How do we live our lives in our sleeping, soft, silent, subtle, dreaming moments, when they shatter as we wake? How do we explain our lives to the people that fill it in our waking moments, when they can't reach us where we sleep?

I can't believe that people live like this, half-lives, half-asleep, half dreaming.  I can't believe that I used to live like this.

Philosophy of Spending

I know I haven't posted in a while. I'm in transit. Emotionally, geographically, and mentally.

Anyway, I wanted to capture this thought I caught while washing dishes in the kitchen sink. After a 2 hour long conversation with Mum that I developed my own philosophy of spending. (My mum can have that effect on me sometimes...) This will probably change my life, or at least, change how I see things. Then again, maybe not, maybe it's nothing different from how I saw things before.

I have now 3 defined rules for money well-spent against which I will assess all my purchases:

1. Money is well spent when it saves me time. Either immediately, or on products that are the outcome of significant time spent, time that I cannot spend myself. Examples are: medical expertise, a locksmith, house cleaning services, pseudo-instant food when I am hungry (up to a certain taste threshold).
2. Money is well spent when significant effort and heart is obviously placed into an object or service, effort or attention that I am either unable or unwilling to place. Examples are: A dinner at Heston Blumenthal's The Fat Duck, tickets to a play with actors that I really like, one-of-a-kind crafted bags at Greenwich market or Etsy.com, a book written by a favourite author, a concert with Tori Amos, organically farmed eggs and meat.
3. Money is not well spent when an object or service fits into a particular lifestyle, however sought after, that isn't mine. Examples are: Jamie Oliver's Flavour Shaker (what are jars for?), Le Creuset pots (I can't lift them, I can't use them), Louis Vuitton bags and wallets (mass-produced, expensive efforts to look like Japanese housewives)

I made the striking realization that actually, 95% of my purchases comply with the newly realized (not discovered) philosophy. My purchases rank pretty high, I suppose, on the purity scale.

What is value, after all? I find myself asking myself that a lot recently, especially after my job keeps telling me that we're all on the corporate hunt to create "value", as if "value" is another object to quantify and multiply. Is value that mysterious meme that once sown like a seed, sprouts its produce at the end of the fiscal cycle?

No, I think to find what "value" is, we first have to ask the Adam Smith of all economic questions, which is "Why do we trade?" Why do we buy, instead of do it ourselves? And textbook though that might be, we trade because it's either incredibly difficult or impossible for us to do or make what we're buying, or simply that it saves us time to buy rather than to DIY. So thinking in terms of units - units of my own blood, sweat and tears - do I work to gain back Time that I can spend on enjoying the little bit that I have left after work? Do I work to touch and reach an ephemeral craftmanship that I cannot in my little life aspire towards? Or do I work to fit into a lifestyle in which I do not currently live?

Many people fall for #3 I think. Which is, in thinking about it, wanting to spend wealth on the appearance of being wealthy. An effort to make a statement about having arrived whilst still travelling to the destination.

And I suspect, though I am not there yet, having spoken to everyone who are (apparently) already there - that the fun really is in the journey.

[Ed: I do have to add one more rule, because this falls somewhere between the cracks, and yet is important - Money is also well-spent when it enables another to either save time, or frees up heart/effort into a cause that resonates with you. Examples are: charities that we care for, gifts to friends and family and other gestures of altruism.

Sometimes, the "value" that we are apparently all in search of (says the corporate world) does not stop with the value we generate for ourselves. As I read in an obscure article in one of the back-pages of a back-issue of The Economist - we live in an interdependent world, where through a network of interactions, a positive energy can ripple back to benefit ourselves. Not, of course, that it is why we do what we do.

A Game of You

If I could offer one nugget of wisdom that I've learnt so far, the kind that dawns on you at 3am in the morning, the kind that makes sense passing on to your kids - it would be that Life is like a chess game that you play with yourself, and one that is best played strategically.

It dawned on me (as these thoughts do, while I was doing the dishes) that the reason why my parents loved telling me as a child about what they felt I should do with my life, was because as time passes, and the more decisions you made, the more locked into your decisions you are. That certain doors opened close many others for good. That children never realize the severity of how locked in people become as time passes, because for them, having made few decisions of import in their lives, all doors are open, all pages are blank, all possibilities endless. And as humans, we instinctively draw on 20/20 hindsight, and the irrepressible desire to turn back time and re-write our histories.

This doesn't mean I condone parents attempting to make decisions for their kids - their pages are written, let their kids write their own - but that I now understand the human spectator instinct to look upon the life of another and desire to signpost the here-be-dragons in front of some doors, and document through stories and shared experience the folklore of doors that will close when others are opened.

It would be great if we all had that special ability that Nicholas Cage had in "Next", when he could explore the next few seconds of every possibility in his life before making a move. A genius ex of mine once tried to tell me that life had to be played strategically, and I think I ran, screaming, in the opposite direction. The thought was horrifying, that you should pick your job, your degree, your spouse... strategically. What about personal desire? What about love? What about following your heart?

And ten years later (OK, so I'm a slow burner in the thought process on this one...) I realise that he is right. It's not exactly a bleak thought. In the game of chess, some people find themselves able to play to win without certain pieces. Some neglect their bishops. Others give up their knights quickly, never quite understanding the subtlety of the sideways movements of the piece, but would fight to the death before they lose their rooks. In the strategic game of chess as life, the only strategy worth pursuing, after all, is towards the goal of winning the game as you define in.

What about love? What about following your heart, or your mind? What does capturing your opponent's king look like? And what about destiny? Do those that believe in fate see only one side of the game being played, the side that is being played against them?

I've realised that I've inadvertently castled my king early on without really understanding why I'd want to do that, that I've lost many pawns, would fight to the death before I give up my queen, and have sent knights to the slaughter. I've learnt that by playing a game of chess with someone, you can not only learn a lot about the inner workings of their mind, whether they know it or not, but also about yourself. It's a meditation, not a game of win or lose.

Each piece has it's purpose, it's meaning, it's place.

• The King is the point of the game, the meaning of life. But you define what the point of the game is.
• The Queen is intellect and intelligence. It's power, of mind, of spirit, of personality.
• The Knights are relationships and emotion, they are subtle, not straightforward, potentially difficult to control or understand.
• The Bishops are cunning, politics, manipulation - moving sideways to get at what you want. They're necessary, and everywhere. They are likely to blind-side you when you least expect it, but turn up anyway.
• The Rooks are force of power, anger or brute force, direct and honest. They work opposite to the bishops, and are still a force to be reckoned with.
• The Pawns are the waypoints and milestones - the individual certificates, degrees and job choices we put forward, hopefully to get us to where we want to go. They are marriage and children, family and friends.

If your glass is half-empty, you might say that no matter how you play it, you'll never win. If your glass is half-full, you might say that regardless whether black or white wins, in the game you play with yourself, you will end up picking the winning side.

Really Deep Thoughts... (or not)

While we're on the topic, this is what keeps me up at night (all the real work I do thinking I do either when in the shower or when washing dishes).

Why are plates mostly round?
Do goldfish have friends if they remember only 5 minutes of their lives at a time?Who named the seasons Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter?
What happens to clothes nobody wants to wear when you recycle them?
Why does ice freeze white and not other colours when water is transparent? Does that mean white is the ultimate colour?
What time did Christ really die? Is it really at 3pm when Good Friday mass times usually are?
How do people know that Christ died on a Friday and rose on a Sunday? Isn't the third day technically Monday?
What does Easter mean?
Why do we never see black flowers but see black/dark brown trees and wood?
Do dogs not dream of chasing rabbits, eating pie and other naughty things when they dream?
Who decided that Saturday and Sunday were to be commonly accepted weekends? Why not Friday and Saturday in some countries as is normal, or Sunday and Monday?
Why did we end up using visual as our primary sense when our sight isn't actually really that good?

"How Happy" Part 2

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
-- Alexander Pope, "Eloisa to Aberlard"

How odd that of all posts on the blog, not that many of them are of any real value, this is the most read, most commented post! How... curious.

I wonder if there are that many of us searching for innocence (since it can't be that the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was that big a movie hit starring Jim Carrey...) that we cease to find what makes us happy, and content ourselves only with the pleasure of the search?

If it is indeed true that ignorance is bliss (a short form translation of Alexander Pope's sarcasm in all it's glory) then are we truly seeking bliss through ignorance? I cannot allow myself to believe that. I would rather search for something than nothing - I would be first to admit that I believe in a Greater Being (let's codename that "God") because to believe in nothing at all is a dismal, bleak, meaningless prospect.

I am of the viewpoint that 3 year olds and very clever, wise people have one thing in common - they know how to ask a simple question: "Why?" (The value of this has nothing to do with the capacity to drive parents nuts with one word... over-ridden only by the power of another word, "No", with more punch per alphabet value, but barely...)

That eternal sunshine of the spotless mind must come down like the tropical climate of the Seychelles - somewhere very few people are, where very many people want to go.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? On my part, I think I'd like to meet someone who doesn't like beach holidays. Someone who thinks having nothing to do and drinking pina coladas all day sounds like the perfect idea of torture. I'd love to meet someone with an eternal snowstorm of a curious mind. Someone who wakes me up at 2am in the morning with strange musings (like: do goldfish have friends if they remember only 5 minutes of their lives at a time?) that keep me up at night staring at the stars.

What is the weirdest thing you've ever wondered about? Were you happy thinking about them? Or did you put it away, in your saving-up-for-a-holiday-box, to bring yourself back to more practical matters?

The Narnia Code

Every now and then, I come across something that wakes up a part of me that's gone to sleep. Today was one such moment. I'd stumbled across The Narnia Code, a BBC documentary about Michael Ward, who'd made what would probably be termed as one of the most fascinating literary discoveries in recent history. I'd daresay it was compelling, and also the type of discovery to catch on faster than a new Robert Frost poem, thanks to the huge movie'ability of the Narnia Chronicles.

I've not read all 7 books of the Narnia Chronicles, I must admit. Or at least, although I can remember reading the full Lord of the Rings twice over as a kid, I remember only vague snippets of the Narnia Chronicles. I feel sure that I was fed the kind of literary diet as a child that would not have missed out these books, but at the same time, it joined the childhood stream of consciousness together with Sandman graphic novels, Norse mythology, Aesop's fables and other odd bits and pieces of information-that-nobody-knows-much-of-anymore.

So imagine my pleasant surprise coming across this documentary and learning that a secret, "third layer" of CS Lewis's subtle plan in the Narnia Chronicles was drawn from precisely the "stream of consciousness" that once made up common knowledge of people before CS Lewis's time.

Do I agree with CS Lewis? Yes, I do. Whole-heartedly. And why not? His ideas are so much more seductive, so much more enticing than the alternatives that I'm presented with by modern science and modern fact.

Watch the documentary - it's a not-so-long download on cable, and for a 250mb wait, if it sparks in you a wanting to believe, if it gives you something else to look forward to besides the end of the weekend - then it would have been worth the while.

(If Wei Chean could watch this documentary, I think she would be very edified in her long held love of CS Lewis's work.)

Incredulous
Upon watching The Narnia Code, a documentary on Planet Narnia by Michael Ward on CS Lewis's unifying theme of the seven mythological planets in his Narnia Chronicles.

Someone told me something I already knew, and had forgotten.
I know you are not the universe.
The universe is matter and mechanism, materialism,
The physical - you held me in your arms, I knew
You held a body, not a self, a discarded image
Of surreal to real, dreams to dust.

No longer do we share intimately a knowledge of the ties that bind
Us, universally drawing you from you, me from me,
That Tuesday was for war, and Friday for love,
That we know more than we know, and remember more than fact.
If it's only untrue, but beautiful, then tell me lies,
I want my sky lit with more than coloured dust.

I'd forgotten that Hope was not reserved for children, and
Dreams for courage and fairytales, that a book could lift
A mind beyond what was possible - we should all read -
And my heart would dare to think, that
I could look upon the stars and see a being
Far greater than you or I. Imagine that.

February Snow

First day of work back from a warm vacation and it's blanketed by a white layer of fluffy snow. It's been the coldest yet for the UK in over a decade, with the heaviest snowfall in around 18 years. In the meantime, the dog came back with a cold and is sneezing, and so am I.

But I'm welcoming the white. For the first time I've been in this part of England, there is a thick 4" of snow on the ground, and more is still falling. Continuously. Previous experiences have always been with a disappointing touch of icing that melts faster than you can say "it's snowing!".

There's something powerfully cathartic about the vision of delicate white flakes indiscriminately covering everything that it falls upon with a smooth, white layer. It speaks of the power of the small in the resilience of one or two flakes persisting at the end of a branch, but also of the power of the collective, in the blanketing force that snow becomes over a blue car, a red berry, the asphalt ground, the green fields. Every colour converted to white in a resistance is futile kind of way.

The snow falls like a meme, an idea. A single flake at first, tossing and flicking in one general direction. And then another, in a slightly different direction. Then another, and another, and before long, a series of snowflakes, some catching on each other as they fall, gaining weight, gaining strength.

The half-pleasure, half-guilt of leaving footprints in the snow where no foot had trod before is soon forgiven as the new snow delicately dab away at the traces of my weight upon the white. No postman or milkman has walked today up the driveway to leave a set of heavy shoeprints upon the ground. No one will disturb the pristine levelling of the ground today, I am willing the snow to disappear as softly as it came, in the shade of a tree or a roof.

If colours mean something, and white often means purity, cleanliness, sometimes death or defeat... if only for the snow scene, white must surely to me mean redemption and force.

As colours go, white is the only colour that in nature dominates all other colours, like it or not. The only colour that can say, "Well, be whatever colour you want to be, but when it's my time, I will surpass you, exceed you, blank you out and become the colour that you will wear, regardless of the colour you are inside." Royalty may wear yellow to be like the sun, and purple to be of noble birth. In my world, royalty will wear white - the all encompassing, all dominating colour. It is the unassuming, yet celebratory colour, the colour that says "in my time I will colour everything else across the world with my shade". And I think, quite possibly, because of the prevalence of snow and cloud, it is the single most frequently occurring colour in nature.

I remember...

Many things have changed.
You are you, and I am me,
In places so different, literally
Miles away, a different world in concept.

Sentimentality is a dirty word.
A song currently not on the top 25
Most recently played on the iPod
Crept up random, uninvited.

Deja vu doesn't quite capture it.
I could run but realise, Memory
Like fire is radiant and immutable.
To remember that I remember.

Language of the Kiss

If English is my heritage, then this is my birthright. In true 20/20 hindsight, the choices that we make make our choices. Did you know that then?

Laughter like a language I once spoke with ease
But I'm made mute by the virtue of decision...
Oh, the fear I've known
That I might reap the praise of strangers
And end up on my own

But you told me if I had my way I'd be bored
Right then I knew I loved you best born of your scolding
When we last talked we were lying on our backs
Looking at the sky through the ceiling...
The alphabet of feeling

I am alone in a hotel room tonight...
And I'm working through the grammar of my fears
Oh mercy, what I won't give
To have the things that mean the most
Not to mean the things I miss
Unforgiving the choice is
The language or the kiss.

27

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

There is very little, and then very much, about growing up, and growing old. At the end of 26 years, the one thing I've learnt is the value of persistence.

The persistence of time, of dreams, of hope, of love.

A year, then another, then another. I'd stopped celebrating my birthday at 21. Or so I thought. This year and another, a vague and futile effort to try and make a day special. Just because. Commemorating the turn of another year, the hope of all things new, the dream of stepping closer to where I'd want to be, the belief that having someone special by your side makes things somehow better, despite being miles away from...

So I went up the wheel I'd sworn off 8 years ago - the persistence of time/
I finally got the one gift I've been waiting for - the persistence of dreams/
I found myself a dream job (although I didn't apply) and convinced myself that I'm moving closer - the persistence of hope/
And I baked myself my own birthday cake - an Oreo cheesecake, proving to myself that I could actually bake without much assistance - the persistence of love.

Each year I try to coop myself up in silence and think deep thoughts. I didn't end up doing it this year. But I did manage to get my deep thought of the year:

The risk of realising your dreams too early is that you stop knowing what to do for the rest of your life.

Be careful what you wish for.

Seven and Twenty-Seven / time like memory

[memory] is what happened.
[memory] is a poem i once wrote.
[memory] is a poem that then writes me.

and visceral fantasy / dwelling in the reality of previous / our former selves staring at us / some dead, some forgotten, some writing love letters / "to your ego at twenty-four" / who says we can only give advice to our children / we can write letters to our future selves / if we would heed them when the time comes anyway / advice is cheap (and forgotten) no matter by whom / knowing my foibles, i don't think i'd take myself any more seriously at seven than twenty-seven / i'd look back and laugh at my naive insanity all the same.

funny though, how we haven't words for future besides future / but we have adjectives, nouns, verbs for what has come before / previous, former, past, ago; future, future, future, future / frevious, perhaps, fast is taken, the verb 'will be' / funny how 'will' suggests determinism sometimes / not everyone would agree we have a choice.

i am obsessed with time and the notion of clocks / tiny time pieces ticking destiny in regular motion / i didn't think time slipped by in seconds but we need some way of counting i suppose / like a metronome keeping rhythm when the fact is i am out of tune. / did you think we'd need a watch other than to meet the time to meet each other by? / these days i take to meeting you whenever / a location and an uncertain hour (you are always late anyway) / and if you are meant to be there then perhaps you will be / (and i will break up with whoever i unfortunately never managed to meet). / these days, late means time has passed and i learn to expect you two minutes after / and late to me becomes the endless waiting for someone who will never then arrive / a truly late. and perhaps then "the late mr darcy" takes on more significance than someone who is simply held up by traffic.

i just got myself a watch. / and not just a watch. / a very expensive watch / a watch that i'd wanted since i was 17.

it was the gift i'd rejected at 18, yearned for at 21, and finally got - at 27. i'd gotten it to honour a memory, and as memory-serves, memory now honours me. it's the same memory, only different - mirror imaged. the giver and not the given reversed.

do you wonder if you would know if something you've been waiting for has arrived? when the moment steals by, unspoken, unknown, unannounced?

lately i've been staring at shadows.

My Life is (not that) Cool

On a whim, and because I know I'm not that good at keeping up links/appearances/contacts/friendships/acquaintances/anything at all/in general, I decided to click on Rambo Tan's blog.

Now reading Rambo Tan's blog always brings a smile to my face. Not merely because I actually know the author of the blog personally, but also because to me, and to me only, the author seems a kindred spirit (we were school mates, and walk-out-of-exams-early'mates) to the tune of this-is-one-version-of-how-my-life-would-have-turned-out.

Rambo Tan's in Singapore, living a life that I would have/and have had led, were I in Singapore. It's a sometimes happy life. A single, unfettered by most of the family, away from domestic chores but otherwise needing to fix-things-for-oneself life.

It's only been a year and a half, but looking back, that life seems so far away. Granted it was spent with loved ones, and there were friends, family, mates to hang out with at hand, but it seems now a life that I almost cannot imagine myself spending.

And the difference. Oh boy, the difference.

Singapore-Self looks upon England-Self now with some lack of understanding.

Singapore-Self wonders about:

• Personal crises - what to wear when you're hanging out in Orchard Road and Holland Village, what my mother will think if I stay in a permanent state of almost-married, moving out before I'm officially wed, my family's health or lack thereof
• Food - where the best char kway teow can be found (Commonwealth, I maintain), how much prices of ordinary pleasures (the teh-C kar dai) is rising, the costs of tomatoes in Cold Storage, whether most people eat in food courts or fancy restaurants
• Society and Culture - What my mother thinks my aunts will say when they meet me for the first and only time in the year, whether people really dislike the government despite living in creature comforts and wouldn't vote otherwise anyway, if independent women really attract fewer Singaporean men
• Self-Sufficiency - paying for a part-time, once-a-week maid, purchasing more than I can consume, affording platinum credit cards, doggy classes, the dog groomer clips my dog's nails because I'm afraid to do them myself

England-Self is consumed by:

• World crises - global warming, energy conservation, income inequity and gay marriages
• Food - the difference between organic and free range, whether chickens are bred with hormonal additives, buying local to reduce carbon footprints (see point above), approving of the office cafeteria switching to free range due to popular demand, cooking local cuisine with foreign ingredients
• Society and Culture - the difference between the English, the Europeans and the Americans, learning to live in a high context society that is so conscious about the personal situations of everything and everyone around them, amusement at the stark similarities between English and Asian cultures, working with the Germans, working with Germans who aren't very German
• Self-Sufficiency - doing my own cleaning, cooking, ironing, changing the lightbulbs, doing the laundry, walking the dog, dremelling the dog's nails because it costs 15 quid to get someone else to do them and they'd clip them anyhow and won't do such a good job

I understand now why people want to leave, and why people want to stay in Singapore. In my mind, there are no stayers or quitters, only those who favour the waters in different ponds.

Viewed from the other side of the river, Singapore-Self would perceive England-Self as silly, unnecessary, backward, unsophisticated and manual, while England-Self would view Singapore-Self as silly, self-absorbed, spoiled and small-minded.

Someone said to me the other day that it was remarkable that I had found myself, found my voice, in a place, in a culture that was difficult to understand, difficult to adapt to. Past the initial cynicism of whether that remark was true, I wondered if the purpose of coming here was indeed to find myself, or indeed, if in coming here, I had lost myself and hence needed finding myself again.

In any case, I hadn't left Singapore without a sense of self, as folklore would have had it, neither had I lost that sense of self in a foreign place, as myth would have said.

I see it now that there are merely two selves, like two sides of a coin, multiple facets of a personality that broadens and deepens with experience and exposure to different places and different cultures.

The Teochew girl side of me draws on an analogy - of a fish that takes on the flavour of the water they grow up in. This fish preferred the flavour of the waters of another pond, and swam in it.

And I have to say, I like the flavours of channel fish.

Easter Rising

I just wanted to say, while I'm at it and blogging, that I am frankly aware that a number of readers on this blog read it just to know that I'm still alive, with that faintly quiet reassurance that the blogger isn't:

• A dog (mine, a Westie, to be specific)
• A significant other (but nobody specific)
• A neurotic necrotic
• A glitch in the stream of consciousness

No, jokes aside - I am well, and very much alive, and living - actually living (imagine that!).

It snowed on Easter Sunday.

I've always been warned, and this year was no exception, by the weather service and well meaning colleagues and radio broadcasters that it typically snows around Easter. Why it snows in spring here instead of winter is always going to elude me. But come Easter Sunday, after a sunshine filled dawn, a swirling, white powder began to fill the air, and danced in front of the window.

There was a strangely sweet sort of pleasure watching visibly white bits swirl in front of your eyes. I'm not quite sure what it is. This Easter was celebrated in strangely sweet, quiet sort of ways. I baked a carrot cake, I gave up Coke (the soft drink, not the other kind) for Lent, I walked the dog for an especially long time, I watched Grey's Anatomy.

And then I realised what this small, quiet joy is. It's the comfort that one gets when baking cookies on a sad day. It's the warmth of a kitten's cuddle on a cold day.

It is often said that on Easter, Christ's rising from the the dead is like the breaking of dawn after a long, dark night. It's often represented as the glorious, bright and resplendent ascension of the sun, choirs of angels optionally included.

I like to think instead that the breaking of dawn on Easter day is like any other dawn on any other day. A silent peace that creeps upon you, small and quiet, on a gentle breeze lightly kissing your cheek as you stir and open your eyes, semi-conscious of another day laid like dreams at your feet. Filled with promise, with hope.

No choirs of angels. No fifth symphony.

Love, like redemption, like grace, like promise, like hope, comes without a declaration, arrives without notice, departs without a by-your-leave.

How do we know today's the day among days? And that yesterday, things were different than they were tomorrow?

We mark the moments in our days, months, years, the hours that tick by. We keep our watch through hands that move in circles.

And I just can't get over the idea that one day, just one day, I'm going to wake up with everything around me different and yet the same, and in that instant that it happens, in that very moment, I'm not even going to know it.

On Why Plates are Round

I probably have blogged this before, but honestly, as the years wear on, grow and extend, the single sole achievement of my life in terms of intellectual thinking has been, is, and probably will still be to have figured out why plates are round.

It's sad but true. And to be brutally and coldly honest, it probably is the one piece of truly independent thinking that I have ever done. Independent in the sense that it wasn't a thought that anyone else has ever thought of before - at least that I had come across so far. It really probably is because nobody else was bored to such a degree to have thought of it, but still - I am proud of this.

So, why are plates round? Or bowls and dishes for that matter? Surely because sinks are rectangular, and tables are rectangular (some are round, but most are rectangular) and the cupboards that we keep our plates in are rectangular, it would only make sense to have square or rectangular plates that would fit everything else in our world that we have? Why do plates mostly occur in a round form?

Several sensible suggestions have been offered.

• The industrial - Round plates are easier to manufacture [Not sure I bought this one, surely it's easier nowadays to cut several square plates from one big sheet]
• The anthropological - Squares/shapes with straight lines are artificial shapes and do not occur naturally. Our forefathers who first shaped equipment had followed the shapes of nature. [This has some merit]
• The practical - It's much easier to fashion a reasonably round shape than a perfect square/rectangle with straight lines [What if you cut wood?]
• The relativist - Well, spoons are round, so why not plates? [That's because square spoons poke uncomfortably into your mouth when you eat...]
• The child - The better to drink soup straight from the edge, my dear... [Perhaps the sole reason why most plates are round is because of the general lack of manners all round...]

Interestingly, I note (and the shrewd would point out) that not all plates are round. Most plates are, but there exist, for fashion, design features, and in some cultures, rectangular plates. So whatever the reason, it must apply to validate why most plates are round, but also validate why some plates are acceptably rectangular.

The reason I thought of, *drum rolls and cymbals clang* is a scientific one.

Surface tension.

Surface tension, as Wikipedia tells me, is the property of a liquid to behave like an elastic sheet. More relevantly, it is surface tension that causes any liquid to adopt a spherical shape, because a sphere has the smallest possible surface area to volume ratio.

Well, well, I see the similarities. But what has this got to do with plates being round, you might ask.

Most plates are made to contain food that while not entirely liquid, may contain some liquids (gravy, sauces) or items that potentially spill over when picked up (rice, mashed potatoes). While it's not culturally sensitive to assume we all eat gravy, sauces, rice and mashed potatoes, some combination of round-plate cultures typically use plates to contain a wide variety of potentially spillable foods.

The round plate is the most mathematically efficient shape for containing spillable food, because surface tension ensures that the roundness tucks away any sharp edges that threaten to break the surface tension and cause a spill. Since any curvature also maximizes area, it is also the shape that can contain the most bits of tiny objects or liquids, and makes sense for a plate and, definitely also a bowl.

More proof, the Japanese have commonly used wooden flat rectangular "plates" made out of wood. It's used to serve sushi, which are served set in pieces on the plate. Sushi is a self-contained serving of food, and does not contain liquids or objects which may spill over when picked up.

Why are plates round? The short answer is, "So that we can heap more food on it." The scientific gastronomical answer.

Did our forefathers somehow know this before Eular, Lagrange, Young, Laplace, physics and hydrodynamics? Were we somehow born with an inner sense that allows us to live and learn about our environment outside of the 5 senses?

It always struck me how nobody really needs to consciously learn that Gravity exists. All we actually really learn in school is which scientist named it, and by what name it's known. But a baby that rolls over and falls out of bed knows gravity exists, surely and definitely.

By deep thought, accident or conscious design, the longest lasting structures that we have built and designed have its roots in scientific efficiency. It makes me wonder whether aesthetics, at its core, is Man's way of validating scientific soundness without extensive calculations. I wonder if we have evolved with a skill to assess the success of science that was essential to our survival as a species, because it is the most efficient way to exploit the intrinsic mathematics of the world around us. After all, there is no resisting the laws of nature.

Call it taste, call it aesthetics, call it that preference that babies have for symmetrical faces. I wonder if we are each born with that intrinsic ability to validate this scientific soundness without being a scientist. It would certainly explain why the greatest of mathematicians sense a beauty in their discoveries, and why we can link certain numbers to art.

Somehow, there is a strange sense of comfort that we're all born knowing what we need to know, whether we study it or not. There's a strange sense of faith in the idea that we do have everything we need, whether we know it or not.

Of many twinkling, coloured lights

This year's Guy Fawkes Day was very different from the last. I was on a plane flying back from Dublin when the celebrations threw many coloured lights into the air. As a matter of fact, I was in the window seat on the plane as it landed in Heathrow airport.

I doubt many people remember the true significance of the 5th of November anymore here, all it is now is an excuse to light fireworks and have something special to do for the evening with the kids while as many twinkling coloured lights as you can manage burst into the air.

For me, by concidence, it became a revelation of astonishing beauty.

As the plane flew long over London, the ground laid out like glittering embroidery. The rolling, curving lines of street lamps, buildings, the Thames moved like a fabric, one that was fit for any queen. Every now and then, a light winked and shone, as we passed away from the tall office buildings and over households, street upon street of lined houses, gathering the fireworks for the evening.

Almost gradually, the fireworks started, rising from the ground silently, bursting in slow motion. One, then another, and another. This must be the first time I have ever seen a meme made visible. Household after household, it was a hope, a thought, a prayer rising in solemn celebration from the ground.

As the plane landed, there were still fireworks going off around Heathrow, as if the land itself was saying "this is not enough, there is more". I cannot describe how exactly the angles changed, as fireworks seen from above started to grow, and spread itself from tender bubbles into glowing umbrellas, then finally into fiery rain.

But I think I know now why the window seat is Monsieur G's favourite spot on the plane.

Peace is...

Her Favourite Spot,
originally uploaded by metaphoric.

Smiling at your dog whose found her favourite spot in her new house.

It's the smaller things. It really is.

How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot!

How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd.
- Alexander Pope

So I finally managed to catch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind on the telly. I was given a really good review of the movie, and I think, although surreal, the film did hit me, like a Darren Aronofsky's movie (much less dark, however).

I pride myself as someone who values memories. I used to tell myself, almost as a personal mantra that we live our lives in the pursuit of happy memories. That happiness is only as the memory is fleeting, we try to hold on to it like gold dust.

It's quite apt that this movie's changed that impression quite a bit.

I realise now that I will forget more than I will remember, that I will have impressions more than I will have recollections. Perhaps with that in mind, it is more important to have a pure heart than a spotless mind, for then at least, we get to make up our own minds.

It's interesting that what I got out of the movie was a strong theme of personal authenticity and self-determination. And ironic also that in that self-determination came a strange theme of fate, of "liking someone and not knowing why, just because". Almost as if our preferences came through more strongly than our choices or past choices, and that almost inevitably, we end up falling for the same person, for the same type of person, we look for things that remind us of that one true love we almost seemed to have used to know.

I wonder if that's really true.

---

incidentally, i did want to mention that i do recognize that alex pope said "how happy is the blameless Vestal's lot" as a sardonic question disguised as an exclamation. to be blameless is to also be empty, meaningless and blank, without the weight of choice and consequence. the liberty of the lack of responsibility is naturally also the restraint of having "each wish resign'd". if we want only what we're given - is that happiness?

Prefacing a diary

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
W.B. Yeats

Since I'm in a poetry phase recently, and in a bored and listless state of mind, I do what I love doing best - think up gifts, not to anyone in particular.

This idea came to mind - a diary. One that is filled, with pictures, texts, blog posts... whatever, tracing the life and times of a particular loved one. And this Yeats poem will preface the book.

When your dreams come true without you knowing it

"joy in desire more than desire of joy
hath ever been my passion; mute from far
to love an unknown woman like a star;
to build in dreams no waking could destroy
some island-palace far from life's annoy;
by strength of spirit to force the silver bar
of twilight till the dawn-gates stood ajar,
and gaze on Paradise, a dazzled boy;
to look forth o'er the ocean's grey-lit foam
in the dim morning; and in starry night
upon the myriad-mustered worlds above;
to emulate the unequalled, Greece and Rome,
heroes and deeds, the heads of faith and fight;
to adore thee whom i may scarcely love."
v., love sonnets, john barlas

I think, though this might be a figment purely of my own imagining, that I had actually sat near (not exactly next to) JW on a train to London and had thought she'd looked familiar, nearly almost like JW herself, but bit my tongue asking.

Not that there would be any way of verification at this point, mind. What fools we are, when the object of our childhood dreams and foolish desires lie, hidden, so close yet so far.

I'm of course melodramatizing this. I am chuckling to myself in amusement yesterday when I came across this recently taken photograph of her and realized that it may have well been indeed, with a high degree of probability, my favourite writer herself.

Well, in consolation, at least I now know she frequents Spitalfields and am nearer to her in Reading than I would ever be in Singapore. All the better to chance a glimpse and an autograph.

My life's work is nearly complete:

• Neil Gaiman for the Sandman series of graphic novels
• Tori Amos to sign a copy of Choirgirl
• Jeanette Winterson to sign a copy of Written on the Body or Sexing the Cherry
• Gary Oldman in a music store, to sign a copy of the soundtrack to The Fifth Element in silver. (don't ask)