/Signifying Nothing

October 20, 2006

This makes my blood boil. What an idiot.

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The Beautiful Room Is Empty

October 19, 2006

“Ah! Do you have to be sensual to be human?”

“Certainly, Madame. Pity is in the guts, just as tenderness is on the skin.”

Anatole France, The Red Lily

When I was about fifteen, gay in an single-sex school and deeply unhappy, I discovered the works of Edmund White – more specifically the “A Boy’s Own Story” Trilogy (beginning with that book, followed by “The Beautiful Room Is Empty” and “The Farewell Symphony”). I remember sneaking off during PE, tormented by both the boys and their beauty, the telling pink cover of “A Boy’s Own Story” in my hand. I’d sit and read in the library. There was the illicit thrill of discovery – of realising that I was not the only one who had felt what I felt, and wanted what I wanted. And that was oddly comforting, in a way.

As I grew up the works of White began to languish on my shelf. Who needs White? How irrelevant he was, and is, and how dreary! How else could they be, as the autobiographical works of an unhappy closeted gay adolescent growing up in the dull Midwest, whose final coming out coincided with the onset of the AIDS epidemic? No – now we have counselling to blunt the edge of difference, drugs to help with our unhappiness and our disease. Better to leave White – depressingly ironic – on the shelf, back in the closet.

We gays have had, and have, a short lifespan. We place heavy emphasis on youth and beauty – how many years do we have before our societal clock runs out, before we become bitter old queens, or settle down into pairs as bitter old dykes? Likewise, from birth (the liberation of the Stonewall rebellion) to death (the cruel plague of AIDS), the halcyon days lasted barely 30 years. And so it goes – no time even for thought. We don’t look back on the past – instead we look forward to the future (to the next Sunday night, the next trick, the next text message from so-and-so) with our credit cards, industrial-strength lubricants and razor-thin handphones.

But has this brevity led to a levity with which we treat ourselves? In our high-speed world, made higher by drugs, cigarettes and alcohol, have we lost the ability to feel serious things? And is this loss, well, serious?

Yes, and yes. We blunt the edge of sorrow and loneliness by surrounding ourselves with the sedating influence of bright disco lights and comforting chemicals. But in the long run this can only do ourselves harm. We become caricatures of ourselves – smiling, bright, beautiful, happy things. But empty things. And empty things with dangerous tendencies. People who don’t feel pain eventually grow numb to it, and stop realising that something is wrong – frogs boiled alive not knowing that the temperature of the water has slowly increased.

There is nothing wrong with living an accelerated life. But it is essential that we stop, and feel. When I reread The Beautiful Room Is Empty, the epigram struck me as particularly relevant. We enjoy what is on our skin, but our guts are unfeeling. And certainly we need to feel our guts wrench, from time to time, in order to retain our humanity. And that is why I am now rereading the works of Edmund White, to feel that pity in my guts, to innoculate myself from states of unfeeling.