observation.

i think a child just might have the best observation skills around.

when we're born into this world,

everything is fresh, new, unfamiliar, and most of all,

uncomfortable.

by sheer instinct babies react to anything they're not comfortable with.

they're on high alert for just about anything, albeit their mother's embrace.

all too often when i see babies, or even young children, their eyes are wide, alert, and darting.

and it is this unfamiliarity, this sense of fresh exposure, that allow their traveling eyes to capture their surroundings.

as we grow, antiquity and familiarity moss over the world, like a veil of dust.

our eyes droop - we look at our feet - and the child-like shine we once had disappears.

and perhaps only returns every once in a while we play tourist.

even the artists, as much as we strive to observe,

grow bored,

grow tired,

grow old.

we attempt to observe the usual in unusual ways,

but might fail to re-capture the freshness, magic, and enchantment little children all too plausibly see everyday.

as children, we observe what we genuinely want to, what we need to.

as we become old, it is likely we observe what we think we want to,

what we think we need to.

conditioning is inevitable, yet somehow necessary.

we shall make do.

let's not grow too fast.

elitism.

if we should seclude ourselves,

build our walls,

sensationalise our hermit ways-

what is this all then?

melodrama?

pretension?

romanticism?

elitism?

i consciously claim that it is mere difference that separates us.

perceived difference leads to elitism only when it causes elevation.

but perhaps elevation has resulted from our constant tendency of over-sensationalisation.

is it then not just child's play?

or does it reach into far more malicious, self-conceited depths?

then the question lies if we are too obsessed with the all too common tumblr-driven hormone,

or if it is a genuine need/issue that one cannot deny.

i would argue the latter, but i cannot deny the effects of the former.

hah but eitherways we're enjoying it aren't we.

so many dreams.

i want to do too many things with my life,

i can't decide on one thing to solely focus on.

- the adolescent tempt to immortality;

everything.

it is time.

we have waited,

we have yearned;

purposeful freedom duly earned.

smiling we thought we had it all,

yet realise there's time to learn.

- everything has it's due turn.

the littlest task should never refute its call.

for all that

pistol of passion fires

in our unborn desires,

(they creep across the white,

in our cubby hole they hide);

we cannot lie-

or pretentiously deny-

the weight of each moment,

the essence of each laugh,

the pang of nostalgia

the languor of hysteria.

do not brush these aside,

everything has its due turn.

for as long as we create our pride;

you prepare-

purposeful freedom.

suspension.

loosely dappled,
silkily sewn,
carefully plumed,

suspended against;

the upper blankets tempt me away

suspended against a wash of colours

it is never known;

i despise this suspension.

strange dream.

i had a dream that i was deeply, deeply bored.

not just like, "i need to play a great computer game now" kinda bored.

but a, i'm bored of this reality,

i'm bored of this life,

kinda bored.

throughout the dream, i was in my room,

trying to do work,

but each time i tried i just couldn't focus.

it was a strange dream, because

i woke up today and realised i never had a dream more real.

recognise.

art is not paint on a canvas,

smudge on an apron,

it's not detachment where we retreat to our little cave

and indulge away with our little brushes, colours, palettes.

we don't condemn the mathematician for formulating,

neither do we judge the scientist for experimenting,

in the end no one can say that these things aren't art either.

art is when you confess that you're daring to challenge-

that you're willing to not just follow but explore for yourself.

if the mathematician destructs the 1+1,

or the scientist offers the radical hypothesis;

likewise on the other hand if the painter paints the perfect mona lisa-

who's the artist?

art is a jungle exploration with scimitars, not a guided hike with insect repellent.

it is a passionate confession, recognition, that you're an individual.

just you, not this whole "collective entity which gives you your identity" schmitz.

everyone should be living art in whatever they do.

note to self.

" For what it's worth -

it's never too late, or in my case too early,

to be whoever you wanna be.

there's no dying limit, you can stop wherever you want-

you can change or stay the same;

there are no rules to this thing.

we can make the best or the worst of it -

i hope you make the best of it.

i hope you see things that startle you

i hope you feel things you never felt before.

i hope you meet people with a different point of view.

i hope you live a life that you're proud of.

if you find that you're not -

i hope you have the strength

to start all over again. "

~ the curious case of benjamin button.

the same dream.

it's more than just the fatigue of daily living;

it's more than just the drudgery of routine in life.

it's a striving, a seeking;

a yearning that caves down on itself in a realisation of hopelessness because maybe we're all just too fantastical.

my greatest fear, is living a normal life.

we are too ignorant--ignorance that leads to fear--to admit reality's grasp over our imaginative idealism.

not talking about the reality of making a living, i have no fear over that,

but the reality of living.

in years to come, it is possible that i'll look back on this and laugh, seeing some folly which the present self fails to realise, the folly of a dream.

but i fear who that man might be.

and that right now, this moment, dream-like as it might seem in the future, is everything in absolution at its purest form.

"...that they might go the fools among."

gah.

ib's not getting harder;

i'm getting lazier.

second home

Art room

we’re all just mad; inadvertent
the speakers’ blast
harmonious melancholy;
what’s future, present, past
gets tangled up all in the strings.
like finely selected hair; dab, dab, dab;
as we jab, jab
our way through gelatin glass
like raindrops in near-stop motion
all round us
a little bit mad.

- a poem dedicated to the only subject i enjoy.

fight for (2).

art is not a capability but a confession.

it's not whether you have talent, skill, ability or not - conventional, shallow, traits.

but whether you're willing to aspire, to admit, to choose, to fight.

and what makes art, art, is that it is a confession, that not just anyone, or everyone, is willing to speak, or make.

but if there did come a day, where everyone could/would confess.

art just might become that little bit less special.

future, present; present, future.

the common belief is that, humans get so caught up in thinking about the future, that they forget to live for the present. therefore when we as students study, logically we're obsessed about our futures, and not about our presents. (In plural cos they're all different).

for me it's different. only when i live for the present can i study. for when i obsess and fantasise about my future, i do not need a high-paying job, neither do i need the top rung of the career ladder.

I just need something that'll let me live life, and not let life live me.

please not a desk job.

grey curtain

today i sat in my computer chair

as my eyes glided over the grey curtain

though finding nothing of particular interest

didn't know when to stop, or where.

indifference, when it comes,

is a funny thing.

the tv rays go straight through my head.

my hand writes, it is unfamiliar

with the chinese words it produces.

had i not written these words before?

a bit am i, out of sorts;

my head is tired filled with thoughts.

music, break these walls!

my heart crawls to sensationalise

can i sensationalize life?

does my indifference neutralise or reveal?

indifference when it comes is a funny thing.

neutralize! reveal!

fire the guns of tomorrow.

maybe then, a curtain could be more interesting.

i didn't know when to stop, or where.

but i guess here will do.

a bit i am, out of sorts.

deep inside.

i think i really just want a simple life.

my fantasy.

Agrestic.
-Pertaining to fields or the country; rural; rustic.


i always dream of living a life,
where i look at my feet and they're framed by grass
which is never still by the way always dancing
because when i look up the fresh gentle slap on my cheek reminds me so.
and the clouds hastily combed in the sky tell me so.

and in my mind i paint an open field to which my left foot belongs.
never still by the way, this field, always moving.
and i'm a foot's length away from a gurgling river to my right.
and i wonder if the cold water learnt its great secrets of refreshment from the wind.
which is never still by the way, always moving, both of them.
and even the mountain in the distance
which my feet ache to trek on, is not as stubborn as it looks.
for she too, (yes, she) moves oh so slowly, subtly and magically,
sweating a boulder, rock, pebble every now and then
trying on a new coat of ice
then always thinking it out of season when she sees herself in the mirror of summer.
yes, she too, moves.
and this happens several times.

this happens several times.
and i look at my feet.

and i realise my feet-

my feet can't move.

phantasmagoria.

what a splendiferous word.

Phantasmagoria.
1. A shifting series or succession of things seen or imagined, as in a dream.
2. Any constantly changing scene.



ib, for one, feels a bit too surreal.

yeah i expected things to be different, just not to such an extent.
it's hard to explain, it's just the general feel and mood of it all.
there's a distance between you and everything else.

people drift in and out, new faces are seen in each class.
and then you go on to the next.
and the next.

you never eat with the same people during recess.
you all somehow apparently end school at different times.

you only see your form class for but a few periods (contact time, chinese, tok?)
then again not all of them.


it's almost like you get to know everyone,
yet no one, really.


at least for now.

i think a key reason is because of the huge shift from last year's culture.
which was all that i've listed up there's, presence of.
the class was with each other all the time,
each lesson
each recess,
each end of the day.
and our class chemistry was amazing, so it pretty much adds a punch of an effect to whatever's happening now.

i wonder if i'll ever find a class with better chemistry.
miss the days of 3.15-4.15



so, so, surreal indeed.

before the memories fade.

i should pen down all the memories i have of my dad, before they grow dim.


as i ate supper today, i sat at the table alone.
and i was hit by this ancient memory, a lil' something which happened somewhere in primary 4 or so.

my round, marble-top dining table.
my dad, sat, roughly opposite me, a bit to the right.
and i probably had a sulk on my face.

it was lunchtime, i had just returned from school, and i was eating merrily (expressed in speed) when my dad sat down next to me, and scrutinised my less-than-appealing manners.
and then he told me how gentlemen should eat, and i was not eating like a gentleman, and it was bad manners, and i told him, dad i'm eating at home, it doesn't matter. and the likes.

but anyway he made me slow down, and raised his voice everytime the rate of my food-in-mouth replacing went too fast, or the speed of my spoon was too hasty (seriously). and i got so frustrated, cos the way i enjoyed my food was to stuff myself, so it was a pain to eat slowly.

well, he succeeded in that session, and many more onwards.
whenever he saw me eat a tad too fast again, at any meal time, his standard line would be, "Slowly, ryannn..."



I appreciatively chewed on my food as I savoured this memory tonight.
and smiled inwardly, seeing how my dad had succeeded.



thanks dad. (:





feels like a descending sort-of sorrow.

so beautiful.

i have a grandaunt, we call her "ji gou".
and we visit her every chinese new year.

not so long ago, sometime in the middle of this year-
on a sunday, our dad asked us not to make plans after church youth service, as ji gou had fallen ill, and was hospitalised.
he wanted us to go visit her as a family.

at the hospital, ji gou had seemed so different.
her hair seemed grey-er, and it was cut short, compared to the relatively vibrant curls we used to see every once a year.
even something about her face had changed-it was paler, and had lost that familiar spark.
her eyes that once squinted with happiness were now open, and sad.

my dad, knowing her the best, talked to her in dialect, asked her questions.
i watched, and flashed an occasional smile, touched her thin elderly hand.
i watched, and saw how my dad was just sitting there, beside her, continously exchanging words of dialect, continuously smiling at her with his bright face.
at one time, my dad intended to ask a nurse if visitors were allowed to bring in food and feed her, and would've done so if my mum hadn't pointed out that she was only allowed to take specific forms of food.
when it was time to go, we said our wishes and byes, my dad comforted her for a while more, and we left.

*************
a few months later-

as i sit on a chair near the casket, an elderly woman enters through the doors.
i only notice her, and recognise her as ji gou, when she arrives at the foot of the casket.
her hair was still cut short, just like in the hospital, and she looked more or less the same.

and as she reached the very side of the casket, she shifts her hands, to support her weight, and, with the support of others, shakily stands up.

her sad, open eyes looked down.


and in the few, brief, seconds she had to see my father's face...she did.


almost collapsing, she sat back into the wheelchair.
and was escorted away.







who would've guessed.

goodnight dad.

on August 31, 2009, Monday, 7:26am, William Goh, my father, passed on.

and it's amazingly relieving to know, that he accepted Christ the night before, not as a last minute i-know-i'm-gonna-die sorta thing, but as an honest sincere decision. why? because he didn't know he was going to die.

my dad had sat down in the middle of the kitchen, his seat on a chair and his legs propped up on another one.

my maid had gone up to tell us. i was the only one who heard and/or was available, so i went down to check.

seeing him on the char in the middle of nowhere, i asked "dad, what happened?"

"it's okay, i'm okay. just need to rest for a while." (the words might not be exact, as i had just woken up.)

"alright." i hugged him. one last time.

i started on my way back upstairs, when he called after me.

"goodnight."




"haha, dad. we just woke up, it's 6am."

his fever had made him ever so slightly delusional.

i went back upstairs, had to dress for teacher's day, as i was supposed to emcee. but eh, it could wait, so i lay down for a while more.

five, ten minutes later, my maid comes rushing upstairs.

"Ma'm, ma'm! Sir collapse!"

the whole family rushed out of their rooms, zooming downstairs into the backyard.

he thought he had garnered enough strength to walk to one of his favourite spots in the house- the steps leading to the backyard. my maid, after supporting him there, left him, but even seated down he couldn't support his back upright.

our family gathered around him. people rushed in and out of the house. called ambulance. called my godma (dad's sis). mum started performing cpr.

"hello? 44 Jalan Kesoma." I said into the phone.

"6282 6491. yes, please come quickly."

"is he breathing?" the man on the other side asked.

"yes." i replied.

my mum exclaimed frantically, "barely!"

"barely!" i said into the phone.

"okay we're on our way now."

"yes, please come quickly." i said.

"okay."

i rushed back to my dad's side. mum was still performing cpr, russ and rach were crying, saying daddy please, daddy please, and crying out dad! dad!!! reuben held his right hand, tears streaming down, and told my distraught mother, "daddy feels very cold, mum."

i sat beside him, on the steps, holding his left hand, and kept praying, kept proclaiming Jesus' name, kept proclaiming that he won't go on that day.

ambulance came, doctors did cpr, loaded him onto the ambulance.

after calling our respective schools to tell them we couldn't go, my godma arrives shortly after on a cab, and then drives us on our parents' car to the hospial.

we wait anxiously for half an hour, while i keep building up faith that he won't die on that day.

and like a movie, the nurse calls his name.
"Goh Lye Guan?"

we follow her to a doctor, he slowly breaks the news to us in an ambiguous manner which becomes unambiguous when the word "death" is heard.

emotions shatter across the people.

i had not absorbed it yet because i was in some sort of denial.

"it can't be, it can't be. God like how You rose up Lazarus, like how You rose up the man's little girl, even if my dad's dead you can raise him up."

a while later, we're led in to see the body.

i touch him.
"daddy, wake up."

my mum's tearful eyes looked into mine and she said "ryan, don't ask dad to wake up, let him go peacefully."

and then i broke down.

and it's already been more than a week.
seems really recent, yet really long ago.


funny to think how his last words were like an accident yet not so. he didn't know he was going, after i left him he told my maid that he was going to the doctor later and told her that he wanted her to iron and ready his pants, etc.

how did he accept Christ?

well my mum felt it in her heart to share with him one more time the night before. so she did, and asked him if he wanted to, and he said ok, twice to confirm. she then prayed with him.

the following morning (his last), he told my mum how the numbness in his fingers had left him, and he proclaimed thanks to Jesus. he told my mum how various pain in parts of his body had left him, and he thanked Jesus, all as my mum recalls, in a child-like voice, one she never heard him speak in before.


well, i'll see you soon dad. thanks for accepting Christ, it's really heart-lifting. the human side of me wished that i could see the new-born you now, but God had called you back for a greater, better purpose.

and so, till I wake up on those golden roads, where the light is bright, and meet you again,

i'll have to say, goodnight, dad.