Morning Pleasure: breaking into a new day at East Coast

One of the joys of living in Singapore might be coming to the East Coast park at day break and catching the sun rising over the South China Sea and Singapore Straits. Just as well, any one might prefer the view out of their window where they are, or perhaps peering upwards from a coffeshop table or McDonald's outlet located in the heartland. But these days, one of my lifestyle perks is getting up before daybreak - a habit from my earliest working days after dropping a shift-lifestyle of irregular hours - and finding a great reason not to snooze and wake up three hours or more later. That one great draw for me used to be hitting the gym at the Hyatt. But recently renovated and re-branded as part of the international hotel chain's new Spa business, the fitness centre at Grand Hyatt Singapore is designed to meet the business traveller's needs and not those of an established base of life or period members. So, I dramatically lost the incentive to get up and get going. Instead, if I did not mind the mass-market madness or students, executives and muscle-Marys, the workout equipment available at California Fitness are ideal. It's a wildly different crowd of gym-bods and bodyworshippers which one will have to get comfortable with. Anyway, it failed to be a great reason to get me out of bed and going there. But the one reason I could get out of bed for was catching the earliest light off Singapore's east coast, at the park which ran all along the south-east coastline. I would either cycle, inline skate, stroll, jog (seldom, as I dislike hardground to run on), or best - get my 16 oz cup of Starbucks brew and hook up on the free Internet wifi access point and update my blog, clear my emails and best of all, watch the crowd come in and go. Now, I could only do this as a jobless bloke in a highly employed Singapore society. But the government has just revised the country's economic forecast downwards, with the GDP expected to be falling as well. So, I think I can expect more company for coffee hereafter, and safely consider that at least the sunrise remains sublimely glorious and always something to look forward to, even as I hog the same spot with my endless refills inside the coffeeshop while my computer struggles with catching up on my typing emails, blog updates and other literary triffle anyone might cared less for. Thus the only thing that forces me to wait these days are the queues for coffee and my Internet Explorer 8 beta that constantly reports "Not Responding" when what it really means (as with all Vista O/S applications), "Please wait as your software application is being processed by your CPU." Thanks to some engineer who wrote the codes and alerts but is not a great communicator, Microsoft now has this silly alert tagged on all its applications that say "Not Responding", which is a misnomer. The CPU eventually catches up and the application will not hang. What should have been used is what was used before: "Please wait." or "Your application is now running..." or "Please let your computer complete the last processes." or somesuch. No wonder so many good folks running Vista think it sucks. The application may be slow, but the alert tag vocabulary may have been written by an alien...

EAST COAST TO CHANGI BEACH: Contemplation Ride

Why do we take long rides on our bikes, at the burst of dawn? There are a whole lot of road bike enthusiasts who take to the East Coast service road at the break of the day and you can see them in groups in their roadie outfits and Oakleys. I once viewed these riders with disdain, because they were always so swift, so confident on their bikes, and sometimes, it looked like they defied all sense of gravity and care from the way they sped along. You get the sense the car drivers ought to be careful and these roadies might enjoy their right of way. Yet, too often, I find Singapore drivers not particularly careful enough about bike riders. They over take in the opposite lanes even when they have full view of the road bikes coming right at time in the opposite direction. One lorry driver did exactly this, and waved his hand in apology as he overtook, knowing fully well he was in the wrong. I wonder if he would be just as casual if he had knocked the bicyclist down - being in the wrong lane, at the wrong time. But any dead cyclist would never be able to defend himself. The law should be simple. Any collision with a motorcyclist or bicyclist by a motorist should by default put the latter at fault. Afterall, a cyclist or a motorcyclist is unprotected, and the laws of physics make it clear - these road users cannot instantly brake the way cars or larger vehicles can absord the kinetic energy and come to a quick rest. With ABS, more car drivers are becoming less and less aware of the need for braking distance. I was on the same park service road this morning and noticed a large dark blue Toyota Camry driven by a lady coming in from the Marine Parade flyover. She halted at the road turning into the service road - a required stop. But even as she could see my bike coming straight pass her, she ignored my bike and moved her car directly across my lane, then looked left to check for oncoming traffic. This was completely unsafe and improper but there were no cameras or traffic cop to make her aware of her bad driving habit. It seems that unless you are on a bike yourself, then only you get to notice these sort of bad driving habits. The current Traffic Police sponsored message to drivers is to "Look Out..." for other road users. Yes, but they need to add: "two-wheeled vehicles like bikes and other unprotected road users need time to brake and stop; motorists need to be careful to give them way if necessary". But the apparent dangers that these frustrating observations about dangerous road use behaviour aside, the thrill of being open to the wind and feel the raw speed envelop you as you get into gear and take off is one simple reason we all cycle. The dissassociative sights and sounds of the early morning along East Coast is a plus, and for some, the draw. Ultimately, if you have great machine, the efficiency technology brings to your experience is another draw. My TREK Project One bike is fitted out to make that an ultimate experience, and this morning, I found myself staddling the bike with the arrowbars and taking in the distance from East Coast to Changi beach via the Park Connector like a thirsty barfly quenching down his Guinness... Before long, I am at the familiar northern-most end of the bike trail, and turn south-east. At Changi beach, I must make pilgrimage and pause at bench no. 9, where I remember sitting with Jordan just two years ago, and thinking how peaceful the place was. At 9am, the tide reached the high of the morning, and the water became flat. Ideal for a sea swim, but I will save that for tomorrow, perhaps. I looked around the area, and contemplated the peace, calm and cheerfulness. From the bench where we once sat together, I can see the very spot where out in the open waterway, we had put him to rest. The water is flat, this morning, broken only by the barges and water taxis (bumboats) that still trudge that way. The birds are busy chirping overhead, with the waves gently breaking on the shoreline, and I get this very pleasant sense of quiet joy and warmth - knowing full well, that the ones we love who are gone before us, must surely know a far better peace than even this which we can find here on earth.

ABOUT THOSE SAND TOOLS - DETAILS

About the tools Chris and I were using in the picture featured in my earlier post, I just needed to add some details about its material texture. Those kid's sand box tools were made of a soft rubber material in off-white cream colour, with lovely veins of maroon and grey spiralling through the instrument's handles. The rubbery feel has a very comforting touch which was soft and cool. It helped that things such as these were made to last as much as the technology and materials of those times would permit. Eventually, after some abuse, I remember those toys breaking, and it was with some fury. This is the sensory fact: people who decidedly throw such materials are eroding the memories attached to the very things we played with, wore and used. Unless we put some of these into the chests available in our hearts and minds, as treasury of happy memories and feelings to draw upon whenever we chose, we are destroying the gift of time and experience but removing useful aids to our recollection. The ancient Jews, we read in their bible, therefore were often urged by their prophets, to recollect through rituals and gatherings, readings and bodily scars (circumcision), to constantly put before them the experience of their ancestors in their covenant with God. For this reason, I think we need to know what we ought to keep, and not indulge in the premature fear of prolonged grief to remove all memory and sensory relics of the people precious to us. What I found disgusting was the way my mother's wardrobe and personal effects were hastily removed out of the house she lived in, and the people who were doing these had spent even less of their lives with her than I. Worse was to see my father passively stand by as this was done. It remains his nature to be stoic and passive about such things and it is a mystery how he must think - for I am not sure that he can clearly distinguish between the keeping of things with memory attached to it (sentimental value) and those which are kept with the hope of future utility (utilitarian value). Memory is a very vital human aspect of being. I hope those who care less about such might someday understand what it is like to care for another who suffer from Alzhiemer's where the brain wastes away and memory is stolen as the cells die off.

THIS SON ON THE BEACH - ANOTHER EARLY MEMORY

Here is another early memory I can put a date to because of notes made at the back of the photograph in my father's hand. It was 13 December 1967 at Tanah Merah. I remember this visit to Changi Beach, which had casuarina trees lining the roads and somewhere near the beach itself, there was an esplanade of sort, in concrete with steps cut inbetween the balustrades which ran down to the beach. The beach itself was a narrow strip of sand, and I remember it was already close to noon by the time we were allowed to "play sand". I was already on the wet sand when someone called from behind to get the spade, bucket and trowel. I remember that as the littlest, I had the trowel shoved to me, because my brother Chris knew better that the spade would be the right tool for digging. I could scrape the sand, and before long I could dig a hole. But I was easily bored and after a while, I felt it was pointless making a hole. But I looked around and could see a great many people strolling into the beach and having a splashing time. There was even some dark-skinned boys with a large rubber tube. I looked up to beyond the balustrades and remember the ice cream bells being rung by vendors, adults smoking with fashionable sunglasses on, and the best of all, where those spiny long frangipani leaves and flowers. I remember looking desolate and bored, and peered mostly down at my small Japanese togs or sandals. These were blue in colour, and white on the soles. They were still fairly new and I would wear these down in the coming year.

What struck me was that in the car drive to the beach, I remember the food packed for the picnic which was in the car booth, and sitting in the new plastic of my father's car which had a transparent cover. Oddly, while I know my mother was around, I never could remember seeing her at the beach picnic itself, just my brother Chris, father and some of his friends (or colleagues?).

But this was to be just one of several visits to the beach. When I was older, I remember strolling and collecting shells and bits along the wet banks at low tide off Bedok beach. It was late in the afternoon circa 1970-1, and a sharp piece of shell pierced my right sole, and embedded itself there painfully. It took my mother's firm hand and a heated needle to eventually free the debris from under the skin, and blood oozed out. Instead of more pain, the relief was so immediate that the pain of extraction was overcome and forgotten.

I like to imagine that all little children would love to have their memories back if they could; I think that way because I recollect many of my earliest memories with clarity and unusual vividness. These are a treasure trove in my mind's urn, pearls and gems to be cherished till my own mind will fail and all things fade to dust. These, little those stars in the opalescent night, shine still suite bright and are constellations in my recollections of my happy boyhood, and a caring mother's hand ever nearby to comfort, heal and nourish.

A BIRTHDAY AND A HOLIDAY - SIX TO FORTY-FOUR, AND AS EARLY AS THREE

I had a happy birthday, day before yesterday, and it was a good one. You tend to think of special days and holidays as "celebrations", often associated with a gathering of friends or family, or food and drink, gifts and going to places you want to remember or re-live. It is about creating new memories and recollecting great ones. The first birthday party I ever remembered was when I was six (1970), just after my brother Chris, and the cake was baked by our mother. It was the same rainbow butter cake - except my brother Chris had more chocolate veins and mine had strawberry veins with chocolate. The cake had butter icing on it and I remember how she had baked it the day before, and in the evening got down to the icing on a smallish nickel cake stand which could be rotated. She had made trellises on the edges, and down the sides in lines, careful to add the hem at the bottom last so that it would be over the others. Then there were silver sugar coated balls, like ball-bearings, which she had dropped as pearls on the top of little buds of icing she had put all around the cake. There was even a silver cake board, which for some reason I associated only with bought cakes. So, even as I was puzzled about this detail, I imagined my mother's cake to be as good as any we would have bought from the store. Perhaps, just being six years old then, I would have already sensed that something we bought with money cost more than something we made at home. I loved the butter cake or pound cake as she called it, and when she had done with the icing, Chris and I could lick the spatula and brown ceramic icing bowl clean. Then my mother would put the cake, all dolled up, on the cake stand which would sit on an inverted saucer in a plate lightly filled with water. This was to create a moat trap for any wandering ant, while the large food net with a wire loop would keep the flying bugs away. The following day, in the afternoon, the furniture around the house would be re-arranged for the party, which would be my first. Arrangements would be quite the same as Chris', and I would now be quite prepared for what will take place. There would be orange squash, and we would all be dressed up, my hair slick with Brycream, or some greenish goo from this Lavender brand which came in a small pumpkin shaped fluted jar with a round gold cap. Fortunately, I had a keen sense of smell, and many of my early childhood memories are laced with smells I remember. Now, the other neighbourhood children arrive and there are two girls I like, and if you ever looked at the pictures, you need not guess which of them I liked more... But my earliest birthday memory was when I was just about three (1967), when Christopher celebrated his birthday. I knew it was his birthday because my father took a photograph of him first while I was held back behind the camera. Then after his shot was taken, I was gingerly positioned next to him, little and made akimbo, which was a really silly pose. But I was very happy and remembered the whole scene and on-goings. I remember the black-white striped pockets which I dug my tiny hands into. More importantly, I remember my mother's ployester blue dress with the little white embrodiery reindeer prancing around her like a carousel. It is very strange how these memories are structured, and we have vivid visual recollection of meaningless details while we forget other elements which might matter more. But it is important to recall that I was only 2 years eleven months old when these things took place, and I remember other details which I cannot put to a date without the aid of some evidence such as notes on an old photograph. Children will always remember their mothers on these special days; similarly godmothers and fathers on baptisms and so forth. My brothers who married - I wonder - will they remember also what my mother said and did for them, when their anniversaries come around, or will their own anxiety and those of their wives make up more of their recollections, and the small part actors are made up of the rest of us. Why do these memories matter? Perhaps, because in obvious and latent ways, we are made up of these influences. I did not cherish my birthdays as much now: for since I ever was, this is my first birthday without that other key player in my life, who was the key player in the drama 44 years ago in the old Kandang Kerbau Hospital where she was in labour for half the day. I remember my mother talking about the stitches she had just giving birth to me and I wonder about how she had endured giving birth to all four of my brothers and I, and possibly surviving the personal grief of a miscarriage or two. She is now gone; all too quickly. In the last seven months when she battled cancer and had to confront her own mortality, it left too little opportunity for us to ever talk or reminisce of these happier events we shared, even though my part in such times would be that of the minor, as I was indeed. A minor player in these parts, we who are less preoccupied by the roles and speeches, are often better spectators than players. I suspect this was to be so true that my own calling would become manifest when I found my own voice through writing.

Of Loyalty and Longing

I turned 44. Cosmically, it was at 2223 last evening, 1 October.

The age seemed less an issue after 40, and perhaps, because by then, most of your friends are hovering around the big Four-O, and cannot be too quick to solemnize your aging or mid-life phenomena. Fortunately, everyone is also aging better these days, and we are not popping off like flies because of cardiac arrest just three decades ago, like the typical Monday morning executive death syndrome. Unsaturated fat and an improved understanding of what that does is all to thank for.

This birthday, I noticed that the bulk of junk mail I greeted with glee (in lieu of opening absent presents), are the mass of loyalty mailers that flood at this time. "To celebrate your special day" one offered foot scrubs and food discounts all on the same page. Another tempts with 50% off full price items. Another, a $389 dollar fitness and spa deal at just $38. There is something superstitously convenient about those dollar numbers, if you are into numerology.

But the thing is that these stuff do work. A good deal is a good deal and all you have to decide is to let yourself be seduced into whatever weak motivation might exist for you to be "pampered" by a sale, a purchase, or another book on the shelf.

What was therapeutically positive was having envelopes in the mail which felt thick and solid, and from "leading brand names" that make you feel remembered, while especially knowing that these were not bills or from the credit companies. But careful there. If you are not careful, you will get to hear from those bill collectors, coming approximately one solar month after your indulgence to bring you straight back into therapy.

You might just long for that break from all this, right.

Well, here is the catch which we all learnt from the Screwtape Letters. The devil knows just how to turn the screw, and get us all aleaping into the fire from the pan. The belief is that we all "need a break", need a treat.

The trick - we have all yet to learn - is just to need less, and live less. Live with less. Can't be that hard, right. Well, when you do, you just find all these loyalty messages and mailers are just great jokes that come by annually, and take them for exactly what they are: automatically generated by some computer programme while using up some energy and material resources just to help the world's economic cogwheel which runs on vanity to turn one more round, and with your help in lending it the next turn. Is there an opt out option? It's in the longing, but meanwhile, we are like that tight spring within the heart of the whole mechanism of economic life that needs to give a twist and turn. Otherwise, like the wound-up clock, we will fall silent and forgotten, being of little "economic" use.