Truth On A Platform

Scribbles From The Past

2011-09-14T15:17:00.007+08:00

Writing is hard work.

Revisiting old writing is hard work, if not even harder.

Earlier this week, I took a long dreary stroll along memory lane at Xanga. It was my first blog, beginning in 2003 before drawing to an abrupt close in 2005.

During my journey down Via Memoriae, I concluded one thing: dead blogs are like dead dogs - mangy, decaying and best left alone to RIP. I tripped on missing images. I stumbled on outdated html coding which rendered the blog unreadable in Safari and Firefox browsers. There was even a mention of Netscape in one entry. Good grief.

Fortunately, I found three short scribbles amidst the decrepit remains of what used to be an emotional hideaway. They were all attempts at fiction writing in early 2003. I decided to paste these scribbles below for old times' sake. I assume Blogger, having been bought over by Future-Supreme-Dictator-Of-The-World-Google, will possess a healthier lifespan than Xanga.

Scribble One:

This was written in response to a friend's suggestion. He recommended an excellent fiction writing guide called The Modern Library Writer's Workshop: A Guide to the Craft of Fiction, by Stephen Koch. In one chapter, Prof Koch suggested delving into memories for scenes to help inspire writing.

Spurred on by Mr T (an English teacher now, I think), I took an evening to sit quietly in my room and jot down whatever scenes came to mind. This was one of them:

A book lay open on the table, its white pages a strong contrast to the dark, wooden mahogany surface surrounding it. At first glance, there seems to be nothing unique about the book that would draw a casual onlooker's attention to. Coarse brown paper sufficed as its cover pages; while on the inside, one could easily discern the child-like scribbles that filled the lines .

From a distance it would appear as it is -- an exercise book made of low quality paper meant for school children to write on. But look again closely!

Among the scribbles a lone picture stared out from the pages. It was a newspaper cutting, already yellowed and spotted from age. Hardened by the gum that held it tightly to the pages, the newspaper cutting bore a small, passport sized photograph of a young, slightly effeminate looking Eurasian man. He wasn't smiling. Neither was he angry. He just seemed.. alone. Strangely alone, among the sea of child-like writings that seemed to completely overwhelm the tiny yellow clipping.

He was in his early thirties. Or so the obituary picture said.

Scribble Two:

I feel in images. That is, I see my emotions in some mental visual form. Perhaps this is common to people who like to write, or perhaps not.

The following scribble was written during a particularly low period in my life. It's the closest description of the emotions felt back then, in its raw and unedited form:

Beneath the shades of oaken refuge a young woman lies, exhausted. Kneeling with her arms wrapped around herself. Head bowed, eyes closed. She leans against the ancient gnarled surfaces of an oak tree, as though some form of solace may be sought from them. No one will find her here. She hugs herself more tightly, wishing that the forests would cover her, comfort her. With all the darkness and silence that it offers.

Her name is Alethea. Despair is her pursuer.

Scribble Three:

This was the last scribble I did in 2003, or to be exact, in the entire blog. It marks the introduction to a short story draft. The story revolves around a cantakerous, snooty professor and his encounters with a one-armed bandit of the gambling persuasion.

I know. It could've been written better. If I were to rewrite this, I'd remove all but the first few lines, and even then I'd make edits to whatever remained. I still cringe reading it, partly because I recall thinking 'What a great story this is going to be!'. But there was a story lying dormant in there, if only I can remember what it was. Haha.

Progressive Play

Most people would have never heard of the Diometres Society of Historical Interests. Not even the local postman of fourteen years knew of its existence. He was only aware of the solitary silver number 15 that adorned its double-panelled black walnut doors. Apart from that, it was the sort of building that could hardly excite his interest, choosing instead to fade inconspicuously into the shadows of its grander counterparts.

Professor Erich Shotts was perfectly happy with that sort of anonymity. The last thing he wanted was a curious rabble trampling on the society’s carpeted floors.

To him and many like-minded others, the society was a blessed relief; a place set apart from the otherwise mundane activities that the average person engages in. A place where he would regularly retire after a long exhausting day in the university he taught in. Not that the subject of history ever tired him. It was dealing with minds less adept at discussing the finer details of historical facts that drove him to exasperated disbelief.

“Simply inconceivable!’ he exploded in annoyance one day. ‘I do believe that each succeeding generation of students are increasingly incapable of engaging in a discussion without grotesquely distorting the most elementary of facts!”

“Quite true, quite true,” replied Dr. Mandorf soothingly.

They were now seated comfortably in the members’ lounge, each occupying a large dark grey leather settee. After draining his glass of sherry, Professor Shotts continued his tirade with renewed intensity.

And there you have it. Three scribbles from eight years ago, written at a time when I was still young and hadn't attained legal status to watch R-rated movies. Looking back, I'm thankful for the many writing opportunities that God has sent my way. I like to think my writing has made slow but steady progress since 2003.

Self, I look forward to reading more of your works.

Raising The Dead... Blog

2011-09-13T18:33:00.005+08:00

Fast forward three years, and look what we have here - a new post! :D

To be frank, I never thought I'd post another entry here. I cannot recall what led to the abandonment of this blog or my previous blogs at xanga and diaryland. Suffice to say, my interest in blogging has been rekindled for two reasons:

1) A friend's blog
One of my good friends regularly updates her blog. I've long stopped following people's blogs. Whatever I need to know about my friends, I can find out on Facebook. Ms W's blog is an exception because she's doing her Masters overseas and it's one of the few ways I have to keep in touch with what's happening in her life.

I know. There's Facebook, and it's convenience at just a mouseclick away - or fingertips, if you're a mobile user. But what blogging makes up for its lack of convenience is its potential for a reader to delve deeper into another's life.

After reading through her entries, I felt a little inspired to revisit those good ol' feelings of blogging :)

2) Practise, practise, practise
My dream is to be a full-fledged author. There, I've said it. And lest this dream remains as what it is - a dream - I decided I'll use whatever means I have to practise my writing, even if it means blogging.

Practice, practice, practice writing. Writing is a craft that requires both talent and acquired skills. You learn by doing, by making mistakes and then seeing where you went wrong. - Jeffrey A. Carver

Thankfully, God has blessed me with supportive friends and a small group of like-minded individuals who enjoy writing. It's a lonely journey into self and the unknown, strewn with many Doubting Giants and Demons along the way.

But write, I must. There are too many story ideas floating in my head, whispering to be told to someone. They are there; all I lack are the right tools to unearth and refine them.

My All In All - Lessons From An Ant

2008-07-24T22:46:00.018+08:00

The greatest lesson I learnt today, came not from my lecturer in class.

Nor did it come from an inspirational book cleverly written to get people inspired about inspiration and do little else.

Nope. The greatest lesson I learnt for today appeared suddenly, unexpectedly, and came as a reminder in the form of one of the tiniest and least of creatures:

A humble ant.

A humble common household ant, to be exact. It was brown, miniscule and rather dull in colour; a lowly sort of creature that you'd quickly want to flick or squish upon sight.

And so, the ant and I crossed paths briefly tonight. I, while listening to some worship songs that were playing on my Macbook; the ant, while she was on my Macbook foraging for food.

How my Macbook even ended up as a plausible source of food supply is another story altogether. It was all thanks to someone who came to my room, had durian, poked around on my Macbook with sticky fingers... oh wait, I've just revealed the entire story. Darn.

And so, I was listening to a series of worship songs on YouTube, reflecting on God when suddenly, I noticed a tiny movement on my keyboard.

"Eeww.. it's an ant! Gross..." was my first thought. But strangely, the instinct to flick it away never came.

Instead, I found myself curiously drawn to the ant's odd behaviour on my keyboard.

Apparently, a little yellow spot of food on the board had caught her attention. Being the proverbial hardworker that she was, the ant dutifully proceeded to analyse the food, probably deciding if it was worth carrying back to her home.

As I continued to observe her, I was fascinated by the subsequent changes in her behaviour. At first, all the ant did was to observe the food before her; circling it lazily, occasionally giving it a casual poke or so. Then, having decided that it was worth taking it back, the ant started to give it a big tug.

It didn't budge.

Not one to be easily thwarted, the ant tried to tug at the food again. And again. And again.

Have you ever seen an ant panic?

I watched the ant, once calm and collected in her actions, work herself into a little ant panic. Having failed to move the food with a simple tug, the ant began to climb on top and gave an almighty yank on it. Failing once more to move the immovable, the ant started clinging onto the food in a futile attempt to do the impossible.

I have to admit. I felt almost sorry to see the poor creature try to move something that was obviously stuck. And to watch her fail repeatedly despite her best efforts, not even knowing that she wouldn't be able to move it on her own, struck a chord of pity in me.

So I decided to help her dislodge the food (how kind of me huh).

Then I realised I couldn't do it.

Not because I was unable to or unwilling to help the ant to dislodge the food. On the contrary, I was so much bigger, stronger than the ant that it was almost laughable to think of me doing something as trivial as that.

The reason was simple: the ant wouldn't let me.

In her panic to move something that meant a lot to her, the ant kept frantically running around the food; sometimes clinging onto it, sometimes running around as if in search for other fellow ants to help her do the impossible.

And as long as she stayed close to the food, I couldn't move it for her. Had I intervened, she would probably have been squashed or badly maimed by the 'All Powerful Finger'.

All she had to do was to just step aside, let me dislodge the food for her and all would be fine and dandy. And I wouldn't even expect something in return (seriously, what can I get from an ant that would be of use to me).

But of course, I couldn't communicate to her that I'd like to help her. Even if I had said something, she wouldn't be able to comprehend what I'm trying to do.

Eventually, I couldn't take it. Moving the Macbook, I hoped to scare the ant a little away from the food.

I succeeded; so much so that I succeeded in spooking the creature and she ran away for good.

'Oh well...' I sighed. Before me was the object of the ant's futile efforts. With little ado, I flicked the food away with such ludricous ease that was frankly, quite astounding and ridiculous.

If only the ant had waited.

Anyway, as I mulled over the tiny little drama, I realised it was such a nice simple reminder of two simple truths - that all things are possible with God, and that God Himself has said that He'll never leave us nor forsake us, so I can boldly say 'The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man can do unto me.'

Anyone who's been a Christian for a while would understand the straightforward implications behind The Ant And I.

How often do we struggle before God over something important to us that's impossible for us to handle on our own; yet we refuse to step aside to let God intervene and help us?

We tug, we pull, we run around and around in circles looking for help from others, and then run back to our problem or situation and continue to try harder.

In the end, more often than not, our best efforts end in futility.

And throughout all our frustrations, God is there, watching us and waiting to intervene on our behalf. It's not that God lacks the ability to help, for He's all-powerful; nor does he lack the desire to help us, as He's a loving God.

Perhaps it's because in our attempts to help ourselves, we become so entangled or stuck onto the problem that, if God intervenes directly, we might get hurt in the process.

Or maybe it's because we're so busy running around trying to solve it, we forget to look upwards instead of sidewards for help.

Or maybe we're too distrusting. We think that God expects us to give Him something back in return for the help He gives, like a 'one-time' transaction between two parties.

Unlike the ant, we can speak to God and ask Him directly for His help. Sometimes, I'd suppose situations would be so much better and so less tiring if we just step aside, and say to God "God I can't move this or do this. Will you help me?"

It was a simple reminder; delivered to me in a simple manner by an even simpler creature.

I cannot recall which worship song I was listening to at that point of time, but I do recall listening to 'You Are My All In All' somewhere. Surely He is our all in all, from the tiniest triviality of life to the gravest of situations, nothing is impossible for Him to do if we would just relinquish our all-too-tight control over our problems, and just trust Him to take over.

"Behold, I (am) the LORD, the God of all flesh: is there any thing too hard for me?" - Jeremiah 32:27 (KJV)

Food For Thought: A Former Food Writer Reflects (Part One)

2008-07-05T20:30:00.010+08:00

The Land Of Id

"You're an idiot."

I blinked. The source of accusation, seated in his big CEO seat, continued to speak despite my baffled look.

"You're an idiot for leaving the company."

Lying on the table before him was my proposal for the company's online magazine. The ezine (so it was called) was long overdue for a revamp in content, focus and design. And as the writer 'in charge' of the company's ezine, I was responsible for coming up with the proposal for the revamp. Having resigned from my job two months ago however, it became necessary to hand the ezine project over to my new colleague, who's taking over my position as Feature Writer.

So there we were, standing in The Boss's room on a Friday afternoon; I, to update The Boss on the project's status, my colleague, to listen and follow through. The Boss glanced through the proposal and after a brief, unusual moment of silent reckoning, quietly said, "This has been very well thought through."

That was a minute ago. Now, he seemed to have developed a sudden affection for the 'you're an idiot' phrase.

"You're an idiot for leaving the company, you know that?" There he goes again. At this point, most people would have reacted to such unwarranted accusations of idiocy. But when they come from a hulking 1.9 metre tall German guy, whose acerbic comments and short temper are well known in the industry, it's wisest to keep quiet and just listen to what The Boss has to say.

It was bewildering, to say the least.

"You know why you're an idiot?" added The Big German Boss for what must have been the fourth time. "You're a fantastic writer. Even though you're slow at what you do, but you're a fantastic writer and you've great potential in this company."

It was as if light began to slowly dawn upon me, and I started to understand what he was trying to say.

"So," he continued as he began to take a long drawl on his cigarette, "you're an idiot for leaving the company."

I didn't argue. Satisfied with what he's said, The Boss started to explain what he liked about the proposal and his expectations. Then without warning, he suddenly barked at my colleague.

"What are you just standing there for huh?!"

She jumped. I jumped. He was glaring at her now. "Are you going to take any notes of what I'm saying or are you just standing there to look pretty?!"

Pens came out, notebooks popped out in a hurry.

"You've got BIG SHOES to fill, do you know that? Young shoes," he added sharply, as he gestured towards me, "but BIG shoes to fill."

"Y-yes Mr Z," said my colleague.

Turning his attention back to me, he glared silently at me for a few seconds.

"Why uhh.. th-thanks.. Mr Z. for the uhh... compliment," I stammered.

More silence.

"You're still an idiot."

And strangely, for the first time in my life, I was really glad to be called that.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

2008-06-21T20:58:00.008+08:00

A daughter takes after her mother. And to that, I plead guilty.

Literally.

Glaring at the little AXS station in West Coast Highway Macdonalds, I did what I never thought I would have to do.

"Do you plead guilty to the charge?" flashed the little message on the screen, with a bright cheery green icon underneath, declaring 'YES'.

Do I have a choice? Apparently not, smirked the machine. If you wish to contest this and avoid paying the fine, it snidely added, you can slog it out in court on the 30th of June.

Like any good citizen who wishes to avoid facing a judge and all the hassles of court, I meekly admitted to my crime.

And there you have it. My first ever court conviction.

My guilt? For speeding on the 2nd Dec 2007, at 30 km above the speed limit. My old man, who said that he paid my fine last year, made a miscalculation. So the great omniscient arms of the Law swooped down on this poor little errant driver for not paying her fines, and turned it into a court case. I could still choose to pay off my fine (albeit doubled as a penalty), but it would be considered a court conviction.

Had I taken it to court, what could I say to the judge in defense, to explain why I chose to blatantly break the speed limit?

"I was uhh.... late for church?"

Sure, that was the real reason. And in my defense I sped for a 'good' cause; it's not as if I was doing it for an early morning joyride. Issues of waking up earlier aside, c'mon man... it's not that bad right?

But in the eyes of the Law, breaking a rule is breaking a rule. There's no mosey-ing about it. And there will be consequences for it which you would need to pay it off.

Now...

It bugs me a little, but the parallel between this and my walk with God is so in-your-face blatant. Often, when I go against God, or think "Mmm. I know God's not going to like this, but see, I'm going to do (insert course of action or thought) and He'll probably won't mind. He understands," it can sometimes be so hard to admit that I'm deliberately breaking His commands - no excuses about that.

And then I think that I'll get away with it. Yes, God's patient, God's merciful and He's redeemed me by what He's done on the cross, and because of that I don't have to pay the penalty of my sins. On Judgement Day, I won't have to stand trembling before the great Judge of all ages, and give wishy-washy excuses that won't help to defend my case in any way, since the moment one Law is broken, it's as good as breaking the whole Law.

But sometimes there's just no avoiding the consequences of sin. If I've said something carelessly that hurts a brother or sister in Christ for example, and then I repent of it. God will forgive, and maybe the offended party will forgive, but that doesn't stop the consequences from happening i.e. loss of trust.

What then? Stop sinning? Not possible; since the flesh strives against the spirit and I'll still stumble and do the things I don't want to do, or worst, do things that I know that I shouldn't be doing.

But at least, I suppose I can live each day by making straight paths for my feet, by thinking ahead and giving thought to my ways. "Let your eyes look straight ahead, fix your gaze directly before you. Make level paths for your feet and take only ways that are firm." (Prov 4:25-26)

Like my speeding ticket. If I had woken up early instead of lazing around in bed, I wouldn't be tempted to speed all the way to church.

You may be wondering where my mother fits in all this. With a bright sunny smile, she simply said to me after I returned from the still-mocking AXS machine, "Hey don't worry about it! I had a court conviction too when I was your age! At 25 too! And it was also for speeding; I didn't pay the fine so was hauled to court. Isn't that funny hahaha! Like mother like daughter!"

Uhh Your Honour? I've another excuse... my mother was indirectly responsible. It's the genes man, it's all in the genes.

Truth Descends And Goes Plonk!

2008-05-25T12:51:00.010+08:00

3... 2... 1...

Plonk.

To my dear readers and friends,

I'm back. I'm almost tempted to begin my inaugural entry on blogspot with a lofty, Paul-like flourish 'Greetings to those in Singapore, whose inheritance is firmly established in Christ'; but false humility alongside cheesy humour rears its ugly head with a whip and collar, so I shall restrain my impulses :P

Speaking of Paul, my parents just returned from Turkey. Among the ancient ruins they've managed to visit (lucky them!), they walked the trail Paul did when he addressed the Ephesians* at Ephesus. Listening to them recall their holiday was quite interesting, to say the least.

"And then we walked around the Effefesus place where that Polly guy walked... was it Polly?" said my dad with a pleased look on his face.

Go dad. I know you're not Christian, but thanks for making an effort to follow mom (who's Christian) on this journey.

But I digress.
So why blog? Why resurrect an old habit of writing, when there are old discarded blogs on Xanga (my first) and Diaryland? My last entry on Diaryland was dated in May 2007 - more than a year has passed, and I thought I'd never pull a Lazarus for blogging again.

Much as I enjoyed writing back then, it didn't help that negative thoughts dominated many of my entries, especially during the time when I was struggling with clinical depression.

But now, life has changed. God has changed my life a lot over the past years. Even more so in the recent past year, having been challenged by Him to start serving in church, and in BASIC (youth ministry) too. For one who stubbornly chose to eschew the 'happy Christian youth group thing' throughout her teens, God has an ironic sense of humour (and purpose!) by bringing me back to a youth ministry in church.

So I wish to write once more. No longer abusing this privilege of being able to write, by cloaking emo-depressive ranting with the more palatable notion of 'introspection'; nor hiding behind a shroud of secrecy for fear of being judged.

Just writing. Plain and simple sans the pretension.

Like no-frills NTUC bargain buys :)

*Note: Ephesians is a book in the bible. Paul, an apostle for Jesus, wrote the book to the church in Ephesus.