“Worst organisers”

Honestly the first time I have seen Mr Ho use such strong words and appear so agitated.

I was there by 1030am and sweating like a pig. Surrounded by concrete buildings and their refusal to turn on the fans for us wasn’t making the clear sunny day any better for us. Had a soundcheck through all the pieces, with some random families walking in and some angmohs educating their kids on the different instruments (how cool, I don’t even think my parents knew what the heck a clarinet was before I took it up). Then we ended by 130pm and went to Carl’s Jr to slack in the conducive (for what?) aircon environment.

That was one of the memorable and happy moments of the entire day I suppose. First time I had a meal with the section (cos I always ended up skipping all the section outings  acks) and sitting opposite Khee Nguen who is a perpetual source of laughter made it good. Had trouble finishing my only burger, but I didn’t want to offload it to someone else (i.e. abnormal pig cheng huat who helped 3 ppl finish their burgers) so I persevered on. haha. Our picnic was unanimously cancelled due to the heat and we ended up folding roses backstage. Point to note, it’s so damn difficult to do that, I gave up after two. Then we just ate some of the picnic food backstage and sweated it out again.

Oh and we were promised changing rooms backstage. But as KN replied to XY’s questioning about it, “can, open-air one. You dare to change here? I’m a shy boy, so I will go to the toilet”

After we changed into the black polo tee, it was TEN times worse. DAMN hot. I’m serious.

Finally we got upstage, in front of crying babies and incessant chattering. Think the weird screams at CFA by some unknown woman was bad during InTempo, this was worse. No silence at all. And the GOH, who had been at Eng Kong Garden 11am earlier on in the morning, was late as usual. My mum said she’s growing fatter. How to help it when she won’t even carry her own bouquet and walk down the stage?! I heard someone has to carry her handbag when she goes for meetings, perhaps that’s why she didn’t carry anything when I saw her seated downstage. So we started the entire thing late. And they had the guts to cancel Fantillusion and Hey Jude 2 mins before FFX ended.

Which reminds me about the pathetic cosplayer duo they sent up during FFX. It’s not FFVII, so I have NO idea why it’s Cloud and Sephiroth. And Sephiroth was clearly suffering the economic recession, which explains why he didn’t have money to buy conditioner. How pathetic. Even if they mixed up the characters, try to have a better fighting scene. But no… And shouldn’t they be fighting when we play the battle theme? Not when we’re playing Suteki da ne and all the lovey dovey stuff. Horrible. An insult. Thank goodness not many gamers were there or we’ll be drenched in rotten eggs.

So…apart from the sectionmates and the very filling long break, this was quite a flop.  I kind of agee with Mr Ho though it was a little blunt to be saying it in public. “Now we know, the way to work with them is not to work with them at all.”

The Last Continent

Finally back to another one of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels, after a pretty long time since I’ve visited the library (I can’t afford to have the entire collection and I hate to leave things half collected, like the 3 lonely  Neil Gaiman Sandman graphic novels lying almost depressingly on my shelf). This one focuses (separately) on the adventures of Rincewind and the wizards of UU (Unseen University) when they are stranded on the last continent, which sounds amazingly like Australia, what with kangaroos, deserts (and desserts), a building that looks like a tissue box with opera galahs [sic] and plenty of other references that I’m afraid I missed.

It was somehow balanced by the eternal coward. The hero with a thousand retreating backs, perhaps. Many cultures had a legend of an undying hero who would one day rise again, so perhaps the balance of nature called for one who wouldn’t.

At least that’s how Death (who speaks in Caps) sees Rincewind, the eternal coward. Accidentally banished to the continent of EcksEckEcksEcks (XXXX) by the wizards of UU in a previous discworld novel (which I have yet to read), Rincewind has barely managed to survive by dropping into many waterholes and chased by all the living organisms he has tried to eat. It’s highly unsurprising that Death should have his attention on Rincewind, often popping up to say hi and reassuring the latter that he has his full attention. So much so that Rincewind replies with “When it’s time to stop living, I will certainly make Death my number one choice!”

“You know, I still think it would help if we thought of all this as a valuable opportunity,” said Ridicully.
“That’s true,” said the Dean, sitting up. “It’s not many times in your life you get the chance to die of hunger on some bleak continent thousand of years before you’re born. We should make the most of it”

Apart from Rincewind and his adventures, the wizards from UU also arrive, but on a slightly different place (and perhaps even time), onto this very odd continent by accident. Perhaps that explains why their washerwomen, Mrs Whitlow arrives too. They share the same level of optimism as Rincewind though.

Here, they meet the god of evolution, who tried very hard to create each and every species, totally oblivious to the possibility of sex as a method of procreation in order to minimise his workload. Herein lies another theme which comes through pretty strong in this entire book — the scientific theory of evolution.

Ponder had poked around among the University’s more or less abandoned Museum of Quite Unusual Things, and noticed something rather odd. Whoever had designed the skeletons of creatures had even less imagination than whoever had done the outsides. At least the outside-designer had tried a few novelties in the spots, wools and stripes department, but the bone-builder had generally just put a skull on a ribcage, shoved a pelvis in further along, stick on some arms and legs and had the rest of the day off. Some ribcages were longer, some legs were shorter, some hands had wings, but they all seemed to be based on one design, one size stretched or shrunk to fit all.

That happened before these bunch of erratic wizards had met the god of evolution who was busy creating plants to satisfy their needs, such as hankerchief plants and cake in a pod. Kinds of make fun at those who still believe in an intelligent designer (or as Prof Meier said, [un]intelligent recycler comes closer considering the similarity in bauplans and some very bad design in terms of vertebrate eyes and human spinal discs). The god of evolution in this novel is anything but intelligent, considering how he tries to make an elephant with wheels for legs and a pumpkin boat to help the wizards. Here’s another amusing quote, this time parodying human efforts at conservation:

Ridicully rolled up his sleeve. “I think a round of fireballs, gentlemen,” he said.
“Hold on,” said Ponder. “This may be an endangered species.”
“So is Mrs Whitlow.”
“But do we have the right to wipe out what—”
“Absolutely,” said Ridicully. “If its creator had meant it to survive, he would have given it a fireproof skin. That’s your evolution for you Stibbons.”

Time-travel also features largely in this novel, especially since the wizards have arrived in the time before humans (and sex) have yet to find its way there. So there you have Ponder warning all the wizards not to kill an ant lest it affects the future, while the Archchancellor Ridicully tries to subvert it by saying that if they kill an ant now, it was already done so thousand of years back, so it makes no difference. Here’s an explanation by the speaking kangaroo which almost drove Rincewind mad (or rather, madder):

“It’s not just that things in the future can affect things in the past,” he said. “Things that didn’t happen but might have happened can…affect things that really happened. Even things that happened and shouldn’t have happened and were removed still have, oh, call ‘em shadows in time, things left over which interfere with what’s going on. Between you and me,” it went on, waggling its ears, “it’s all just held together by spit now. No one’s ever got round to tidying it up. I’m always amazed when tomorrow follows today, and that’s the truth.”
“Me too,” said Rincewind. “Oh, me too.”

I didn’t quite enjoy this Discworld novel as the others, maybe because the book was in such terrible state that I felt quite disgusted to touch it. Apart from that, time-travel is not something I have an interest in, and I didn’t get too many references about the Aussies beyond the usual kangaroos, dropping koala bears and “mates”. Still, Pratchett doesn’t disappoint with his hilarious footnotes, and I shall end with one of them.

The ability to ask queations like “Where am I and who is the “I” that is asking?” is one of the things that distinguishes mankind from, say, cuttlefish.*

* Although of course it’s not the most obvious thing and there are, in fact, some beguilling similarities, particularly the tendency to try to hide behind a big cloud of ink in difficult situations.

On Chesil Beach

Following Atonement, which I have enjoyed immensely but can’t seem to find it in the piles of books, I decided to pick up another book by Ian McEwan from the Jurong Regional Library. It wasn’t a disappointment at all. Despite its short and concise length, this novel packs a great deal of issues beneath the seemingly simple narrative of how the inexperienced couple approached their wedding night.

Set in the early sixties, Edward Mayhew and Florence Ponting are enjoying their meal at a small hotel on the Dorset shore. Or are they? Edward can hardly bear his excitement to consummate their union, refraining from self-fulfillment for the past week while Florence can barely hide her hesitation and fear of what is to come when dinner ends.

In a modern, forward-looking handbook that was supposed to be helpful to young brides, with its cheery tones and exclamation marks and numbered illustrations, she had come across certain words and phrases that almost made her gag: “mucous membrane,” and the sinister and glistening “glans.” Other phrases offended her intelligence, particularly those concerning entrances: “Not long before he enters her . . .” Or “Now at last he enters her.” And “Happily, soon after he has entered her . . .” Was she obliged on the night to transform herself for Edward into a kind of portal or drawing room through which he might process? Almost as frequent was a word that suggested to her nothing but pain, flesh parted before a knife: “penetration.”

For Florence to have resorted to reading such self-help books, it reveals more about her family and friends. Having a mother who she cannot cuddle up to, friends who would have been frolicking with their lovers long before their marriage, Florence is conservative for the era that she’s about to be pushed into. Being the daughter of an Oxford philosophy professor and a successful businessman, she finds no acceptance within her own home, feeling like a sore thumb and unable to relate to any of her family members (her mother is tone-deaf; she regards her father as a money-grubbing man and she despises her sister for her lack of musical aptitude).

The Florence who led her quartet, who coolly imposed her will, would never meekly submit to conventional expectations. She was no lamb to be uncompromisingly knifed. Or penetrated. She would demand of herself what it was exactly she wanted and did not want from her marriage, and she would say so out loud to Edward, and expect to discover some form of compromise with him.

A music graduate dreaming of her very own string quartet, Florence is decisive and proud, refusing to back down and insists that people follow her. Yet when it comes to dating and marriage, she is unable to tell Edward how she truly feels and her revulsion towards kissing and physical intimacy. Perhaps it is precisely because of her pride that she is unable to admit that she is queasy and different from normal people (or at least compared to her other girlfriends). She tries her best to satisfy Edward’s desires, but can she give in totally?

His hard-pressed father’s cooking and the pie-and-chips regime of his student days could not have prepared him for the strange vegetables — the aubergines, green and red peppers, courgettes and mangetouts — that came regularly before him….Ruth giggled for minutes on end, until she had to leave the room, when he called a baguette a croissant.

Edward, on the other hand, has a background that cannot be more disparate from Florence’s. Born to a country-side schoolmaster and a brain-damaged mother, Edward has always lived in a different world from Florence. However, with a first class honours in History, Edward’s witty comments have been able to capture Florence’s heart, if not her body.

What he believed was an interesting quirk, a rough virtue, turned out to be a vulgarity. He was a country boy, a provincial idiot who thought a bare-knuckle swipe could impress a friend. It was a mortifying reappraisal. He was making one the advances typical of early adulthood: the discovery that there were new values by which he preferred to be judged.

Yet deep down, he too is uncertain about his status and has an inferiority complex of sorts. A brawl in the pub which he initially believed was justified to help his friend, was a sobering call when he realised that not only was there no gratification, but that friend started to distance himself. He continuously restrains himself during the courtship, which “had been a pavane, a stately unfolding, bound by protocols never agreed or voiced, but generally observed”. But can he restrain himself on the wedding night?

He said solemnly, “You have a lovely face and a beautiful nature, and sexy elbows and ankles, and a clavicle, a putamen and a vibrato all men must adore, but you belong entirely to me and I am very glad and proud.”

Ian McEwan explores the steamy scenes with great delicacy, adding in the stream of consciousness of the characters that further provide the reader with insights about their lives thus far. From the resistance of the foreign tongue probing into her cavity to the involuntary twitching of her thigh muscle as she feels his hand under her dress, each scene is masterfully described to convey the rich texture of emotions that is bombarding both characters as they approach each other.

Apart from the exploration of the sixties and sexual liberation, or conservatism amongst the trend towards liberalism, Edward’s discipline of History crops up regularly as he draws a connection between his life and great men of the past. Most notably men who were playing side actors, a point of interest that he repeatedly emphasises, so much so that he wishes to write books about them, no more than 200 pages each. The ending of the book further highlights the point about history being a unique result of decisions made by men, that irreversibly change courses of life.

This is how the entire course of a life can be changed — by doing nothing. On Chesil Beach he could have called out to Florence, he could have gone after her. He did not know, or would not have cared to know, that as she ran away from him, certain in her distress that she was about to lose him, she had never loved him more, or more hopelessly, and that the sound of his voice would have been a deliverance, and that she would have turned back. Instead, he stood in cold and righteous silence in the summer’s dusk, watching her hurry along the shore, the sound of her difficult progress lost to the breaking of small waves, until she was a blurred, receding point against the immense straight road of shingle gleaming in the pallid light.

Ian McEwan is a masterful storyteller who manages to use words with such precision that it makes reading the awkwardness of the two protagonists almost a joy, despite the obvious fact that the two characters are far from being joyful. The entire situation seems almost preposterous and ridiculous today, but I would prefer to read it as a bittersweet romance best read without preconceptions of societal values today, but in the light of pre-60s liberation. Highly recommended, though I think it will be exceptionally enjoyable for those of the fairer sex to read.

Anansi Boys

Yet another recent addition to my collection of Neil Gaiman’s works, Anansi Boys is set in the same universe as American Gods, where Gods walk this very same earth as the rest of us. As evident from its title, Anansi Boys focuses on the sons of the trickster god, Anansi, who had also appeared in American Gods as Mister Nancy.

Charlie Nancy, or better known as Fat Charlie (a nickname which stuck after his dad started calling him that), wanted nothing to do with his father. Nothing at all. Not after his father lied to him about President’s Day and making that day the worst day of his elementary school life by persuading him to dress up as President Taft.

The worst thing about Fat Charlie’s father was simply this. He was embarrassing.

Of course, everyone’s parents are embarrassing. It goes with the territory. The nature of parents is to embarrass merely by existing, just as it is the nature of children of a certain age to cringe with embarrassment, shame and mortification should their parents so much as speak to them on the street.

After his parents divorced, Charlie moved to England with his mother and was pleased to have been without his father’s embarrassing presence. He led a normal life, about to be married to Rosie Noah, much to her mother’s irk (who’d want a son-in-law who dared to bite her expensive waxed apples??), working under a stoat-like cunning Grahame Coats, having to deal with Maeve Livingstone, a unhappy widow who wonders where all her late husband’s assets and investments have ended up in the Grahame Coats investment company.

However, upon knowledge that his father is dead, he had to deal with the revelations that his father was actually Anansi, the god of stories, and that he had a brother, Spider. Thus begins the roller-coaster ride of plain old Fat Charlie’s life. Spider comes invited and sets up a room with a fountain in his apartment, pretends to be Fat Charlie and goes further with Rosie than Fat Charlie ever did, indirectly causes Fat Charlie to lose his job and gets imprisoned. On the other hand, Fat Charlie deals with it by unleashing forces that he finds difficulty in reining in, although it is ultimately resolved.

The brother-rivalry between these two long-lost brothers is really the main focus of this novel, unlike the very grandiose themes of American Gods. How do they resolve their differences, Spider being a sleek, god-like person while Fat Charlie is well…just Fat Charlie. In fact, are they really that different ultimately? Here’s a short excerpt of a quarrel between the two of them:

“So you’re leaving today.”
“That was my plan,” said Spider. “But then I met you. I cannot believe we have let almost an entire lifetime go by without each other’s company, my brother.”
“I can.”
“The ties of blood,” said Spider, “are stronger than water.”
“Water’s not strong,” objected Fat Charlie.
“Stronger than vodka, then. Or volcanoes. Or, or ammonia. …”

I also enjoyed the way the different characters were fleshed out in this novel. Grahame Coats and Tiger, Maeve Livingstone and her ghostly presence, Rosie and her anorexic mother who only drinks vitaminized water and looks at wax fruit, Daisy and her difficulty in fitting in with the police force, etc. Even the 4 Macbeth-like ladies with turkeys instead of frogs were pretty hilarious to read about. Excerpts below show Maeve’s experience with being dead:

Ah well, she thought. Being dead is probably just like everything else in life; you pick some of it up as you go along, and you just make up the rest.

The next one is a conversation between Maeve’s ghost and Anansi’s ghost. I’m sure the reason why Fat Charlie cannot stand his father is pretty clear.

“Well,” said the old man, “Duppies [Anansi's term to refer to ghosts] can’t touch the living. Remember?”
She pondered this a moment. “So what can I touch?” she asked.
The look that flickered across his elderly face was both wily and wicked. “Well,” he said. “You could touch me.”
“I’ll have you know,” she told him, pointedly, “that I’m a married woman.”
His smile only grew wider. It was a sweet smile and a gentle one, as heartwarming as it was dangerous. “Generally speaking, that kind of contract terminates in a till death us do part.”

The entire feud between Anansi and Tiger boils down to stories. As the trickster god of West African mythology, Anansi is well known for his stories. It’s hardly surprising that Anansi Boys also deals with the theme of stories and narratives.

Stories are like spiders, with all they long legs, and stories are like spiderwebs, which man gets himself all tangled up in but which look so pretty when you see them under a leaf in the morning dew, and in the elegant way that they connect to one another, each to each.

Stories are webs, interconnected strand to strand, and you follow each story to the center, because the center is the end. Each person is a strand of story.

Thankfully for Dr Kelly’s lecture on Modernism, and about 20th C Austrian author Franz Kafka’s novels of the surrealism movement, that I understood a particular literary reference! Sorry if I sound like I’m flaunting, but here is the excerpt:

Even a world populated exclusively with castles and cockroaches and people named K was preferable to a world filled with malignant birds that whispered his name in chorus.

All in all, Anansi Boys is very lighthearted read, with a brilliant mix of humour, suspense and mystery together with colourful characters who get the limelight they deserve. Definitely a must read and reread.