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)
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Monday, June 16, 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
2012 Retrospective
In 2012, I moved out of my comfortable convent and found a close company of friends amid a Shaolin Temple-style training ground.
In 2012, I lost a dear uncle and a crusty sewing lao shi, whose voice still rings in my ear when I sew anything.
In 2012, I cut my hair short and tried to say farewell to marriage dreams.
In 2012, I moped and became de-skilled.
In 2012, I felt released.
In 2012, I started dreaming again.
In 2012, I read my first story.
In 2012, I learned how to fight without being wounded.
In 2012, the pain of fibroids and endometriosis continued.
In 2012, the worries culminated.
In 2012, my 1st non zero-dollar phone drowned in the office toilet bowl. And was resurrected!
In 2012, I sewed 2 massive roman pillars for the church musical.
In 2012, I took a step of faith when I signed up to sew for the musical.
In 2012, I started enjoying social media.
In 2012, I laughed and loved with my best friends, my parents.
In 2012, I enjoyed being an aunt and having an aunt.
In 2012, I waited.
For all these, I thank the Lord.
2012 has been a good year.
In 2012, I lost a dear uncle and a crusty sewing lao shi, whose voice still rings in my ear when I sew anything.
In 2012, I cut my hair short and tried to say farewell to marriage dreams.
In 2012, I moped and became de-skilled.
In 2012, I felt released.
In 2012, I started dreaming again.
In 2012, I read my first story.
In 2012, I learned how to fight without being wounded.
In 2012, the pain of fibroids and endometriosis continued.
In 2012, the worries culminated.
In 2012, my 1st non zero-dollar phone drowned in the office toilet bowl. And was resurrected!
In 2012, I sewed 2 massive roman pillars for the church musical.
In 2012, I took a step of faith when I signed up to sew for the musical.
In 2012, I started enjoying social media.
In 2012, I laughed and loved with my best friends, my parents.
In 2012, I enjoyed being an aunt and having an aunt.
In 2012, I waited.
For all these, I thank the Lord.
2012 has been a good year.
All the while, You hear each spoken need.
Your love is too way too much to give us lesser things.
Cause what if your blessings come through raindrops?
What if your healing comes through tears?
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You're near?
What if trials of this life, are Your mercies in disguise?
Your love is too way too much to give us lesser things.
Cause what if your blessings come through raindrops?
What if your healing comes through tears?
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You're near?
What if trials of this life, are Your mercies in disguise?
~ 'Blessings' by Laura Story~
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Neurotic. Ah. I get it now.
I borrowed a stack of DVDs to watch over the holiday period because well, I had nothing else to do.
One of them was Woody Allen's 'Annie Hall' --- his magnum opus, or so the blurb on the DVD sleeve proclaimed. As I watched the show, the word 'neurotic' came to my mind a few times.
And it scared me so much that I stopped watching it.
Because I could identify with him.
*shudder*
And there I was thinking that 'neurotic' was a compliment that was synonymous with 'smart'.
Memoirs of a non-hoarder
One of the great fears that my mother has is me becoming a spinster hoarder when she is gone. To prove her wrong, I have resolved to constantly embark on ambitious cleaning missions.
Today was one of them. I was on leave, and had given strict instructions that I was to be treated as if I were on holiday. No chores. No unecessary movement.
Of course that plan failed.
"Can you...oh, you can't right?" My mother said this morning, looking at a stack of dresses. Then she mumbled, "But anyway they are yours, you washed them."
So of course I could. I had to. I brought them up and hung them in my cupboard.
Then, since I was already doing something, I decided to clean out the three drawers in the study room. It had dawned on me how much clutter there was in there when I was hunting for my dongle last week.
So out came a trash bag. And from the drawers, out came years of wedding invitations, letters, postcards, bookmarks and an extraordinarily large amount of notebooks and lanyards. Wedged in between them, were poems and scrawled 'notes to self'.
This poem, in particular, lived in my bible for years until I got my bible rebound and took out all the bookmarks that had been slotted between the pages. It was written in 1996, after I had heard a sermon by Uncle MW in Sunday School. He had asked how many of us would still be Christians in 10 years' time, and had shared that many of his church friends from his MYF days had backslid and turned away from God. That got me thinking, and when I got home, I wrote this poem. 5 years ago, when I turned 25, I remembered this poem and wondered again, would I still be a Christian in 10 years' time, when I turned 35? I guess that was one of the reasons why I changed church. I needed to go to a place where nobody knew me and where I could concentrate on being a Christian without feeling isolated, ironic as that might seem, seeing how I've been sitting alone in service for most of these past 5 years. It doesn't feel so lonely when people don't know you.
Ten Years
Ten years down this winding road,
which people all call 'life',
would I heave my earthly load
without my Jesus Christ?
or would I chase the nation's dream
and collect lots of cash,
forgetting who has given all things,
my Lord, my Jesus Christ?
Would I stop in the big race
and forget my chosen goal,
of pressing to the finish-line,
To win that highest gold?
Would I then join another race
and compete with other 'rats'
seeing who gets the 5Cs first
and which rat is the best?
Or would I still be holding on
To my saviour's hand,
waiting for that blessed day
I enter Gloryland?
Would I say with no regret
that I have kept the faith,
and ran and fought the ran and fight
through the storms and rain?
I can only hope and pray
the latter will be true
and say in my sunset years,
"Lord, I've been true to you."
1996. Gen.
And this is a note to self that made me smile, and wonder if I should get a dog at 31.
Note to Self
If you stay single,
- get a dog at 27
for emotional support
for something to love
and care for
for a chance to feel
heartache
- travel
to escape from weddings
to asset financial freedom
to see the wider picture
to learn and love nature
It was tough deciding what to do with the rest of the stuff. I had kept 4 wedding invitations that I had really liked for their innovative design. But then after looking at them again, I thought, "Heck, why would I want to keep other people's wedding invitations for?" It was the same principle when it came to Christmas cards with pictures of other people's kids.
I kept letters and cards from J though. I should mail them all back to her. Also letters from L when she was studying in Australia. And postcards from India and Taiwan. And postcards that struck me as really well-designed. All these, I tied up with a blue ribbon, which made it look rather romantic.
I kept all the notebooks too. And a cow scrunchie from the $1.99 store which had amused me to no end when I bought it.
Also kept a list of names of Thai schoolgirls I had met during a Chiangmai mission trip when I was in Sec 2. I wonder how they are now.
Today was one of them. I was on leave, and had given strict instructions that I was to be treated as if I were on holiday. No chores. No unecessary movement.
Of course that plan failed.
"Can you...oh, you can't right?" My mother said this morning, looking at a stack of dresses. Then she mumbled, "But anyway they are yours, you washed them."
So of course I could. I had to. I brought them up and hung them in my cupboard.
Then, since I was already doing something, I decided to clean out the three drawers in the study room. It had dawned on me how much clutter there was in there when I was hunting for my dongle last week.
So out came a trash bag. And from the drawers, out came years of wedding invitations, letters, postcards, bookmarks and an extraordinarily large amount of notebooks and lanyards. Wedged in between them, were poems and scrawled 'notes to self'.
This poem, in particular, lived in my bible for years until I got my bible rebound and took out all the bookmarks that had been slotted between the pages. It was written in 1996, after I had heard a sermon by Uncle MW in Sunday School. He had asked how many of us would still be Christians in 10 years' time, and had shared that many of his church friends from his MYF days had backslid and turned away from God. That got me thinking, and when I got home, I wrote this poem. 5 years ago, when I turned 25, I remembered this poem and wondered again, would I still be a Christian in 10 years' time, when I turned 35? I guess that was one of the reasons why I changed church. I needed to go to a place where nobody knew me and where I could concentrate on being a Christian without feeling isolated, ironic as that might seem, seeing how I've been sitting alone in service for most of these past 5 years. It doesn't feel so lonely when people don't know you.
Ten years down this winding road,
which people all call 'life',
would I heave my earthly load
without my Jesus Christ?
or would I chase the nation's dream
and collect lots of cash,
forgetting who has given all things,
my Lord, my Jesus Christ?
Would I stop in the big race
and forget my chosen goal,
of pressing to the finish-line,
To win that highest gold?
Would I then join another race
and compete with other 'rats'
seeing who gets the 5Cs first
and which rat is the best?
Or would I still be holding on
To my saviour's hand,
waiting for that blessed day
I enter Gloryland?
Would I say with no regret
that I have kept the faith,
and ran and fought the ran and fight
through the storms and rain?
I can only hope and pray
the latter will be true
and say in my sunset years,
"Lord, I've been true to you."
1996. Gen.
And this is a note to self that made me smile, and wonder if I should get a dog at 31.
If you stay single,
- get a dog at 27
for emotional support
for something to love
and care for
for a chance to feel
heartache
- travel
to escape from weddings
to asset financial freedom
to see the wider picture
to learn and love nature
It was tough deciding what to do with the rest of the stuff. I had kept 4 wedding invitations that I had really liked for their innovative design. But then after looking at them again, I thought, "Heck, why would I want to keep other people's wedding invitations for?" It was the same principle when it came to Christmas cards with pictures of other people's kids.
I kept letters and cards from J though. I should mail them all back to her. Also letters from L when she was studying in Australia. And postcards from India and Taiwan. And postcards that struck me as really well-designed. All these, I tied up with a blue ribbon, which made it look rather romantic.
I kept all the notebooks too. And a cow scrunchie from the $1.99 store which had amused me to no end when I bought it.
Also kept a list of names of Thai schoolgirls I had met during a Chiangmai mission trip when I was in Sec 2. I wonder how they are now.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Every couple of years, I feel the need to start a new blog. Under the same name. But a new blog, nonetheless. I'm not entirely sure why. All I know is that when this need arises, the blog layout bores me. The blog stops appealing to me. And something tells me gently, it's time to hit the reset button.
Maybe 133 is the maximum number of posts per gensden incarnation.
A brief history of gensden: 1997 - 2003: 'Gen's Den' The very first incarnation of Gen's Den was started when I was 15. It is now lost in cyberspace and possibly archived in some unreadable diskette I might have somewhere. It contained sections like 'Life along the White Belt', stories about my school life, and 'Ducksoup and Dinoisms', a play on the chicken soup series and the name of my childhood diary, Dino.
July 15 2003 to December 18 2005: 'the experiment' (gensden2.blogspot.sg)131 posts over 2 years. These were the Uni years, when I had more time to muse, wonder and to gripe about assignments. It saw me through some painful experiences as well as some really wonderful ones, like training and completing my first half marathon as well going on a 21-day community service trip to India in 2004.
December 28 2005 to October 28 2012: 'Towards the Goal' (gensden4.blogspot.sg) 133 posts over 7 years. These were the work years, full of work angst and rants. I rarely had time, energy or impetus to blog during these years, so I marvel that this blog even survived this period.
And now, from Nov 11 2012 till whenever the itch comes back again, it's just 'gensden'. Life in my thirties, in a new work place. ('New' isn't entirely accurate -- it's been 11 months since I've joined this place, but the shock of having more time to myself is just starting to wear off).
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