I Watched With Teeth In My Sockets

Under Freudian standard, everyone is fucked in the head one way or another.

The difference is how fucked are you inside?

I'm guilty of a conscious mixed of voyeur and sadism.

Does that meant that I enjoyed watching people changing clothes, or that I grabbed every opportunity to sneak a peek at people's panties or beat up my girlfriend for sexual pleasure?

No.

That I would have to disagree with Freud that every emotion deviates and character breakdown have to be sexual fueled.

My conscious mixed of voyeur and sadism have to do with the everyday observation of the common people around me.

Everyone observe people too. Yeah, that's correct.

But I feel the wrong emotions at the wrong circumstances. That's where I'm guilty.

Working in hospital, there are lots of chances to see tired family members crying along the corridors.

Every time when I see them, I feel something else inside. My inside didn't soften, instead it is something curiously intense. It'll make me grateful and guilty at the same time.

It is wrong and I can't help it.

We went drinking on friday night, at this uncle uncle pub at Tanjong Pagar. It was the Chinese pub setting; with crowding round tables, cards playing, several hanging televisions for karaoke, a large pool table in the background and busy hostesses around to serve the customers. The crowd was made up of men in their forties and late thirties, which made us felt like sixteen year olds.

The young hostesses' job scope was to engage the customers, playing cards with them or chatting with them at expense of an order of a drink. The customers were allowed to interact with them in intimate distance, and occasionally touch them with a hug or their hands by the ladies' hip/shoulder. It was all sensual, nothing sexual.

Watching them hop around tables to interact closely with the middle aged uncles, Marx raised, 'How do they do that?'

Me: 'It's a job. It's all for the money. That's how you straighten your thoughts. It's a job that requires you to have fun with dirty old men. That's that.'

We looked at each other and emptied our drinks in silence.

I have a weak bladder and that condition will always remind me whenever I'm having fun. I got to the toilet and it was locked. While waiting outside, an hostess hurried over to the sink outside the toilet. She was plump and unpleasantly looking. She looked at herself in the mirror and tried to wipe the tears along her mascara. She was crying by the dirty sink by the red piece of cracked wall, the dark hued lightscape and her mascara smearing.

She tried to calm herself down but uncontrollably she broke into more tears. Her tired shoulder shrugged as she couldn't stop bawling in desperate silent. She noticed that I was looking at her. She whispered a sorry, she tried to collect herself together but the tears just couldn't stop brimming out from her reddish face.

To avoid further embarrassment, she walked off.

That night, I couldn't stop thinking of the image of the hostess weeping by the sink in the red background of dim lightscape and smeared mascara.

That imagery was so soulfully beautiful and curiously captivating.

I'm such a jerk.

The Wayward Cloud Again

I don't mind watching a good film again and again. Really.

I have watched 'Signs' for the fourth time.

'Fight Club' for the third time.

'Alien' trilogy for don't know how many thousandth time.

Today I revisited Tsai Ming Liang's 'Wayward Cloud' for the third time. My first encounter with Tsai Ming Liang's work was years ago which I believed was a film titled 'The Hole'. It featured two lonely tenants living a level apart dug a hole through the ceiling into each other lives and hearts. Like 'The Hole', 'Wayward Cloud' was too filled with eternal silences, musicals and bizarre romance.

'Wayward Cloud' was not well received in the director's homeland Taiwan, where audience walked out of the cinema in the middle of the movie. However, it won big in that year's Berlin's Silver Bear.

I first watched it with Chang and ZR in 2005. We left the cinema with unparalleled feelings. Chang cursed and swore, ZR raised his eyebrow in puzzlement and I was utterly blown away. So blown away that I kidnapped my girlfriend the very next day and forced her to watch the movie with me again. She hurt me real bad after that.

For the third time I watched 'Wayward Cloud', the fully uncut version of DVD (which included a cum-shot scene), I was filled with the same exhilaration that washed me in 2005.

My lust to own all Tsai Ming Liang's works ignited once more.

The Importance Of Hunger

Two hungry stories, one message.

Story One -

I have this patient. Let's call him B. B suffered bleeding in a corner inside his head and therefore lose will over his body. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, he couldn't blink without tears, he couldn't talk and all he could was to lie there, day after day waiting for us to turn him, feed him through a tube in his nostril, sponge him, change his diapers, remove his secretions by inserting a suction tube down the breathing tube in his throat and had to pee with a catheter inside him.

Day after day, hours after hours he lie there staring at the wall in front of him, waiting for the paint to dry, waiting for his turn, just waiting.

Recovery is a bitch, any patient can tell you that. But despite B was lying there soaking the bed with perspirations and fecal matter, he was gaining progress.

Soon, his doctors ordered to wean off the tube at his throat so he could breathe on his own, the health care team were so happy for B that they work harder. It meant that their work day in and day out in the hospital was paying off. No satisfaction was greater than to heal a dying man back to life, and the possibility of B gaining dependence to fend for himself one day was a common goal. The physiotherapist, speech therapist and the nurses work harder around B to provide a conducive environment.

Weaning off the breathing tube in his throat was no easy task, and B had history of failing this phase of recovery. The health care team was worried. So were B's sisters. Many times, when B was turning purple or when the oxygen saturation machine was beeping loudly, the sisters begged us to stop forcing B to breathe on his own and do something. But this phase was so paramount to B's recovery that the nurses' often had to play the meaner roles, we shook our head and yelled encouragement for B.

'For another hour! Just for another hour and we could stop! You are doing okay, your stats are fine, just breathe deeply. You can do it.'

The tired B gritted and puffed harder, showing us an okay sign with his fingers.

When B was able to breathe on his own, he began to communicate with us. Sometimes through hand-signs, sometimes he would struggle to write and draw.

Then one day he made sounds through his mouth. He could say 'Higher...' as he wanted the head of his bed to be propped up higher.

The doctors were satisfied with his progress and decided it's time B could be transfer to the rehabilitation center for more optimum objectives.

It was today, at two. His sister promised that she would come along with the transfer. The dietitians, the speech/occupational/physio therapists and the doctor churned out the necessary memos for B, everything was up and ready.

I thought about B's leaving and considered about visiting him at the rehab center.

When I came back from lunch at one, B's sister was yelling at B. I went over, B was catatonic. I quickly strapped him on the blood pressure machine and monitor his vital signs. It was all fine but B was unresponsive. He just stared on, with no okay signs, no flexing of his limbs. The doctor was informed, an ECG was done, blood was taken, and B was sent off for urgent head scan.

Doctor: 'It's might be another stroke.'

All I could think was: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Doctor: 'All we done was wasted. It's right back to square one.'

Shit.

B came back from the head scan. He was a little better, as he could move his right hand feebly. He pointed out that he wanted to write. B scribbled and scribbled with much effort. We had a hard time recognising his words. At one point we guessed he really wanted to give up. It was so close yet so far. It was too much for a man to bear.

Doctor: 'Are you saying that you want to die?'

B struggled with another writing.

Story Two -

I got irritated with people trying to compare me. I guessed it was because of my up-bringing. My mother refused any comparison with us.

'Don't compare with people, I don't care about who score lesser than you, don't use them as excuses, you fail, you fail!'

She used to say.

I grew up with this notion that I was waging an eternal war with myself. I will overlook what other people did or think of me and strive on in my own world, with me as my own jury of success. So when my girlfriend tried to tell me what the world expect of me, I was rather pissed.

'You know I don't compare with people what. Just do the best that I can and it's enough.'

'No' She said. 'Your best is always not enough. If you don't measure and see what is truly there in the world and what kind of things you really want so badly in life, you will never reach your goals. Your best is just not enough. You need to be hungry, very hungry at the things that you want. You want to want them badly enough to stop quitting each time you fall. You want to want them so bad that you will never rest until you get them.'

I went quiet. She was right.

B wanted to survive so badly that no matter how badly his ordeals were or how he have to go through his personal hell over and over for years, B really wanted to live. That was his hunger.

Take time to think about yourself. Are you gobbling your life to satisfy your inner hunger or are you just waiting for people to feed your life to you through your nostril?

Giving up and being mediocre are the easiest things in the world.

Brick Shithouse

Holidays are such a whore
Cotton candy alcohol
Suicides and overdosed
Of bitter loves and untrue thoughts
The drowsy nights will always fade
But never away with false gilmore
So fuck enthusiastic patience
Fuck your longing for validation
Fuck the things we don't understand
And yet we joined with half a brain
So fuck your costumes
Fuck your hats
That glows in red
And buzz a tune
And fuzzy white
And conic shape
You look like fuck
You look like shit

Fuck your merry Christmas