From the future self

The future self is always the Voice of Reason, the Sage, the one of Experience. Imagining what you would say to your former self, or what your future self would say to you, is a veiled exercise of reflection, of putting the manic things of the present into long-term perspective.

Looking at me, taking two days off from work to work on a 5000-word thesis on setting in Singapore writing, my future self would laugh. She would see the smallness of the endeavour, the meaninglessness of it. Do you remember what you wrote for your undergrad assignments? She would  say mockingly. No? Then what difference will this make?

But then again, it depends on what my future self is. What would I, small mortal being, want my future self to be?

I want my future self to
1. have mastered the art of the eyeliner (I wish something more noble had come to mind as the first thing in the list)
2. be a fair and assertive colleague, in whatever position
3. be still writing, and trying to write better and differently
4. stay slim and fit (because big clothes are expensive, and because one must always remain vain)
5. be bold and to chase dreams

In which case, that hypothetical future self might spur this present self to
1. Push yourself as hard as possible for your writing, be it this thesis or anything else
2. Write, write with a passion and dream big dreams. As S said, we can be like the best of the writers, Genevieve. Why can't we?
3. Explore, experiment, experience (my future self is starting to sound like D, who thinks I'm a swaku sheltered girl who is afraid of going beyond her own boundaries)

On the Writing Life

It's amazing how the years just go by. I used to think only old people talked about years with such casualness, but now, at 32, I refer to 2004  and 2013 as though they are Tuesday and Thursday. I suppose if you think about it, the only time that is truly yours, those after-work hours, don't add up to much. I wouldn't know how to recall the events of each year if I didn't use work as a reference point.

It's been 2 years, 5 months since I left the teaching life, and possibly a year and 7 months till I return to the cesspool. Reading my old posts though, you wouldn't think it was so bad. I spent more time complaining about boredom and singleness and wanting to make my life more meaningful than whining about marking and workplace politics.

2 years 5 months. Since my last blog post, I've

- gotten trained as a museum guide, and met people who excite me about how much they are interested in heritage and culture
- guided 11 tours at the permanent gallery, 1 biennale tour, 3 tours on Singapore art, 2 tours on South and South East Asian art from the Guggenheim
- started on a writing course I enjoy/abhor/view with suspicion/love
- not sewn much
- regressed in guitar skills -- learning rhythm now. Again.

I suppose life has been good. I mean, I know it has, and I should be grateful. I think I am grateful for many things, for health, for family, for friends.

At 32, is one impatient for success, whatever the measure? Or has one mellowed? Is one still seeking for a clear mandate in life, or has one gotten resigned to the fact that life will just continue like that, with questions not answered, or sometimes answered, then forgotten or dismissed.

I need to write, but what to write? How to write? I've deviated quite far off the 'writing life' title of this post, but I think this sums up how I (don't) write. Augh.