Shoelaces are strings that only complicate your life

I went for my usual CIP session at Bishan Home last week. At the end of it all, I just wanted to cry.

S and I helped the residents with basic motor skills, and we were assigned to helping out with shoelace tying. I had particular difficulty with that, because in all my 9 years of shoelace enlightment I had only attempted bow tying, not threading it through the holes. Well, I didn't die from a fit, and within 10 minutes I was managing well, surprisingly.

It takes only a few minutes for 'normal' people to learn such trivial skills, but to these residents, we had to painstakingly explain to them; simple instructions, clear and slow and repetitive. Turn by turn they sat in front of us, innocent smiles and childlike curiosity, enthusiasm and questions galore.

"Jie jie", they tugged at my sleeve, "teach me how to tie my laces, ok?"

Then they eagerly sat themselves down, all eager and squirming with excitement. Mind you, they weren't children of 4 or 5, but grown men and women into their 50s. One of them took up a shoe marked "Ah Yong" and promptly started tugging at the laces to pry them loose. I was apprehensive at first, and wondered how I should even start telling them the right way to undo them, much less thread them in and do up the bows and the works.

"Cross them over. Yes, yes, that's right. Now make a small circle like this. No, no. Don't thread them through any hole you like." Each directive had to be accompanied by the corresponding action. Some got it, but some didn't. Even after we had demonstrated almost 5 times or so, and guided them through every hole, every cross, every loop and every knot.

And somehow I didn't get frustrated. I wanted to cry. Whether it was shame, or guilt, or happiness I do not know.

Because each of them gave me a forgotten smile, a smile that had always been lying dormant at the back of my vaguest memories, and now I saw it again, for the first time in many years. I had forgotten, because they weren't those Colgate ad smiles- in fact they were smiles pieced effortlessly out of decayed teeth, dentures, and missing teeth. A correct knot, a right step, a loop done well. Each of that was enough to earn a smile, and a kind of inexplicably simple glow in their eyes.

So complicatedly simple. Too difficult for me. All too natural for them.

And to think that once I could do it so easily. Little Cathy who loved to sing, who loved to play, who loved giving people toothless mischievous grins and who loved blowing kisses.

The woman Catherine who only smiles for ads with her straightened pearly whites. Who looks almost airbrushed pretty during photoshoots, simply cannot smile. All she does is cry. And cry. And go crazy.

"Jie jie! Jie jie! Look!" Their smiles almost wounded me. One held up a fully done up shoe, eyes turned into slits out of sheer joy.

They all had their shoes labelled, yet this didn't stop them from sharing them for the shoelace lesson. We're the weird ones. We're so unwilling to share what isn't marked in black and white. We take over lands, take over hearts, take over minds, and change a person completely, and they're not really "ours".

They colour, and I look over their work. It's all colourful, meticulously filled in with colours of their choice. And when I say their choice, I mean that they really do choose them at random. Blue for the face, red for the skin, purple and all else for the hair- a wild riot of all the wrong colours.

But who are we to say they're doing it all wrong? Maybe this is what they see in their hearts. No conformity; no convention, just uniqueness, just something taken out of an untainted heart and expressed on paper. How would you know this isn't the perfect, most idealistic way to see the world? To see us, not merely as people with the "right, normal" colours, but seeing ourselves as our hearts do.

But can I? Can I bring myself to? Can I stop this thing that wills me going mad?

I don't want to go crazy sometimes. Do you think it's fun to go delirious with goodness-knows-what emotions all jumbled and mixed in all the wrong proportions?

I don't want to grab that pack of medicine on my desk too. I want it all to stop.

I just want to be simple. You want me to be so.

So when I stop posting entries, you'll know I've changed for the simpler.

It's a bit like care bears having no one to care about, and end up sleeping in their own barf after a drinking binge...

"A" said he had a lot more people to care about. And that is why he has a lot of committments. I don't. I'm not afraid to admit it, because what's wrong with having no one to care about when they're so screwed up anyway?

I told him he's lucky; at least there are people who are worth his time, and he can erase any trace of lonliness when he's with them. Not so for me. It wasn't like that all along though. I did have people I cared about. Hey, I'm not a loner, you know.

It started with my grandma, my parents, and my nannies. I was always smiling, singing, and sucking up to anyone in sight, whereupon they would be taken in by my fat concentration and ironically offer me more candies. The more they found me adorable, the more fat-inducing substances they gave. Well, I was a fat kid then. They cared, and of course, with all my little heart, I cared too.

But when you're in an all girls secondary school when you're fat, not so dandy, and you're 13, and getting your first period was an extremely frightening thing, you won't want to care. I didn't care about them, nah, I just cared about what was being said behind my back. It hurt, and till now, it still does. When I'm smiling for the camera for yet another modelling audition, sometimes I still catch a brief glimpse of a fat little girl in the camera lens. And I feel like crying. Not for her, but rather for myself.

I've had people whom I didn't realise I cared about, till they were long gone. They cared about me, but I was always blind, deaf and dead to them. Till they themselves passed on, did I start caring. To one, I was a special student and a good girl. To one, a favourite niece to lavish treats and gifts on. To one, a true friend whom he loved and never could forget. To all 3, I'm just a sorry being, being played around by time, beguiled by people, swept around by my own confusion.

When these 3 are gone, how could I have anyone left to care about? When A himself can afford to love himself, and to divide his love among the people he has to care for, how is it highly possible that I can afford to understand, and to try to love? When I'm blamed largely for his negative changes, how can I be expected to smile, and say it's ok, when I know it isn't? I'm not a saint, not an angel, not perfect. I am mortal Man, no, woman. Blood and flesh are in me. Desires and lusts lurk within, evil intentions are being brewed indefinitely.

I want to be good. But see, a woman's fury is what I possess. And I'm tired. I don't think real life is like complex numbers, where impossible integers exist and you can manipulate them on paper and get tangible answers. I can always invent imaginary friends and care about them. I can even choose their genders, their names, their ages, their thoughts, which isn't bad.

No thanks. They'd all be like me. And we might end up killing one another.

We need duct tape

Mamasan,

I am writing to inform you about your stupidity, your brash cruelty and your senselessness in the treatment of your only daughter.

Firstly, it has been brought to my attention (and many others' too) that you have a particular habit of excessively criticising and putting her down. Your daughter is not butt ugly; in fact, she is a model who has lots of assignments pending. She has better than average skin, and her nose, not least her chest, is not as flat as you claim it to be. She has been a high achiever, so I would appreciate it if you would stop comparing her to her incompetent godsister who is well endowed with bitchiness and airheadedness. Your daughter, I am pleased to note, has both absolute and comparative advantage in both beauty, intellect and character.

Secondly, your daughter is not a commodity to be traded off on the marriage market. She has already chosen to be with Mr. K. Please respect her decision and stop being ashamed of her choice. Please do not mention wealthy young men who are due to lay hands on a huge inheritance, to her. Your daughter loves for love, not for money, cash, diamonds or other crap that rich men can offer. They cannot gratify your daughter. She has huge capacities for non-losers. Since you have shown an interest in these men, you are welcome to divorce your daughter's father and be a rich man's old momma anytime.

Thirdly, please allow her to take control over her own life. You have already interfered to the maximum possible extent and she does not require further intervention. She has expressed a keen interest in psychology and philosophy, and has dreams of teaching, modelling and acting. She has shown competence in these aspects, so do not expect her to major in accounting, law, or computer science. In the first place, she is currently an arts student. If you so desire to major in those, maybe you could enter university and dispose of your Bachelor of Science, Fisheries. I also wish to inform you that your major is gradually becoming obsolete- your educational attainment is as good as none.

Therefore, I would like to seek your kind co-operation in trying to change for the better. Otherwise, I will be compelled to take action against you. You will not like it.

Fuck off.

Mine most truthfully,
your daughter.

I'll help you with the noose if you can't get it round your ass

The entry below is taken from the diary of a confused member of the human race, a victim of her own shallow devices, and slave to her bimbotic, coquettish nature.

"I've proved to myself that I can be likeable (and almost popular) if I try hard enough. I should be happy, right? Not really. Which kinda bothers me. I get the attention, I get the gossip (not that I want any of it) and I'm in 'the group' of the class.

But really, it fuckin' bores the skulls out of me. (An expression derived from 'I will fuck your skull' from the movie, Addicted to Love.) Like my previous post, everything that comes out of their mouths is related to sex. Sex, sex, and more sex. Jeez! Why don't we just have one big orgy and be over and done with it? (I'm totally kidding of course, I'm saving my virginity to my lucky/unlucky husband to be).

My friends' lack of 'substance' suprises me. I look at them and they look so 'adult' like they should know better than me. But I often wonder if they are even capable of having a decent conversation. Decent I mean, not using the words fuck, sex, cock, dick, balls & pussy. I can never ever tell them any personal stuff/details. To them, nothing is private. I feel like they really don't like each other but stick together anyways because there's power in numbers. I'm such a hypocrite, I know. But at least I'm not a back stabber. I don't spill private/personal details about them or talk behind their back. I'm just complaining about their attitudes.

M once told me that you attract people who are like you. That your friends are a reflection of your own personality. Am I like that? Have I become them? Am I them? God, I hope not. I read books cohesively, I'm an English Literature student, a Biology student, a Head Prefect, cheerleading captain...I mean, all that has got to have some worth, right?"

The disgusted and disgruntled author of this blog, and as the extremely exasperated godsister of the above, says:

Firstly, M is wrong. You attract people who are like you? Oh, then can he explain the stupid guys who abuse the English language, who torment it with bad diction, batter it with incorrigible pronunciation and accost it with such gusto, who used to go after me? Maybe THE SISTER attracts a different species. I don't know. M must be overgeneralizing. He won't go far in life.

Secondly, procreation is an integral part of life, and you can't stop anyone from spewing out the sex lingo, my dear Shakespeare fan. I hereby say, with enthusiastic reverie, "OH FUCK. SHIT. BALLS. PUSSY. DICK. COCK. CUNT-RY RETREAT." I have such an extensive language of the lingo, not because I'm vulgar, but because I read Shakespeare and Wycherley and other Elizabethan and Jacobean authors. If you were such a hardcore Literature student as you claim you are, how come you don't know that William Shakespeare was a dirty and explicit writer? Some of his plays are downright bawdy and crude, with sexual puns and jests punctuating most scenes?
As in Measure for Measure, it has been mentioned that Angelo turns horny when he sees the pure innocent nun, Isabella, because he says this, "My sense breeds with it." In case you, my dear Literature student, are now reading this with horrified gasps, spluttering with indignance, I shall make the brief effort to explain. Simply put, Shakespeare means Angelo's got a huge erection and he can't help but fantasize about defiling her. Defile? What's that? It means he wants to make her dirty because he's just a fucking big fetish about nuns and thier chastity.

You're just a big shallow pit. There's more to life than this. THIS SHIT that you're living. Geesh. You're like Mamasan.

Some worth? Only if you made good of those opportunities which passed you by. Head Prefect. Cheerleader. Biology student. English Literature student.

What's so great about those? I was a prefect. A cheerleader. A straight A student. An English Literature student. A Geography student. An Economics student. A Math student. But through all that I managed to learn. I don't need to be popular. I don't need to be the hot topic of the day. I'm just me, at the end of it all. Me. I'm insignificant. I don't need to get famous purposely. I ride on the waves of fame only when chance is the wind behind it.

I am a poster ad model. I'm constantly in demand by clients.

But still I do know, it's love and the strength inside that will tide me over. Because I've lived my life. I've searched for the meaning. Asked questions that I can't answer. And to this day I haven't found the answers.

Maybe it's time you stopped looking. I did.

Go figure. Go hang yourself. Bitch.

Maybe I'll admit it, I'm a little better

Compare and contrast the following 2 extracts, taken from 2 distinct blogs. Paying special attention to the language and traits of the two characters/writers, write a critical appreciation. (25m)

Extract 1

Stuff I want you guys to know about me. It's about time I let people know what I did/do.

• My PSLE aggregate is 239 and I scored an A* in English.
• My 'O' Levels score is 13 with distinctions in English and Math.
• I have a Diploma in Mass Communications.
• I'm a hardcore literature student. I took pure English Literature in high school and I can understand Shakespeare pretty well.
• I love to read. And I'm not talking about Shopaholic (although I heard it's a good book). To name a few, my favourite novels are by Elizabeth Wurtzel, Chuck Palahniuk and Jostein Gaarder.
• I read weeklys like Newsweek, Time and The Economist.
• I enjoy watching documentaries on Discovery Channel and National Geographic paying particular interest in archeology and science.
• I have fully functioning brain. So don't call me stupid

NB: The above writer is a graduate of Ang Mo Kio Secondary School, has 6 'O' level subjects to her name, and is currently a student at a private institution, MDIS.

Extract 2

I don't actually need you guys to know this, since these are all pretty mundane and banal tasks any junior college student can complete effortlessly. No fuss. No frills.

• My PSLE aggregate is 262, with 2A*s and 2As, plus a distinction in Higher Chinese
• I got admitted to a premier girls school, CHIJ St. Nicholas Girls' School, where I graduated with 10 'O' Level distinctions, with a score of 5 points.
• I continued on my quest, gaining admission to Raffles Junior College, the top JC in Singapore, dubbed as the 'gateway to the Ivy League'
• I'm a hardcore Literature student too. I took Literature for 4 years in secondary school, and because my passion for it was too ardent, I continued with my Literature studies into JC2. I can understand Shakespeare well, as well as other Elizabethan and Jacobean writers. Still a big headache though.
  
• I don't read. Because of the lack of time juggling my academics, and other school-based and private committments, I only read the Straits Times daily, TIME once a week and my Economics notes.
  
• My favourite novels are The Country Wife by William Wycherley, Measure for Measure by Shakespeare, poems by Robert Frost, The Duchess of Malfi by John Webster, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, and The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston.
• I have no time for documentaries. Because the school already offers us the opportunity to delve into the depths of higher knowledge.
• sometimes my brain doesn't function well as I would like it to. Well, I'm a JC student. How can you expect me to care about such trivial matters? My brain is reserved for pure knowledge to attain beneficial wordly truths of economics, math, geography and literature.

NB: The writer is none other than the writer of this blog. All facts stated are true to the best of my knowledge.