Strokes of Impressionism

It is the intensely clear turquoise of a little girl’s eyes that stops me in my busy tracks, holding my world still for that fraction of a second. It is the myriad of aromatic smells wafting from a bakery amidst the bustling morning crowd, which intoxicates me to lift my neck; head tilted back as my eyes close in one satisfied moment, and just take it all in. The blind busker in that little corner of the jam-packed street, swaying with his livelihood, the accordion, and his slightly off-tune songs, he makes me slow down, relax and enjoy the random snippets of a morning which otherwise would have dissolved into nothing but a blur of city rush.

As a search begins to make some sense of an existence which at times projects itself to be mundane, un-meaningful and lacking impact, a realization comes quickly that like a beautiful Monet masterpiece, our lives are greater than the sum of individual events which we experience, but the beauty which emanates from within is captured from a wider, bigger, overall perspective.

Monet’s impressionism form of art dictates that they are best viewed further rather than nearer. According to Wikipedia, impressionists used “short, ‘broken’ strokes of pure and unmixed color, not smoothly blended, as was customary, in order to achieve the effect of intense color vibration… Characteristics of Impressionist paintings include visible brush strokes, open composition, emphasis on light in its changing qualities, ordinary subject matter; the inclusion of movement as a crucial human perception and experience, and unusual visual angles.”

At close view, the un-harmonized strokes and stark colors feel garish, too intense and vivid for the audience to appreciate. Too harsh compared to the finer strokes employed in other competing forms of art; somewhat queerly disjointed.

I’d like to imagine that the impressionist brush strokes are the individual events in our lives; that they should always be bold, strong and passionate, vividly alive with the richness of life and love; not blended into someone else’s achievements, watered down and faded. That even as individual strokes, they tell a story, albeit just a small part, but whose character is shown strong, daring, and unwavering. Like confidence deliberately marked on an originally plain white canvas, showcasing each stroke of color in a light of its own. As life runs its course, and wisdom increases in each one of us, the changing illumination on these strokes of events display a different side to them, one which has never been cast before. And these strokes tell our story, each one of the vivid, pure tones.

Purchase delivered: Experience

There are conversations that linger in your mind for a while after the speakers have returned to their daily lives, and recently these conversations have been resonating with the same frequency and heartbeat of my questions to life.

In the last month or so, I have been either the initiator or participator of engaging discussions whose individual impacts on me have transformed into compounding and increasingly urgent needs for me to know why I am where and what I am. I used to think when reminiscing on old times and looking at time-stained photographs, that we tend to believe that each instance in our lives are the best that our lives are, up till then. But frequent and subsequent contemplations of this theory convinced me that is not true. Many encounters with peers and elders alike have showed me that many are not happy where they are; perhaps they had made a wrong choice some point in time and unwittingly suffered the consequences of their actions. Or perhaps they simply chose not to reach for what they wanted, and as a result paid for it with an unsatisfactory existence.

Jonny Jr mentioned the fact that humans are intrinsically beings who need freedom of choice (amongst others in the Maslow’s hierarchy of needs); and it is often the limitations that are already in place that constrain our spectrum of choices, frustrating those whose lot in life determines they be the unfortunate few with restricted choice.

Another friend commented, on a totally separate occasion, that given limited resources, particularly resources called time and money; we should use them to attain things with the most lasting utility. Material possessions have the ability to make us incredibly happy and proud; for just one moment, before shoving us into the spiral of unending covetousness. I understood this the moment I started working and earning my own keep; suddenly every bag looks like it needs to be adopted by you; each watch seems to tick and coax you hypnotically to pick it up, and once you do so, you find something else that calls out to you. There’s an unending stream of utility in buying material goods; with the fine print that you also need an unending stream of finances. It seems that given the limited time and health that we have, a generally agreed purchase which would provide energizer-battery-style long-lasting utility is, and always will be, experience.

If at any point in life, you are the sum of all your past experiences, then shouldn’t we make a conscious effort to increase the experiences that we have all the time? The lasting impact every scenario life places us with usually makes up a piece of the puzzle we are trying to fix. But at the same time, we do not buy our paths in life off the shelves as we would a jigsaw puzzle in Toys ‘R Us. Our puzzle in life is akin to a painting yet unfinished; and each decision we make results in the coloring of that little piece of the ultimate picture that is unraveled to us in tantalizing candy bits and pieces. And the more we choose to value experience over the mere attaining of a goal while dreading the journey, the more texture, vibrancy and hues our paintings will exude.

And so, let me finish my sales pitch. Buy experience; but never, never at a discount.

The Road less travelled ::Robert Frost::

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

One of the boys with the shaven heads

The start of a brand new week, halfway into the month, the fresh slate of another phase in life.

Monday marks the day when the civilian title no longer belongs to him; when the government is now the major stakeholder in his life; when the green grassy fields and isolated island will become his home for the next few months. It will be a day where family is gathered to witness the ceremony of his becoming a national serviceman, the entry into a journey where many have tread and many are still finishing. The route which many hope to be over even before it has started. Conscription for a nation whose tiny physical size is overcompensated by the pyschological force of a army; for a people who hardly consider it their duty to protect the country which forced them into a state of stagnation for two full years.

The army and I never had much of an affinity; table conversations about my male university-mates’ forays into the jungle with their tanks and rifles hardly held my attention for long. Cameo painted faces and sweat stained uniformed soldiers were never much my idea of fun nor enticement. My mind often drifted off to other topics of greater holding power when the boys gathered around to brag or bitch about their days and ways of slacking in the army. I remember tuning out intentionally for the lack of interest and zealousness about the two years which many of my male friends claim were forcefully snatched from their lives. It contradicted with the fact that they were always so excited to discuss which batch and officer they had; which platoon they were in; the types of equipment they dealt with; and the ranks they managed to climb in the army of little green soldiers. I brought this dissonance up once; and the very logical reply to this contradictive nature of post-army boys was that although they hated army, the only thing they had for those couple of years and a few more months was, honestly and unfortunately, the army.

In short, it was never my intention to know very much about the army, except for the fact that I could gladly say I didn’t have the misfortune of being stuck in that situation. Now however, it seems to be moving closer to my heart. Ronald, my one and only brother, and really valued family member, will be moving to Pulau Tekong for his basic military training (BMT) this coming Monday. Enlistment is almost as important as passing out; because of the huge significant of the content between both events. I took a day off to watch this rite of passage, which for all boys growing up in Singapore, is a big deal, whether they like it or not. In a mere 2 days, Ronald will not be at home all the time, as he is now, so it feels weird to imagine what home will be like without his usual presence, even if he was cooped up playing the computer or surfing the net. No one to brag to me about his blog anymore; whose obsession with writing and drawing had the special power to irritate and inspire all at the very same time. Since the beginning of this year, I had started preparing for my brother’s entrance into army; and even now, I still find it hard to believe that the little brother of mine is now not so little any more.

I feel emotional just thinking about it; how time slides by without our knowing; a couple of minutes here, a couple of years there. My little brother has grown up. There is a photograph of me hugging my brother as we sat on the huge black armchair in our old house, he looked so chubby and small all at once; I look ridiculously happy hugging him; and he was grinning the house upside down. I suppose that was at least 17 years ago; but that picture captured a nostalgia of a bond which was formed so long ago, yet in the most recent years actually strengthened.

In the last couple of years, my brother became a good friend; family by chance, friend by choice. He was my writing muse, my fellow narcissist, equally proficient at being irritating as myself, and confidante. It was reassuring knowing he was there at home, even if we only talked to each other to bug the other to read our latest blog post. He became more recently, my jogging mate; my pacer, and one of my inspirations. Every family member I have has a special place in my heart; for their unique characteristics, and my brother has been a comforter, a fellow writer, a giver of advice.

I know the army is only temporary; but still it marks his turning into an adult; no longer the little chubby cheeky boy in the picture. I’m happy for my brother yet at the same time know I will be missing his previous almost always-there presence at home. But i know he’ll turn out into a fine young man; finer than he already is.