Snippets

1. While in the train, I noticed a Chinese guy talking over his mobile phone. Then it seemed his phone conversation was disrupted abruptly. A split second later a ringing tone – that sounded rather like the tone of an office telephone – was heard coming from his back pack. I was totally nonchalant about it, until he unzipped his bag and pulled out a phone handle with a coiled cord attached to it! My jaw dropped instantly, and so did the other passengers’. As much as I wished to maintain my calm composure, I think I lol-ed and it is unfortunate that he caught a sight of my lol facial expression, which made him a little shy. But for the rest of the journey he continued to chat his way on his “mobile telephone”, much to the amusement of those around him. Somehow, such gimmickry reminded me of the typical Stephen Chow movie.

The Problem with Reincarnation

My first conception of reincarnation as a kid was through a Hong Kong drama adapted from Journey to the West, one of the Four Great Classical Novels from ancient China. It was a story about the pilgrimage undertaken by a monk, accompanied by his three proteges to India (the birth place of Buddhism); hence Journey to the “West”. The flesh of the monk, as the story goes, is highly desireable as it is believed to be the key to mortality, so it was an interesting journey full of pitfalls as the demons and spirits attempted to feast on him while his three proteges struggle to protect their master.

The story flirted with various metaphysical story elements. The Buddha would appear out of nowhere in the middle of the show, so would the lady sitting in yoga position on a giant lotus flower (the Goddess of Mercy). I was also exposed to the concept of hell and heaven. Such depiction on television definitely had some bearing on my early perception of the universe that I inhabit. For a while, the boundaries between the realm of the show and the real world was blurred. I was god-fearing. I would not lie, not even a white lie that bears not the slightest malicious intention, for fear that I will go to hell, which, again through the depiction on the tv, occurred to me as an unpleasant place that I certainly do not want to be in.

5 Feet 9

Today I realized I was only 5 feet 9.

For much of my teenage years, I was largely unpertubed by my height and had on numerous occasions assured myself that “everything will fall into place”, perferring to outsource my vertical accendancy – and those sleepless preoccupations – to nature.

I craved for 180cm. Or more. Nature gave me 175cm eventually. And if the last word in the previous sentence triggered an annoying blip on the radar of the most conscientious of readers out there who would spring their feets and advocate for concise writing and truncation of unecessary words, in a while they will see why that is necessary in aid of the understanding, and to put into context, the despair of this author. At the ripe age of twenty, nature dictates that there is little, if any, that I can do about my height. And so the pressure is on to forgo the dream, which I am sure shared by many men out there, to look like Kang Sang Woo – 6 feet tall and ripped.

Two hundred bucks later…

Last Friday, I spent a hundred bucks each on:

1. hair washing products; because my hair is so dry and tend to defy gravity when short, lamented my hairstylist
2. a new bag; because the old one is torn and thus fluffy on some parts, which is a rather unglam item to carry around while sashying down the street

As a thinking and reflective consumer, I realized that on both occasion it was the charm of the salesperson that motivates to reach out to my wallet. I arrived as wary, and cynical consumer, but I left with a self-confidence that my purchasing decision is worthwhile and my money well-spent. There was a heightened level of trust in the salespersons the moment they speak. I listened attentively and engaged in what I called a “temporary and willing suspension of scepticism”. The rest, is history.

Male Appeal

On two separate occasions, people were surprised to learn that I do not have a girlfriend. I was accused of not trying hard enough, because I play the piano and the violin (and recently the saxophone) and “girls have a soft spot for male musicians”, or so I was told.

My quick mental cogitation suggest that such phenomena, if indeed exist, stemmed from the cultural stereotype of these male musicians. The archetypal male pianist – so often perpetuated by mass media, especially in the form of Taiwanese idol drama or Korean melodrama – is quiet, introverted, yet expressive. He channeled his innermost feelings from his bosom, whether anger or joy, with sheer decorum and lyricism – through the keys of the piano. The same can be said of the male violinist, although “expressive” deserved an emphasis since violin is known to be the most expressive of musical intruments. I would also go as far as saying the male violinist emanates a sense of profundity, aptitude, and prodigiousness, given that the violin is said to be the most difficult instrument to master.