Oxen of the Sun

My copy of Ulysses, which had lain untounched for a month or so, was due in the library. I had decided to return it because just the thought of it made me want to run away and hide.

But when I got to the library I found that I couldn’t. The stubborn side of me that refuses to give up unless it’s on my terms wouldn’t let me. I renewed the book and serendipitiously found a new book of notations.

The notations seemed to really do the trick because, although less detailed than my earlier bible, I felt inspired to continue reading. I’ve realised now I probably like reading the notations more than the book.

Anyway, this morning I’m proud (and relieved) to say I finished Episode 14. It was the most horrendous, stifling, boredom inducing chapter ever written. Here Joyce demonstrates every literary style from Chaucer to Carlyle. Did I ever say that writers should be given the freedom to be self indulgent? I take that back. I hate Joyce. I hate him showing off at the expense of my time. I hate that he’s like some mountain I feel obliged to climb. I hate that he keeps adding to the mountain so it gets higher and higher.

But the new notations helped. I have a feeling I’ve lost my last book of notations, fat help that they were. Then I will have one more reason to hate Joyce.

Advice to fellow readers (if such exist)… use notations (but don’t lose them).

Also, don’t go on a trip to Italy in between Oxen of the Sun. You may never return.

This day

… last year, almost 180 people were killed by 10 terrorists in Mumbai.

And yet, the images of blood and bodies in CST and the Taj burning don’t seem that far away. I’m surprised a whole year has passed.

Then again, much of the outrage has faded. The city remains vulnerable – and with a population of 19 million and porous borders, I’m not sure what really can be done. The government says they are better prepared to deal with an attack. Again, I wonder.

The least we can do is not forget. Read these stories of those who lived through the tragedy and remember.

Twilight zone

I’m currently in the Twilight zone (New Moon, specifically). And I’m nodding my head to this post by MinCat about why we 30 somethings find ourselves lost in these stories of teenage love.

She makes a distinction between the agony and ecstasy of teenage love and the calmer and more pragmatic confines of adult love.

And in a sign of being an adult, I find myself siding with Team Jacob.* With a wry sigh I acknowledge that Bella’s passion for Edward has something to do with the teen penchant for choosing the bad guy over the nice guy, that that streak of danger holds irresistible appeal to teenage girls. When you’re older you learn to value the rocks, the safe harbours, the steady hands.

Still, my heart does flutter over Edward’s crooked grin. **

*Helps that Jacob/Taylor Lautner is an absolutely hottie. And that Edward/Rob Patz is just a tad too thin and pale for my liking. I know, I know, he’s a vampire. But vampys eat, don’t they?
**There some feminist issues with the series, which in essence are a retelling of the fairytales of yore in which a hapless damsel is rescued by a handsome prince. I do not agree with everything this article says but I have to admit I did have problems with Bella’s low self esteem when I first read Twilight. The thing is, though, this is how teenage girls are and that’s why Bella is relatable. Bella’s angst, which she compares to that of Shakespeare’s Juliet, may not be role-model behaviour but it is real. A more interesting project for feminists than simply negating fairytales would be to probe what it is about these fairytales that call to us even when we know better. If little girls were brought up with only egalitarian bedtime stories, would they turn their back on knights in shining armour in adolescence and adulthood? I’m not so sure.

Dealbreakers

The Episode: Episode 4, Season 3
The question: What’s your dealbreaker?

So my rule is that I can only watch SATC reruns when V is away. But V’s almost away so I guess it’s ok to break my own rule.

I’ve skipped a couple of episodes because I watched them when I was too tired to think or write anything. And then we come to this one.

Charlotte’s dating a bad kisser (“he raped my face”), Samantha a black guy who’s sister’s warned her off because she’s white, Carrie a guy who can’t stand smokers and Stan a guy who has a doll collection.

So the first question is: would you break up with someone because they’re a bad kisser? Samantha says yes. I’m inclined to go the Charlotte route and try to tutor him. But as Charlotte realised, bad kissers are hard to reform. I don’t think I’ve dated a bad kisser. But I have dated someone who was bad in bed. Did I break up with him over it? Kind of. But that because there was nothing else. Bad technique in bed can be improved right? right?

But what then are the dealbreakers? Are there dealbreakers?

At 18, I would’ve answered “hell yeah”. Ten years on, I’m not so sure. You learn the value of compromise. Like Carrie, I decided to quit smoking for a guy (and unlike her, I’ve stuck with it… mostly). “The moment I heard the lie come out of my mouth I realised how much I liked him,” she says. How true. The people worth lying to are sometimes the people who mean the most.

Don’t know if I could stomach a guy with a doll collection (though that seems fairly common in HK) but what about unusual habits. Again, it would depend on the guy and the habit. I haven’t dated anyone with really weird hobbies. Thankfully.

I would’ve thought my dealbreaker would be a guy who didn’t read. But my record with men has somehow tended to the literarilliterate. I’ve come to accept that the kind of guy that reads a lot is not the same guy that turns me on, despite my best intentions.

I have been known to break up with a guy because he didn’t know who Karl Marx is. “Known to” because I didn’t actually break up with him over that. Or at least, not only over that. But finally, when I got tired of him asking me why, it was the first thing that came out of my mouth. And unfortunately, it was what he repeated to his friends. Oh well. A reputation for intellectual snobbery, however laughable, is not something I’ll quibble over.

Actually, I think my dealbreaker would be Samantha’s: a guy who doesn’t have the balls to stand up to his family. Being married, I’ve learnt that this is especially hard for guys. Maybe because they’re always left out of the controversies that embroil families. They are never required to make the all or nothing call because they’re either indulged or they bypass emotional confrontation of the familial kind. I understand this and I let some things slide. But when push comes to shove, the person I’m with must be able to stand up for me. If they can’t, they’re not worth it.

Most amusing part of the episode: Tie between 30-something Carrie confessing that she “has a crush” and the spaniel humping Carrie in the shop. I think the spaniel wins just for being a spaniel. It’s the ears, I tell you.

Interesting lingo: crush (Aiden) versus crash (Big) and crush-proof. Now, who was my crash? The green eyed monster I’d say. Glad to say, I’m not yet crush-proof but I should move on to someone more attainable than the leader of the free world. Brad Pitt, maybe.

Life worth

While I’m not suicidal (at the moment), those of you know me will know that I’m not jumping for joy about life itself either. By which I don’t mean “my life” in particular but rather “life” in general.

I think it all started with one of those angsty teenage “what is the purpose of life” moments (which I believe everyone should have) that ended up with me being unable to come up with any plausible answer.

I have pretty much concluded that there is no purpose whatsoever, and so, apart from religion which promises a thereafter (again a 50-50 bet in my view), I’ve always wondered why the people who have really hard lives, don’t make the decision to just stop. I guess we are hardwired to continue and killing oneself is not that easy either (I’m always more horrified for people who survive a suicide attempt than those who didn’t).

Anyway, thankfully, my life is not that hard and is rather nice. I don’t know yet what I would do if diagnosed with a debilitating disease etc. Part of me is very stubborn and hates being bested by circumstances so there’s no knowing actually.

But the point is, probably for the first time in my life since I was 16, I suddenly realized why I want to live.

And I also realized the problem hitherto was that all the normally touted reasons for living – finding the love of your life and getting married, having babies, seeing your babies grow up, having grandchildren etc – weren’t that appealing to me. I didn’t see them as worth continuing for oh 80 years for. I gave up on changing the world – a worthy cause – when I was a teenager (too cynical and too lazy, probably more of the latter).

But suddenly, the week before last actually, I realized in a blinding flash of insight that I wanted to live because there are so many things I want to do (I know, I know. Many of you probably already knew this) and that these might be worth continuing for because really, there isn’t enough time to do them with a fulltime job otherwise. That is, I could probably finish my list in say 10 years if I didn’t spend nine hours a day working and 10 hours sleeping (and the sleep is non-negotiable) though again, more might get added to it on the way.

So, the reasons I want to live are:
There are so many more books to read. I think this epiphany started with Ulysses (to all those cursing Joyce around the world, see? Some good can come of him too) but probably, further back, with that BBC booklist that I realized I hadn’t read much of. And then I realized that I really should read some Dickens, probably Great Expectations (abridged version is not enough, no matter what I keep telling myself).
And then there’s music. I’m only just getting over my disinterest in classical music (fostered ironically by my scary piano teacher) and starting to listen again. And that’s only Western classical.
I want to do some crafty-stuff like knit. Weirdly, I’m only inclined to knit scarf-like things so my friends and relatives are safe from me inflicting misshapen booties and bonnets on them. Also weirdly, knitting is the only crafty thing I can see myself doing. And maybe making a scrapbook.
I want to learn Tai Chi.
I want to learn a couple more languages. Probably German (inspired by the stopover en route to Italy and my conviction that German has got a bad rap as an ugly language) and maybe Portuguese. Don’t think I will ever banter in Cantonese but want to be able to order in the local tea joints.
I must develop a sense of style that I’m totally happy with. Sadly this needs money and so should take some time.
Oh yeah, and write a novel (this is why this list will take forever to complete)
And while I’m at it, why not travel. I think I’ve had my fill of Europe for the moment (!!) so maybe Africa or Mexico next time.
(Also, if I died, I’d miss V.)

Now, these sound like rather frivolous raison d’etres even to me. But the overarching umbrella is that there is no grand purpose to life, it’s just a nice experience (if you’re living my life that is). So wanting to read more books is as valid a purpose as any.

Which is fortunate because reading books, and sadly most of them inconsequential, seems to be a major chunk of what I do with my time. As I was telling V the other day, I have no time to get into other hobbies because my existing hobby takes up too much time. So he asked what my existing hobby is, and I said “reading” to which he snorted. But reading does count as a hobby in some people’s…erm, books.

The strange thing is that I believe going to Italy brought on this epiphany (and honestly, I haven’t felt this kind of sense of purpose no matter how trivial for at least a decade, before which I was on my “make the world a better place” crusade). I’m beginning to think there’s something magical about the place. And I’m not saying this because that Eat Pray Love woman said it (though it’s a fabulous book, you should go read it). Might be the tiramisu or the olive oil – but something about the food there and perfection of the cappuccinos makes you want to go on living. And then before you know it, you’re going hmmm la vita e bella.

And The Wall Came Down

[How stupid I’ve been meaning to post this for days and turns out I missed the event by a day]

Probably the first major world event that occurred in my lifetime and which I can recall witnessing was the fall of the Berlin Wall. I now realise I was 9 years old at the time.

I remember watching the events of that night – the party as people from both sides climbed over the wall and danced – on our boxy TV with my parents, who were wearing grins of amazement.

I remember asking why they were celebrating and being told that East Berlin and West Berlin had been separated and now family and friends could finally meet each other (I could see the families and friends embracing on screen). Huh? But how stupid. How come one city got broken into two?

I immediately assumed it was the evil communists (as a child I was aware of communists but not what they actually were, except that they always wore grey or brown) who had built the wall. And I guess they had. But my dad told me that Germany had been carved up by the Americans, British, French and Russians.

More confusion. How could the Americans and the British be so stupid? (I knew nothing of the French but every TV programme and movie I had watched showed the Americans as the good guys).

As a child it was completely clear to me that a city divided in half made no sense. As an adult, I (possibly childishly) continue to hold this view.

The collapse of the Berlin wall sowed the first seeds of doubt that the Americans and British could be the bad guys (weird how despite our history textbooks, it was still difficult to see the British as bad guys, probably because they were white). Looking back, the collapse of the Berlin Wall was the start of the crumbling of an edifice of another kind – trust in everything American – in the mind of one Indian child.

Today, there is some wrangling about who takes credit for the Wall coming down. For 9-year-old and now 29-year-old me, what’s more important is who owns up to the moral failure of putting it up.

Cool quotient

A few days ago, Curly informed me that I am not cool. Hmph! To be fair, she said she’s not cool either. This is not shocking to me or anything (I go to bed at 10 pm, sometimes 9 even, remember?).

Then I asked Curly who she thought was cool and she named someone who I wouldn’t necessarily have categoried as such. Popular, yes. Pretty, possible. Cool?

It did get us thinking, though, about the definition of “cool”. It’s a word we throw around quite often. And the meaning of the word keeps evolving – in part due the fact that being cool does involve keeping not just with the times but with what’s trendy, but also in a broader sense.

So what does being cool mean to me?
1. First, cool does not mean “hip”. There’s a difference between people who follow trends and carry them off, are in on the latest nightlife etc and people who are “cool”, because cool people need not be trendy or even want to go to a nightclub .
2. Curly pointed out that cool people tend to be the iniaitors which is a fair point. However, while the initiators would have a definite in on the cool stakes, I don’t think one has to be cutting edge to be cool.
3. This is probably just a personal prejudice (and here’s where the subjectivity of the definition comes in) but being popular takes points away from coolness. Because for me, cool people are edgy and popular people are mainstream. This is debatable though.

So far, I’ve pretty much said what being “cool” is not. On the affirmative side, I think a person who is cool:
1. Must have their own sense of style, whether it’s fashionable or not.
2. Must be intelligent. There is nothing more “uncool” to me than being dumb.
3. Must have a sense of humour.
4. Must be slightly offbeat or quirky.
5. Must give off a “chilled out” air (ie- must neither seem to be aggressively being trendy nor be over-zealous about anything).
Then I came across The Sartorialist. These are the people who would fit my definition because they seem to combine all of the above conditions though I would take away points from those that seem to be trying too hard. They are not necessarily fashionable. Some are too old to know what the latest It TV series or music is. Most look like they don’t care. These are the people I would look at and say: “she’s cool”.

So am I cool? Maybe not. But I’m not uncool either.

Note to people who need to deal with the media

If you’re trying to market something and getting a journalist to cover it:

1. Never be condescending (to the journalist). Even the nicest ones (like me) will get pissed off. At worst, she will take out her irritation in the story or badmouth you to her colleagues. At best, she will file away the grudge for future reference and she will avoid contacting you for quotes, so you’re essentially losing out on future coverage.

2. Remember that most journalists are generalists. We do our homework before an interview but we’re not experts in your field. Believe me, if we were, we’d be doing your job.

3. Many professional fields from investment banking to the wine industry seem to masturbate in their own jargon. It’s their way of feeling like they’re part of a club and doing something that sets them apart from the rest of the world. Ironically, the people at the top of their fields are the ones who have no problems with those who can’t speak their “language” or explaining things simply and without condescending. Remember, greatness is humble. If you need to posture, you’re probably not that good anyway.

4. Asking a journalist what her credentials are and then dissing them is not on. Again, it’s not our job to have a degree in your field. That’s your job.

5. Having bought a journalist dinner or a drink does not compensate for the above. Remember, we get lots of dinner invitations which mostly we turn down because really, chatting with people we don’t know is our job and we don’t cherish doing it on our free time.

6. An interview means the interviewee is the focus. Tempting as it may be to interject and pontificate on some point you think the interviewer may have missed, don’t. You’re just wasting time and making your interviewee sit around longer, both people nodding but not listening because before you came along we were working.

7. Interviews do not happen as chats over dinner. There’s a reason we get paid to do this and that’s because it’s hard work. You have to focus on the person you’re talking to and painstakingly draw out the most interesting nuggets of their lives. Moreover, we take notes while talking. We write everything down, even if we have a recorder because technology can fail. This does not happen with a fork and a knife in hand and a mouthful of food. For a feature story, it takes two hours or more of talking non-stop and both interviewer and interviewed come away somewhat drained. Again, it’s called work.

8. Published photographs are again the result of hard work and detailed set-ups. The good ones can take half and hour to set up. They do not happen in a few clicks.

9. The payoff for me is that I get paid. The payoff for you is that you get a nice big article in the paper.

10. The skill we have that you don’t have is that we can make people interested in what you’re saying. Also, what you find fascinating may not actually interest most people. Trust us, we’ve been doing this a long time.

In which we evade Joyce

The two-week or so hiatus has plunged me into a Roman fixation from which I cannot emerge. When I got back to work last week, the very first day, I marched to the library and borrowed back my copy of Ulysses. I have to admit though my hand kept wandering to other books on the adjacent shelves but finally, I managed to get a grip and borrow only the one I had resolved to. Sadly, in all that time, I’ve only managed to read a couple of pages. (Cut to this post by ??!) I blame this partly on the absense of the book of notes which I had been compelled to return because someone else had reserved it. Now, all I have is some measly “Reader” type thing to help me wade through Joyce’s murky mind and it’s really bringing home the trials and tribulations of the one-and-a-half other poor souls who joined me on this journey. To make matters worse, I capitulated to my Roman obsessions and have now discovered this detective series set in Roman times (full list of Italy-related reading later.) This does not bode well for the future of the Blogyssey, which I am very tempted to GIVE UP (like everyone else who promised to do this with me, I might add).

Does reading about ancient Rome count as research towards reading Ulysses because Ulysses is also part of Roman mythology… ok WEAK I know!

This is it

I landed up watching this film because V is a fan.

When Michael Jackson died, V surprised me by being really shaken and upset. For my part, I had written MJ off a long time ago and I had never quite shaken off the allegations of child abuse that surrounded him, so while I recognised his passing as the end of an era, I didn’t see it as the tragedy that V did.

The film, which I was pretty skeptical about going in, has changed that.

From the opening, the music hits you like a punch. And then you begin to notice the man at the centre of it all. Throughout the saga that followed his death, those close to MJ have averred that he seemed to be healthy and upbeat in the run-up to his concert. Everyone else was skeptical, especially after his rather bizarre appearance at the press event to announce the concert when he seemed hard put to put a few words together, leave alone sing and dance for an entire concert.

But in the footage of his concert rehearsals, he is the old MJ. He is thin but he is full of energy and he can definitely sing. In fact, it’s an impressive insight into how in control he was. He could hear a note that strayed from his original score through all the special effects and he would call on the musician, although he was always gentle about it. He wanted the music and lighting to take its cues from him. He was himself in every move of the choreography.

In fact, the choreography of the dances was the other thing that impressed me. A girl in my office has MJ tunes as her ringtone after his death and I asked her if she was a fan, surprised because Chinese youngsters are not that into English music. She said he admired him as a dancer. I had always associated MJ with his music. The dance made him distinctive but that was secondary no?

Well, watching this film has reinforced for me that for MJ, and probably for any successful musician, dance is an integral part of the package. For the dancers who got to share a stage with MJ it was the experience of a lifetime. The dance was an art form in itself, movement that is all distinctly MJ. It’s amazing how his style is still contemporary and inspiring.

I came away reversing my initial opinion. It is a tragedy that he died. From the looks of it, he had a lot left in him still.

Watching MJ perform live has been said to be the experience of a lifetime. I remember that I chose not to shell out the Rs1000 something for his Bombay show when I was a kid and everyone who went said it was worth every rupee. Watching this film, I guess, is the next best thing.