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Click, thud

You remember how the lens squeezed
unimportant details into stillness:
the essential trail of rain down glass,
the plummet of autumn dead leaves,
your grandfather’s last blink when
the breath moved on.
Your startled hands compressed
the shutter when you realized: this is it,
this is the last movement he will take
away from the silent fall of morphine,
beyond the soft gasp of the nurse,
past the sick, slow thud of your heart
moving in the luminous silence.

-How to Photograph the Heart, by Christine Klocek-Lim

Attention, world.

Contrary to popular belief, I have not died and gone to heaven; I have merely gone down the never-ending rabbit hole of binge coding and sporadic reading. I am still breathing.

Count ‘em, 10 days of freedom

Why hello there, (temporary) liberty, you’ve been a long time coming You sure weren’t easy to come by…

12/12

Today, I am a 1-year soldier.

12/12/2009 marks a year into my 2-year bond in serving the nation. It has been a hard-fought journey, though some might not believe it to be so. At each stage of the way, I’ve had friends who’ve helped me along, encouraged me, and  maybe most importantly, were there to go through the tough times with me.

From BMT, to SISPEC, then the Air Force, each part of this 2-year story had its own ups and downs, its own share of giddy happiness and bitter sorrow. Some highlights were the POP from BMT, the 28km route march from SISPEC and most importantly, the POC from the Air Force.

In the one year that has passed since stepping off that ferry and onto that island, I’d like to think I’ve grown as a person. I’ve learnt patience, discipline and tolerance. I’ve known what it means to command (though not yet to lead) and manage. I’ve learnt the importance of friends when you’re down and out. I’ve known the significance of having people you can rely on.

I’ve had the fortune of being surrounded by people who have been through hell and highwater together with  me, and know what it means to be a specialist. They know what it means to wear the 3 chevrons on their chest, and all the duties that they entail.

I’ve had the fortune of having operators who have been patient with me, and coped with my sometimes unreasonable demands. They form a unit that I know I can trust to do things when the time comes. There is still much to learn from them.

I’ve had the fortune of having seniors I can look to for advice. In the early stages of BMT when I was blur and lost, there was a listening ear ready for me. In SISPEC when I tried to find the energy to pull through the training, they were my source of inspiration. In the Air Force, their impending ORD was my motivation. And now, in the unit, they taught me to survive, and survive well.

Now, I am the senior in this marathon. They have completed their bond, and are now free. It is my turn now to slog out that remaining year, and patiently wait for ORD. This day has passed without much fanfare nor excitement on my part. It is true that the anticipation makes the actual day anticlimatic, but nonetheless, it still marks an important day for me.

If I may, allow me this – ORD LO!

Everything is possible again

Browsing in Borders earlier, I came across Jonathan Safran Foer’s new book on his journey in vegetarianism. He writes that on the birth of his son, a friend commented that “everything is possible again”.

While this quote is not attributable to Foer, it nonetheless speaks powerfully to me of hope – hope that with a new beginning the slate is wiped clean, and a new journey begins; a marker that the past is left behind.

Ah. Maybe a little too sentimental, then.

Staying, going

My house says to me, “Do not leave me, for here dwells your past.”
And the road says to me, “Come and follow me, for I am your future.”
And I say to both my house and the road, “I have no past, nor have I a future. If I stay here, there is a going in my staying; and if I go there is a staying in my going. Only love and death will change all things.”

-Sand and Foam, a poem by Gibran Khalil Gibran

The paradox of money, credit and debt

In a sleepy European holiday resort town in a depressed economy and therefore no visitors, there is great excitement when a wealthy Russian guest appears in the local hotel reception, announces that he intends to stay for an extended period and places a €100 note on the counter as surety while he demands to be shown the available rooms.

While he is being shown the room, the hotelier takes the €100 note round to his butcher, who is pressing for payment. The butcher in turn pays his wholesaler who, in turn, pays his farmer supplier.

The farmer takes the note round to his favourite “good time girl” to whom he owes €100 for services rendered. She, in turn, rushes round to the hotel to settle her bill for rooms provided on credit.

In the meantime, the Russian returns to the lobby, announces that no rooms are satisfactory, takes back his €100 note and leaves, never to be seen again.

No new money has been introduced into the local economy, but everyone’s debts have been settled.

More

Guard dog? Nay…

My dog would make a terrible guard dog… She doesn’t bark, will excitedly welcome any stranger into the house and will accept bribes of food or belly-rubs. (But mostly food.)

Traitorous dog, tsk.

On Love

I hope that one day you will have the experience of doing something you do not understand for someone you love.

-Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, by Jonathan Safran Foer

On dying, and memory

The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral. All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist. The Tralfamadorians can look at all the different moments just that way we can look at a stretch of the Rocky Mountains, for instance. They can see how permanent all the moments are, and they can look at any moment that interests them. It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever.

-Slaughterhouse Five, by Kurt Vonnegut