On Hiatus, for now

Well, it's over, for now, that is. It's strange how much clutter the past 17 months have left me, clutter in my room, head and heart.

That last day Friday in Gedong had sadness, nostalgia and no small measure of joy I'll admit all rolled up into one. I had delayed on signing my clearance forms, perhaps borne of an unvocalized and irrational desire to prolong my stay, and once I wanted to get it signed, I realized to my dismay that Captain Paul (my OC) had taken overseas leave for the rest of the week and I had to find someone else to sign it, a little more troublesome than it needed to be. After that I needed to pass the forms on to Persnode and to surrender my camp pass as well, however after making the trip down I found (and at this point I was more bemused than anything else) a sign pasted on the door "We will be closed on 280613 and will be open for half a day on 010713" so having posted the previous night that I had probably spent my last night in Gedong and would miss the place, the irony that perhaps I'd been granted my wish afterall wasn't lost on me. Eventually though, I was able to drop it off with my S1 for safekeeping and a promise that they'd pass it on to Persnode for me; much to my relief. The rest of the morning was pretty much spent packing the last of my things, making decisions on what to leave behind, what not to, farewells bade, signing out on the book in/out book for the last time (Reason: Disruption how understated) followed by one last trip down to the E-mart with Kenneth, Nelson and Lt. Gerald to spend the last of my credits (boots for everyone!), "luggage" in tow, and out, out the guardhouse, "Once Armour Always Armour" same for armoured engineers?, and off to CMPB, an exchange, green for pink, immeasurable elation, a civilian once more.

I'm glad then, that after rushing through my dental and medical FFIs on Wednesday (a farce, if I may say so) that I had the opportunity to sweat it out with the rest of the section in reassembling one side of the Wallaby tank's track, breaking the other side and stripping the track pads from it. Sweaty but honest work, and if felt good to work on arguably our toughest task as AE with the rest for the last time, along with the satisfaction of a job well done. I couldn't help but have some lingering feelings, guilt at being unable to help the guys with the rest of Wallaby prep, so many things unsettled and undone, missing the retarded and fun times together, yet I know that these are soon to evaporate, as such sentiment is wont to do, with the passage of time. Does the time that we had together have any less meaning because of that? I think not.

As a whole, and in a bid to put a fullstop to this stage of my NS journey, it's certainly been an eye-opening experience, one that I find myself able to look upon (selectively, of course) with no small amount of fondness.The pretty quintessential army experience in BMT and SCS, along with the totally unexpected opportunity to be an Armored Engineer and drive a freaking tank are all going to reside in my memory. It's fairly obvious, at least to myself, that I've changed, to some extent or the other, throughout my time in NS. I've met people who I've truly disliked (quite a first, trust me) and as I progressed through, I think I've become, on some level, more impatient and quick to judge, sometimes quick to frustration (though hopefully not to frustrate). I have though, at least I'd like to think, become a little better at communicating, more open, and really, quite a bit better at standing up for myself. Amidst all this change, I've also come to realize that there are aspects of myself which for better or worse, aren't going to change as easily. Army has made me aware of my limitations. It's not an easy thing to accept, knowing that no matter how much I try, though there are aspects of my personality which sway perceptions of me in ways I don't entirely enjoy, that there's sometimes not much that I can do about it. I can't help but wonder if that's a role which I've sunk myself into too deeply to find my way out of at this point of time. And do we, as we go on and meet new people in life, seek to assign and consign them to familiar roles, in a subconscious bid to simplify daily interactions? It kinda makes sense, if you take it that our Monkey Spheres only have room for so many people, so taking it as if we were interacting with the same basic kinds of people, over and over again, might make things easier, no? Or perhaps as we enter foreign environments, we seek comfort in familiarity, make attempts to recreate what we already had, slide easily into roles we're used to adopting, substitution at work. Pretty interesting line of thought for personal pondering, maybe.

I've deviated somewhat from my original aim, I guess that's for the best, I've been left with a wealth of memories, loads of nostalgia and if I were to unload it all here I'd probably never be finished. Let's leave it as such, for now, though I still feel somewhat unsatisfied. Maybe I'll come back sometime in the future (not)

It's time to move on, on and on. And while the magic may not always flow, I'd like that we move on together, for a little more at least, though hopefully a lot longer.

It was a pretty sedate if not quite sedated Saturday COS in not-so-sunny Gedong, I was initially under the impression that I'd finally be able to overturn that sleep deficit of mine but apparently waking at 5am for flag raising (in an otherwise empty battalion) thinks otherwise.

The week started off interestingly enough, a semi-important presentation to some visiting general with loads of crabs and a couple of stars floating around to grace the occasion and 3 chocolate bars ferrying them around, imagine! Yet I somehow got the impression that they didn't really care how well we presented. Though the foreign one did pepper us with a few questions, it was probably more out of polite curiosity than anything else, and I got a strong vibe that it really didn't matter to our side at all so long as there were no major complaints. Oh well.

The rest is only noteworthy for how unremarkable it was. Greasing the rack pins on our bridges is a tedious task; involving degreasing each of 748 pins (try saying that number out in Chinese lol) by way of vigorous twisting and wiping them individually with newspaper before going over it all again with a fresh coat of grease. We did that for 3 bridges on Wed, and what I found remarkably unremarkable was that amidst the twist, pull, degrease and repeat, twist, pull and repeat, barely a thought crossed my mind. I seriously found myself thinking about why I wasn't thinking about anything, till that thought itself was shoved to the back of my head beneath the mindless repetition. It's not like I'm new to repetition, shooting made sure of that, yet it's as if there's zero stimulus in the work I'm doing, or it's so totally mindlessly absorbing that I'm unable to wander whilst doing it, besides occasionally cursing under my breath as I wipe my sweat with my sleeve or knee, hands too dirty you see. I'm honestly quite scared whenever I stop to evaluate, if you will, the extent that my mind has degenerated over the past months.

Well anyway, time to type something random. I've been thinking (oh the irony given what I just typed above) and I suppose a lot of grief and frustration we have is due to our expectations, and more specifically, due to a mismatch between these expectations and reality. I've got loads of section mates complaining that they don't feel like they're being treated as sergeants; that we don't enjoy the privileges which they feel we deserve. Though I obviously wouldn't balk at greater privileges, I don't think things are that bad, I mean, what more do you want to ask for? Expectations that arise from a misplaced sense of entitlement are obviously begging to be disappointed. I guess not having had had a true taste of reality, and constantly being rewarded for most of the things we've been doing in much of our early life, we've come to expect alot; be it recognition, material recompensation etc for effort towards anything we do, and this results in a faulty or truly unrealistic gauge of the proportion of effort:reward. I haven't quite come to terms with it myself and occasionally find myself wondering why the world isn't bending over backwards to kiss the ground at my feet for every little thing I do, every little pearl of wisdom that spills from my mouth. Cause that's obviously the way the world's supposed to work, right? Obviously that's only one way to look at it. In such cases it's imperative to relook our mindset to adjust our expectations accordingly and be less delusional about things. But what about when expectations aren't overly high; when reality simply fails to meet expectations where it should. It would obviously be a travesty to resign oneself to the reality of things; who'd change things (for better or worse) otherwise? Like most things there's probably a happy medium between delusional and cynical resignation for each of us, and what I'm trying to say is that it's very important to learn to choose your battles. Sometimes when you give up you might be right that you're wrong, that's better than being wrong that you're right, but if you're passionate about it maybe it doesn't matter either way.

More than a little presumptuous I'm aware, and probably an overly simplistic treatment but that's the "best" I can muster for now.

Bleh off to sleep now. Just found out that tomorrow morning's convoy was cancelled so I retracted my am off for nothing. I really do hope we win today's match though :/

Chemical-Induced Madness

Urgh that was a depressing performance, and I just got chased out of my room by a bunch of mosquitoes. Hopefully the parting salvo of repellant will do the job and I'll have a bed for the night.

Oh and I may be depressed, perhaps due to this medicine I'm taking for my acne, which still persistently refuses to go away, and may actually be getting worse, in no small part due to the dust, grease and dirt I face everyday. It was a weird moment, as I sat there in the bunk, finding myself getting frustrated and pissed, more than I usually do at the usual playful jabs and at other more serious incidents which I would normally have approached more calmly. It took some self-control to collect myself and give myself the metaphorical long, hard look. Was it simply a bout of foul mood that I was experiencing, or was it something more? Was the paranoia and constantly suspecting my bunkmate's motives - there'd been a theft of $100 earlier this week, not my money - while thinking that everyone was out to get me my usual cynicism at work or something else? The period happened to coincide perfectly with the time I had started to increase my dosage, and as I leafed through the potential side-effects of the drug, I found the psychological effects pretty striking. So, was that it? I don't like the idea of blaming such things on external factors, and I'd taken it before without experiencing something similar, but I don't think I was behaving and thinking like myself, and having pretty frequent headaches as well. It was pretty damning. And isn't it scary? You believe in self-determination, in having control over your own thoughts and actions, yet are forced to realize that they can be influenced by the smallest of things, perhaps a miniscule amount of chemicals flowing through your blood. It's frightening to think how little control one may have over himself. There are so many things that affect a person, genetics, the way neurons in his brain are linked to one another, the expression of certain genes resulting in the production of certain chemicals by the cells in his body which determine the way in which he reacts to his environment. There's certainly alot more factors to it, but I can't help but pose the question: Are our thoughts and actions really our own, or are we simply being driven to a forgone conclusion?

Anyways, I shall work at a more conscious level of self-control, and perhaps attempt to halt myself when I find myself on that all-too-familiar downward spiral of thoughts and emotions. Sitting at home myself for much of the day, just chilling has been a great help, I think :)

Somedays I wake up, a crazy idea at the foremost portion of my thoughts, just waiting to burst out, and sometimes it does. Yet other times I give pause to that reckless part of myself and allow the day to pass me by, stamping that moment of craziness surely and steadily into the ground. Who's to say whether that's for better or for worse, eh?

Views from the Sentry Post

Just going to type out what I spent my hours at that sentry post working on; during my unfortunate guard shift. It's pretty lengthy, and in unedited form, with parts written as I struggled to remain conscious, so I don't expect anyone to read it in its entirety, or for it to be a good read. Call this a temporary escape from reality, with that blasted portfolio to prepare.

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310312  1822

The sight of birds, hundreds of birds, perched on the roof, beaks to the four poles. These birds lifting off simultaneously, coalescing in a feathery cloud, frantic flapping. It wheels and cavorts in the air, joyously, gracefully, and effortlessly, making its rounds around the spires of the cable antenna, wending through the rooftops, to settle down once again. An airshow exclusive; for my eyes alone.

An ant, impressive once more, strength concealed within its fragile frame, hoisting a winged creature of some sort with its jaws alone, not constrained merely to the horizontal but traveling along the vertical as well, making its gravity-defying way up along the guard house window frame. But with its frame so slight, and the corpse it bears (for it is a corpse, surely) so wispy, maybe its not such a herculean feat afterall.

A spider; an odd-looking one, more so than any I've seen before; not that that says much honestly, skitters across uncharted land. It pauses, occasionally, or maybe frequently, I know not. But even as it pauses, its mandibles work incessantly, moving in frenetic manner, one moment towards what I must presume is its mouth, the next, extending to touch that which it treads upon. What is it doing? I wonder. The movements look a little too deliberate, if a non-sapient creature could ever be accused of being deliberate, to not have a meaning behind them. Setting the foundations for a web, perhaps. And behold, the right foremost limb decides now, to partake in this most curious of activities as well. And yet, as it moves on, continuing its journey, there is no thread.

Why? Why do we use words such as journey? An implied beginning, middle and end; and if not end, then at least an intended destination, for I speak of course, of journeys that never reach completion. A meaning attributed where perhaps whence there was none. Over-compensation, perhaps, like how the deprived adolescent sees and hears innuendo in each thing he encounters. Hence Shang Hsuen’s epiphany, an emphatic declaration “Everything’s a phallic symbol!” way back in Sec 2. A lacking inside, the answer to which we hope to find outside, foolishly assuming that if we but seek hard enough, ask the right questions, that the answer will come eventually. And yet I can’t help but feel that the sensation of lacking only intensifies the harder you search, the longer the search extends, and if you don’t seek, you may never realize something is missing at all.

And still I choose pain. Forlornness over ignorance. The hollow; the mirthless, these laughs are mine, tireless companions on this journey of mine.

A cat, black as midnight (clichéd?), not-quite-emerald eyes (to turn the cliché on its head), stalks the footsteps of my prowlers as they make their way along their route, path momentarily passing my lonely post. Bad luck stalking their heels? Hope not. Amazingly lithe form though, legs moving in an effortless display of coordination as it leaps forth in bounds, muscles pumping under its fur, black lightning streaking across the field of grass in its pursuit.

And behold, an hour has passed, almost forty minutes, incessant writing, penning down, thoughts to paper. How strange I must look, to an observer, just outside. A green clad man, under cover from the elements, under cover yet he insists on donning that cap. A black watch he wears, rotating his wrist, ever-so-slightly, in degrees, all so frequently, what use would a man have for knowledge of the time so often? In the window he stands, doorway to his back –  I call it a doorway but it’s more an opening, really, what’s a doorway without a door, afterall – windows open to his left, right and front; windows open yet down he looks. Rifle, B197, if my eyes don’t fail me, slung around his neck. Carrying a rifle, yet down he looks. A pen he clutches, and with this, he writes, writes about things he sees while looking down, writes about things he thinks about, while thinking about what he writes. What is the meaning of this? How could meaning possibly be attributed to something which itself is used to pass the time while doing something meaningless? The man stops. Has he finally realized his folly? No. Furtive glances around. Reaches into his left pocket and extracts his phone.

And now he resumes his lonely, and very distracted vigil.

To my left, beyond the gate I hold the keys to; have opened and pulled apart, ponderous weight, inertia rendering it both hard to set into motion and arrest; the inbetween being no difficulty at all, beyond that gate lies a sea of green; blue-ish tint cast by the clouded sky above. It’s hard to make out anything in particular, indistinct outlines blend into the approaching darkness. I see dark silhouettes against the blueness of the sky; skeletal, bushy, though even they are soon to vanish, devoured by the dark of night.

A cacophony, a thunderous roar, ridiculous, to think that so many small chirps could accumulate to something so much greater. It erupted, from nowhere, it seems, silence shattered in one moment of concerted noise. I willingly concede though, that perhaps, intent as I was on this meaningless endeavour, I may have subconsciously filtered out the noise.

Dark has fallen, in what seems to be mere moments. The winged creatures have emerged, flittering about on gossamer wings, that look like they’d fall off with the most careless puffs of breath; and indeed did, as I unintentionally discovered, much to my regret. They congregate in numbers, as they are wont to do, around the sources of light, as if seeking solace from the darkness, solace in these bastions of light. Much like myself, as I cower in my sentry post, to be honest. Yet I find myself disinclined towards sharing this outpost of mine with such unruly visitors, who annoy me to no end with the disregard for my personal space in their ill-disciplined flight routes. I turn off the white halogen light, to signal the end of visiting hours.

Now comes a visitor who I take no offence against. Reptilian; padded toes, obsidian eyes glistening, reflecting the street lamps. Abrupt its movements are, limbs flashing momentarily, in a great flurry, seemingly here one moment and there the next, without much passage, if any, through the interim. It doesn’t stay long, a flurry of limbs, and it’s gone again.

And so the second shift ends; with a going in the shadow of a coming, a coming in the shadow of a going, and all of it, it all shrouded in the shadow of purposeless.

010412 0023

And now begins the third. Dark has truly fallen, painting the land a coat of matte black. Street lamps struggle valiantly, and do have some measure of success, in collective effort, but strain futilely against the peripheral darkness, impenetrable to their greatest efforts. Rocky Hill Camp, I must imagine, a luminescent pearl amidst the darkness, as I imagine, is Ladang Camp. And between them, Tekong Highway, 2x street lamps erect on either side, silent sentinels  along the entire stretch, or so I am led to believe, the shimmering thread connecting them, in this dark of night which carpets the land. All this I imagine, postulate, for I have not been graced with an aerial view, at night, and never shall. Postulations, handwavings in the air are thus all I have to offer you, which, if you but take the time to ponder upon, can’t help but wonder if those are all the halls of academia have to offer as well.

The winged creatures of yesternight have retired; for good or temporarily I know not, and care not, save being able to say with certainty that they are no longer here; no longer pestering my person so. My sentry post is bright, once again, and I am at ease, as much as a man in my predicament could possibly be at ease, anyways. Idle wondering. Those winged creatures, did they really do wrong? All they sought was solace in the light, solace in each others’ company, as they clustered and milled around. Their fragile, short-lived existences – for though I know not the exact fate of the ones milling about that particular lamppost, I know, at least, the fate of those I saw, eyes irresistibly drawn to, really, struggling on the basin top in the guardhouse toilet, struggling in what I deem to be their death throes – which could not, would not outlive the night. Did they really do any wrong? And now, not a trace has their being left, besides some minor annoyance to be washed away, look of disgust painted upon face whilst doing so. Perhaps, there is meaning to be found, meaning of the most primal sort, as the mate in the light, each generation a testament to that which came before, and they a testament to that which came before that. An organic will passed through the ages, a living testimonial to the existence of their forefathers. But even that is insufficient for me! When the earth finally terminates its orbit in the sun, and all upon it turns to ash along with it, what then? When the Wheel of Time finally, well and truly, grinds to a halt, having ground itself down to pieces, and those pieces ground themselves even finer, and so on, till naught is left, what then? What of this living testimonial then? Anyways, to have been on this planet from XXXX to XXXX is not the kind of legacy I’d want to leave behind, or be remembered for, accounting, of course, for the frailties of human memory which I shall not delve into at this point of time. Are we to be satisfied with this? Is this its meaning in full? The here&now, revelling in the light among multitudes, cowering alone in the dark in solitude, the flavours, distinct flavours, of these moments, replayed over and over, ad infinitum, a cassette player set on repeat, till the tape inevitably wears down and breaks. The answer is beyond me, has always been, will ever be, so it seems, will always lie beyond the confines of this impenetrable sphere of reality, which defies even my most valiant of attempts to pierce, to discern the nature of reality not as an agent of it, but as an observer would, from the exterior.

I tire now, of this thinking and writing, writing and thinking, so I think I shall think and not write, or write and not think; as I think about writing about not thinking, or write about thinking about not writing.

The night is quiet, human traffic minimal. Guttural grunts from the dark outside, of frog or boar or something else entirely, I know not. There is much I do not know, that I know, and can say with much certainty. Insects chirp, a night orchestra, and I am at peace. Even now, the feathered ones persist in their calling, though much more muted, then before, and I am at peace. A little tired, true, but peacefully so. I acknowledge the meaninglessness of this activity, so anything I can take away, the most minute of impressions, of the warm orange glow cast about the camp; rays of light appearing to my bleary eyes, of the play of light on tree, gentle shadows cast, all around, of everything I have noted herein, and everything I have observed without, all a boon to me. And presto! I have created something, from nothing, working the most wondrous magick of all. And when I get back I will type this, and you will read this, and sparks are created, once again, the striking of flint against metal, sparks in the mind. Whether a fire ignites, something truly lasting, that which lies beyond the material, in the realm of spirit, that I cannot say; will not say. But the sparking is enough, for me, here&now, as the green clad man writes in the little yellow book, the material melded seamlessly with that which is plucked out of the air, melded seamlessly and transcribed, tirelessly, left hand clutching the pen, the conduit which makes it all possible, ink flowing to paper, order given, meaning invoked, and where there once was a clean meshwork of cellulose fibres and coloured fluid packed uniformly into a tube; the fluid now lies enmeshed in the fibre; no, no, it is so much more, the whole greater, much greater than the sum of its component parts.

An outburst, the breaking of a dam, and now, after what seems like an eternity, gushing forth, yet can’t have been, as the watch invariably shows, finally, the pen rests, the paper rests, but the green clad man does not rest, no; the man – and I no longer shy from using the word “man”, after BMT – the man, he continues his lonely, not as distracted vigil.

And the last shift nears its end, as the yellow book, light yet heavy, laden with hours’ exertion and dreams, is kept, safely and securely, once again. And there is a going in the shadow of a coming, a coming in the shadow of a going, and in it all, whilst the shadow of purposelessness lingers, the go-er is content.