Saturday, May 15, 2004
A Bug's Life
For a disturbing moment, I feel like I am floating about (not physically, of course) in some kind of stasis, and that things around me are frozen as well, not because they have ceased to possess the energy of motion but because I have willed them to stop. I am being assailed by this ominous feeling that if I free them from their suspended animation, they will rip by me so fast that I will be inevitably and rather painfully torn apart by the complex multi-dimensional skew forces generated, as air is sucked forwards by a speeding MRT train, by the speed at which these events hurtle through life.
It's all about being afraid. Being afraid to let outside influences intrude so much into your life that they take control of your every thought and action, and you end up never breaking free from that endless monotony of being enslaved to others. It is, I will readily admit, a laughable notion for anyone to believe in, that one can break out of that crushing mediocrity, that an ant can bravely tell its countless compatriates that it is sick of crawling endlessly, antennae flicking, searching for traces of the chemical markers left by others that have gone before, living in fear of the implacable crush-and-twist of a great human thumb, that it wishes to venture out into the great unknown and find a brave new world to make its own.
In all cases, the limiting factor is the reality of survival. Rejecting the burden of responsibility ensures that one will never go far in the world, just as the lone ant, just several hundred hexaped steps after its brave announcement, takes in its last sight of the world, a great whorled mass of flesh descending upon its frantic struggle to escape. Indeed, it is depressing, and yet it is something we have to live with, our lives only sustained by the little pleasure we derive from the onerous tasks we are required to do, and by the minuscule hope that all the slogging will be worthwile.
All this depressing monologue with cringe-worthy analogies, just because of one thing. I wonder why I agreed to do it in the first place. I have taken no time at all to dispossess myself of any illusions of glory, and to discover that such roles do not fit me too well. It is an endless vicious cycle that traps me: I feel inadequate, thus I have less confidence in myself, and that shows in my words and actions. Thus, others have eventually come to unanimously agree that I exist only as a name, and that leads me to have even less confidence about myself. But I have to finish the task, if only because I hate to leave things unfinished.
Such unhappiness. No wonder I need people to cheer me up.
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Have you ever wondered how those red 400-metre tracks are made? I used to think they came in preformed segments, like stretches of astroturf or squares of carpet grass. Some time ago, though, I watched this television programme which was showing how they would recycle old car tyres by shredding them up and using the small rubber bits to make tracks. So if you look closely at the garden-variety 400-metre track and the semicircular areas that come with it, you will be able to see these irregularly cut chunks of rubber, that are very obviously black, but have been coloured red to make the tracks red. Unfortunately, the red dye that they use evidently does not adhere well to the rubber, as it keeps coming off, most obviously onto the P.E. T-shirts of students made to lie down on the tracks e.g. to do sit ups. The effect can be best viewed when the track is wet, like after some rain. It was the bane of students with white shoes, since sitting cross-legged on the tracks would ensure that the student returns to his classroom with half-red shoes.
It is obvious to anyone that any colour is better than black for a running track, unless there are runners that enjoy the feeling of running over hot coals. But why red? Why not blue or green or yellow or purple or brown? Ask any P.E. teacher that and (s)he will probably stare at you like you've got heat stroke, then ask you to run a few round the track to discover the answer. My theory, and it's not much of a theory at all, more of a stab in the reddish darkness, is that red inspires rage, which most probably helps runners to run faster, reaching pinnacles of sympathetic discharge that cannot be attained with purple tracks. Are red tracks more aesthetically pleasing? The colour is so characteristic of the object that it becomes impossible for one to visualise it in any other colour and think it looks better.
How do you know when a track is too fat?
It has a spare tyre!
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La Toya London gets voted out of American Idol. What can I say that hasn't been said? I totally agree with Randy's choice of words. "A travesty." If Americans have such problems with perception... Well I'm not surprised. Now that I think of it, I think part of my heart died when Jennifer Hudson was voted out, so I don't really care any more.
Right now I can't wait for AMI to end since after it ends, what will be broadcast on Wednesdays at ten? Charmed! Hurrah!
Survivor: All Stars had an outcome that was not at all surprising, but the amount of harsh words said at Final Tribal surely was exciting. Cynics like me tend to believe that however sincere Rob Mariano's proposal to Amber Brkich might be, there is no doubt that some small part of it is strategy. But all well and good, they are happy and loving each other, sharing one million dollars and two Chevrolets. Hurray to Shii Ann for getting the car; one cannot help but have some sympathy for the only Asian in the competition, who does a little too much eye-rolling, but is so delightfully bitchy. And hurrah to Rupert for getting the other one million. He deserves it.
Quite strangely, Colby Donaldson reminds me of this person in M1. If you want to know who, come ask me. And if you do, please don't ask me why I think so, because I have no idea at all. It's just a feeling kind of thing. But he's real cute (Colby I mean).
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Side effect of HRM: You start using D.I.E. everywhere you go.
Situation: I was sitting at a bus stop, waiting for (obviously) a bus. One bus pulls up (not mine) and I see this woman with her sleeveless arm pressed firmly against the window and her head completely facing the window, looking out at me.
Intepretation and Evaluation: At first glance I thought this woman had some mental problems, but suddenly I realised this was not the right approach. Taking a closer look, I noticed that she did not look particularly deranged. In fact, her eyes showed saneness but irritation. Suspecting the cause for her weird position, I looked to the person sitting beside her, and voila, it was a large non-Chinese fella. Case solved, since I had quite a few such experiences as well.
Evidently she is exhibiting very obvious non-verbal cues conveying to the person sitting beside her that she is discomfited by his presence, and it is quite obvious that she holds some rather strong stereotypes regarding him.
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I realise that I tend to jump from one subject or theme to another in my entries, and that if I split all these distinctly different passages into a blog entry each it would be easier for you. Not physically, since you still have to read the same amount of text, but more psychologically, since you can split the text up to read at your own pleasure, and if you start on one part and think it's pretty uninteresting you can immediately skip to the next. Which is why I started putting hyphens between distinct parts, so it's easier for you.
Argh but it makes for nightmares trying to think of non-general headings...
Avaris / 5/15/2004 11:01:00 PM
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