Julian Kim's Blog
November 30, 2013
Popular Bookstores' 2013 Singapore Readers' Choice Awards
Seems they will be announcing the winners of the Popular Bookstores' 2013 Singapore Readers' Choice awards. I was lucky to be one of 10 books nominated for the adult English section. I shall be attending the announcement ceremony at Suntec Convention Centre on the 14th Dec at 11am. What next, the Oscars? X)
August 12, 2013
Excerpt from "S.A.I.N.T.S. Song of Winds", Ch.7
Wong sipped his tea quietly, pondering whether it was appropriate to reveal his inner thoughts to a man – a very young man at that – whom he had just met. But then again, Ronny Tan had a reputation for integrity, discretion and, most importantly, a penchant for adventure.
“I have a personal theory, Mr Tan … about all this.”
“Let’s hear it, Professor.”
Wong took a deep breath. “As you know, I have studied the burial complex for many years now. It is my belief …” He paused and looked into Ronny’s eyes. “That a secret passage exists, leading to the inner sanctum of Qin Shi Huang’s tomb. This tablet might be part of the clue as to its whereabouts.”
It was unexpected. “Did you say … the tomb’s inner sanctum?!”
The inner sanctum of Emperor Qin’s tomb remained an archaeological mystery to this day. The outer details of the mausoleum and its grounds, the largest imperial tomb complex ever constructed in China, were fairly well-defined, researched and understood. The excavation of terracotta soldiers was an open national effort. Several excavations of the tomb’s surrounding areas were also carried out, yielding numerous fascinating discoveries. The tomb itself, however, was another story. The Chinese government steadfastly refused to grant permission to anyone, including its own officials, for any kind of exploratory probe underneath Qin’s monumental burial mound. It was generally understood that an exploration into the tomb would not be approved until the government had the certainty that it would remain intact, in every detail, following an excavation. Given the longstanding interest of academics and speculators in exploring the gigantic burial mound, the government maintained a tight blanket of security around the clock.
According to Chinese folklore, the Emperor’s spectacular tomb and its unimaginable treasures were protected by a collection of supernatural defenders, curses and deadly booby traps. There were even rumours that the actual sarcophagus existed not underneath the burial tumulus, but somewhere else entirely. It is said that Qin Shi Huang was acutely wary of likely grave robbers in his posthumous years and was mortified at the possibility of losing his exalted heavenly status should anyone desecrate his tomb. His tomb’s secrets had to be maintained at all cost, even to the extent of ordering the execution of every craftsman and labourer involved in its construction, numbering in the tens of thousands.
Ronny was intrigued. “So what’s the latest on the tomb itself?”
“You’ve probably heard that we’ve carried out a geophysical survey of the area, directly underneath the burial mound. We found very clear traces of concentrated mercury – more than ten times the amount in any surrounding region. This is consistent with historical rumours of mercury being poured into the tomb in tremendous quantities, presumably to replicate the rivers, lakes and oceans of China’s geography and to aid the Emperor’s soul in navigating the afterlife. In another theory, mercury’s high toxicity might have been ideal as some form of deterrent against anyone trying to make their way into the tomb. Applied onto the tip of any wound-inflicting projectile, such as arrows, crossbow darts or flying daggers, it would prove a lethal poison.”
“But the Emperor consumed mercury on a regular basis, believing it helped in his quest for immortality. Did his aides knowingly administer the treatment despite its toxicity?”
“Interesting question, isn’t it? Was it just bad advice... or slow assassination?”
Ronny swirled a mouthful of tea in his mouth, pensively. What if Dr Wong was right about the secret passage? What if someone could find all the clues, solve the riddles and find the secret passage into Qin’s burial chamber? It would be challenging. It would be dangerous, most likely. It would be exciting.
“I have a personal theory, Mr Tan … about all this.”
“Let’s hear it, Professor.”
Wong took a deep breath. “As you know, I have studied the burial complex for many years now. It is my belief …” He paused and looked into Ronny’s eyes. “That a secret passage exists, leading to the inner sanctum of Qin Shi Huang’s tomb. This tablet might be part of the clue as to its whereabouts.”
It was unexpected. “Did you say … the tomb’s inner sanctum?!”
The inner sanctum of Emperor Qin’s tomb remained an archaeological mystery to this day. The outer details of the mausoleum and its grounds, the largest imperial tomb complex ever constructed in China, were fairly well-defined, researched and understood. The excavation of terracotta soldiers was an open national effort. Several excavations of the tomb’s surrounding areas were also carried out, yielding numerous fascinating discoveries. The tomb itself, however, was another story. The Chinese government steadfastly refused to grant permission to anyone, including its own officials, for any kind of exploratory probe underneath Qin’s monumental burial mound. It was generally understood that an exploration into the tomb would not be approved until the government had the certainty that it would remain intact, in every detail, following an excavation. Given the longstanding interest of academics and speculators in exploring the gigantic burial mound, the government maintained a tight blanket of security around the clock.
According to Chinese folklore, the Emperor’s spectacular tomb and its unimaginable treasures were protected by a collection of supernatural defenders, curses and deadly booby traps. There were even rumours that the actual sarcophagus existed not underneath the burial tumulus, but somewhere else entirely. It is said that Qin Shi Huang was acutely wary of likely grave robbers in his posthumous years and was mortified at the possibility of losing his exalted heavenly status should anyone desecrate his tomb. His tomb’s secrets had to be maintained at all cost, even to the extent of ordering the execution of every craftsman and labourer involved in its construction, numbering in the tens of thousands.
Ronny was intrigued. “So what’s the latest on the tomb itself?”
“You’ve probably heard that we’ve carried out a geophysical survey of the area, directly underneath the burial mound. We found very clear traces of concentrated mercury – more than ten times the amount in any surrounding region. This is consistent with historical rumours of mercury being poured into the tomb in tremendous quantities, presumably to replicate the rivers, lakes and oceans of China’s geography and to aid the Emperor’s soul in navigating the afterlife. In another theory, mercury’s high toxicity might have been ideal as some form of deterrent against anyone trying to make their way into the tomb. Applied onto the tip of any wound-inflicting projectile, such as arrows, crossbow darts or flying daggers, it would prove a lethal poison.”
“But the Emperor consumed mercury on a regular basis, believing it helped in his quest for immortality. Did his aides knowingly administer the treatment despite its toxicity?”
“Interesting question, isn’t it? Was it just bad advice... or slow assassination?”
Ronny swirled a mouthful of tea in his mouth, pensively. What if Dr Wong was right about the secret passage? What if someone could find all the clues, solve the riddles and find the secret passage into Qin’s burial chamber? It would be challenging. It would be dangerous, most likely. It would be exciting.
August 8, 2013
After the Fairy Tale
I press the doorbell and a loud magnificent ding-dong reverberates sonorously through the cavernous palace. I mutter to myself “some doorbell!” as I step back and admire the heavy brass bell button’s gold and turquoise trimmings and the sparkle that can only come from regular spit and polish.
The glittering two-door entrance parts slowly, like in some old Disney movie, and I can almost hear Puccini sung by a fat lady somewhere.
“Can I help you?” utters a peculiar voice as the doors open wider and I can peek inside. My eyes quickly fix onto the splendid pair of round winding stairs that rise majestically under an equally resplendent chandelier. There are mirrors and paintings everywhere and a cozy smell of hickory smoke wafting from a fireplace inside.
“I said… can I help you?” says the voice again with a hint of irritation.
I look around, but don’t see anyone. I look down and I see… a beagle.
“You’re a beagle!”
“Yes… and what are you, Sherlock Holmes?”
I don’t know whether I should pinch myself or head for the nearest asylum. “But… umm… you can talk?”
“Yeah, yeah… I talk, I listen to music, I drink gin… I bark sometimes… you humans bark too, but we sound way better.” He starts scratching his neck with his back paws.
“I’ve never talked to a dog before…” I knew I wasn’t sounding too smart.
“And judging from your performance, this might just be your last time.”
“Look, I’m sorry… Beagle… umm… should I call you ‘Beagle’?”
“My friends call me Farnsworth. As for you, well… I don’t really care.”
“Farnsworth?” I repeated. “Sounds very British.”
“Yes, well…born and bred near Grasmere, in the Lake District of Cumbria. So are you some kind of census guy?”
“Listen, Farnsworth. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that… I came here looking for Charming… Mr. Prince Charming, that is.”
His ears prop up suddenly, as dogs tend to do. “Oh, Charmie! Umm… look, I’m sorry. He’s left this house already. He used to live here but he moved out quite a while ago.” Farnsworth’s head droops as he stares at the floor with a tinge of sadness reflected in his soulful eyes.
“Oh… sorry to hear that,” I said. I had crossed an entire enchanted forest to get to this address, hoping to see my old friend.
Farnsworth finally deemed it worthy to wag his tail and tried doling out some sympathy. “Look Mister. Last I’ve heard, Charmie has signed the lease on an apartment somewhere in Bavaria. Go to Munich and ask some questions and I’m sure you’ll find him.”
I was debating what I should do when I heard familiar lyrics coming from one of the palace chambers in the back. Sounded like a pretty good stereo system.
(When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.)
“You listen to The Beatles?” I asked Farnsworth.
“You like them too?” He was now wagging his tail, big time. “Love all their songs. What a band!”
“So how’d you learn about them?” I asked, trying to make small talk. After all, I didn’t know canines had musical tastes and what better chance to ask but to a talking dog.
“You know, I was misinformed at first. I thought it was ‘The Beagles’… yeah, yeah, stupid me… I know. But after hearing their music, I was hooked. By that point, I wouldn’t have cared if it they were named ‘The Pussycats’ or something.” He raised his head and looked into my eyes. “Look, I’m sorry if I was a bit rude back then. It’s just… we’re not used to too many strangers coming here and knocking on our doors.”
“Hey, no worries!” I said, trying to be cheerful. “Yeah, I guess you were a bit rough there… or should I say… ‘ruff, ruff’.” I’m sure I had a toothy smile, stupid face, and a bad impression as I said that. Wished I could take it back.
Farnsworth grimaced as if he’d just swallowed a chicken bone. “Decent taste in music but… awful sense of humor. Lost some points there, cowboy.”
“Umm… yes… but tell me,” I ask quickly, hoping the supply of goodwill hadn’t dwindled yet completely. “I thought he was happily married to Cindy and all that. They don’t live here any more?”
Farnsworth took a deep breath and sighed. “Well… they did…happily at that. But that was a while ago. He’s moved on since then… but Cindy, she still lives here. I’m her pet and companion.”
I gazed at Farnsworth and I could see him turning his head away slightly. Were those tears in the beagle’s eyes, I wondered? Whatever it was, he exuded sorrow… and I shared in it.
“You know,” he said, almost at a whisper, “those fairy tale endings? Well… sometimes they’re just the beginning. Nobody hears about what happens afterwards… but a lot can happen afterwards. Life is like that. ‘Happily ever after’ isn’t a guarantee.”
I was seeing the picture. The beautiful couple had split up. And Farnsworth had stayed behind to mop up the melancholy.
“That’s so sad,” I say, really meaning it. “So who’s fault was it?” I ask. “Don’t mean to intrude, but… Charmie’s an old friend.”
“You know, sometimes it’s nobody’s fault. Life isn’t always so clear cut. Charmie didn’t suddenly run off with some exotic Asian dancer nor Cindy with some hot-blooded Italian gigolo. Both sides suffered equally, suffered greatly… and it’s nobody’s fault. It’s just… a matter of compatibility... two people who tragically find out they don’t belong together. Sometimes it works… sometimes it doesn’t.”
(And when the broken hearted people
Living in the world agree,
There will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted there is
Still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be.)
I pat Farnsworth on the head and he seems to appreciate the gesture. I was about to say “good boy” but thought better of it as it might not suit the vocabulary of an eloquent beagle.
“Is Cindy alright?” I asked.
“She’s hanging in there, I guess,” replied Farnsworth. “She still looks a million dollars, if you ask me… but she’s definitely lost some of that fairy tale vivacity… that youthful spunk… le joie de vivre.”
“I’m… I’m sorry to hear that.”
I swallow back the knot forming in my throat. “So much for fairy tale endings,” I mutter to myself cynically. Is this another typical flipside of the coin that people rarely hear about? Life can dole out so much crap that people know nothing about, while everyone around you figures everything is just hunky-dory. I recall a popular television series from the early 90’s; it was called Twin Peaks and it was about normal decent looking people in a small town somewhere in Idaho. Everything looked as normal as can be in rural America until the story started to unravel and it turned out everyone (every single one) had all kinds of bizarre personalities and circumstances. The story then took stranger and stranger twists until it ended with a supernatural climactic bang.
“So you think they’ll be alright?” I ask halfheartedly.
“How should I know?” barks Farnsworth. “What, do I look like a psychiatrist to you? You expect beagles to degree from Harvard and set up practice downtown?”
“Hey pooch, easy… no need to get bent out of shape.” I pat him again on the head, hoping to calm him down. His tail wags weakly.
“Look… I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. What I mean is… yes I’m worried and yes I hope they’ll somehow come out of it someday… hopefully soon. Both are lovely people, Cindy and Charmie, and it’s just that life dealt them a tough hand.”
I think about something that’s been on my mind lately. I’ve always believed that everything happens for a reason. In the greater context of things, in the karmic ‘big picture’ of things that only He can understand, all our joys and tragedies, our euphoria and melancholies, our triumphs and tribulations… they happen for a reason. And we are not psychics nor prophets nor oracles. It is not for us to know… until it is time to know.
Farnsworth pants slightly with his tongue sticking out. Maybe he’s thirsty. Maybe it’s time for me to go.
“Hey Farnsworth… I think I better get back on my way. Maybe I’ll hit Munich, as you suggest. I’ll drop into Hofbrau House for a brew and ask around for Charmie. Can you please say hello to Cindy for me? Tell her I’m sorry about what happened and I hope she recovers soon. I know it’s not much help saying this… but tell her everything happens for a reason and I pray that someday she’ll figure it out.”
Farnsworth wagged his tail again and whimpered. “Nice dog” I said, patting his head, hoping he wouldn’t take offense.
“Hey, thanks for dropping by,” said the beagle. “Next time you see a cute poodle, somewhere in your travels, send her this way. Tell her I don’t bite and I can cook up some mean spaghetti.”
“Yeah, sure thing, Farnsworth… sure thing. You take care now.” A couple of friendly waves, and I’m on the road again…
(And when the night is cloudy
There is still a light that shines on me,
Shine on til tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.)
The glittering two-door entrance parts slowly, like in some old Disney movie, and I can almost hear Puccini sung by a fat lady somewhere.
“Can I help you?” utters a peculiar voice as the doors open wider and I can peek inside. My eyes quickly fix onto the splendid pair of round winding stairs that rise majestically under an equally resplendent chandelier. There are mirrors and paintings everywhere and a cozy smell of hickory smoke wafting from a fireplace inside.
“I said… can I help you?” says the voice again with a hint of irritation.
I look around, but don’t see anyone. I look down and I see… a beagle.
“You’re a beagle!”
“Yes… and what are you, Sherlock Holmes?”
I don’t know whether I should pinch myself or head for the nearest asylum. “But… umm… you can talk?”
“Yeah, yeah… I talk, I listen to music, I drink gin… I bark sometimes… you humans bark too, but we sound way better.” He starts scratching his neck with his back paws.
“I’ve never talked to a dog before…” I knew I wasn’t sounding too smart.
“And judging from your performance, this might just be your last time.”
“Look, I’m sorry… Beagle… umm… should I call you ‘Beagle’?”
“My friends call me Farnsworth. As for you, well… I don’t really care.”
“Farnsworth?” I repeated. “Sounds very British.”
“Yes, well…born and bred near Grasmere, in the Lake District of Cumbria. So are you some kind of census guy?”
“Listen, Farnsworth. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that… I came here looking for Charming… Mr. Prince Charming, that is.”
His ears prop up suddenly, as dogs tend to do. “Oh, Charmie! Umm… look, I’m sorry. He’s left this house already. He used to live here but he moved out quite a while ago.” Farnsworth’s head droops as he stares at the floor with a tinge of sadness reflected in his soulful eyes.
“Oh… sorry to hear that,” I said. I had crossed an entire enchanted forest to get to this address, hoping to see my old friend.
Farnsworth finally deemed it worthy to wag his tail and tried doling out some sympathy. “Look Mister. Last I’ve heard, Charmie has signed the lease on an apartment somewhere in Bavaria. Go to Munich and ask some questions and I’m sure you’ll find him.”
I was debating what I should do when I heard familiar lyrics coming from one of the palace chambers in the back. Sounded like a pretty good stereo system.
(When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.)
“You listen to The Beatles?” I asked Farnsworth.
“You like them too?” He was now wagging his tail, big time. “Love all their songs. What a band!”
“So how’d you learn about them?” I asked, trying to make small talk. After all, I didn’t know canines had musical tastes and what better chance to ask but to a talking dog.
“You know, I was misinformed at first. I thought it was ‘The Beagles’… yeah, yeah, stupid me… I know. But after hearing their music, I was hooked. By that point, I wouldn’t have cared if it they were named ‘The Pussycats’ or something.” He raised his head and looked into my eyes. “Look, I’m sorry if I was a bit rude back then. It’s just… we’re not used to too many strangers coming here and knocking on our doors.”
“Hey, no worries!” I said, trying to be cheerful. “Yeah, I guess you were a bit rough there… or should I say… ‘ruff, ruff’.” I’m sure I had a toothy smile, stupid face, and a bad impression as I said that. Wished I could take it back.
Farnsworth grimaced as if he’d just swallowed a chicken bone. “Decent taste in music but… awful sense of humor. Lost some points there, cowboy.”
“Umm… yes… but tell me,” I ask quickly, hoping the supply of goodwill hadn’t dwindled yet completely. “I thought he was happily married to Cindy and all that. They don’t live here any more?”
Farnsworth took a deep breath and sighed. “Well… they did…happily at that. But that was a while ago. He’s moved on since then… but Cindy, she still lives here. I’m her pet and companion.”
I gazed at Farnsworth and I could see him turning his head away slightly. Were those tears in the beagle’s eyes, I wondered? Whatever it was, he exuded sorrow… and I shared in it.
“You know,” he said, almost at a whisper, “those fairy tale endings? Well… sometimes they’re just the beginning. Nobody hears about what happens afterwards… but a lot can happen afterwards. Life is like that. ‘Happily ever after’ isn’t a guarantee.”
I was seeing the picture. The beautiful couple had split up. And Farnsworth had stayed behind to mop up the melancholy.
“That’s so sad,” I say, really meaning it. “So who’s fault was it?” I ask. “Don’t mean to intrude, but… Charmie’s an old friend.”
“You know, sometimes it’s nobody’s fault. Life isn’t always so clear cut. Charmie didn’t suddenly run off with some exotic Asian dancer nor Cindy with some hot-blooded Italian gigolo. Both sides suffered equally, suffered greatly… and it’s nobody’s fault. It’s just… a matter of compatibility... two people who tragically find out they don’t belong together. Sometimes it works… sometimes it doesn’t.”
(And when the broken hearted people
Living in the world agree,
There will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted there is
Still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be.)
I pat Farnsworth on the head and he seems to appreciate the gesture. I was about to say “good boy” but thought better of it as it might not suit the vocabulary of an eloquent beagle.
“Is Cindy alright?” I asked.
“She’s hanging in there, I guess,” replied Farnsworth. “She still looks a million dollars, if you ask me… but she’s definitely lost some of that fairy tale vivacity… that youthful spunk… le joie de vivre.”
“I’m… I’m sorry to hear that.”
I swallow back the knot forming in my throat. “So much for fairy tale endings,” I mutter to myself cynically. Is this another typical flipside of the coin that people rarely hear about? Life can dole out so much crap that people know nothing about, while everyone around you figures everything is just hunky-dory. I recall a popular television series from the early 90’s; it was called Twin Peaks and it was about normal decent looking people in a small town somewhere in Idaho. Everything looked as normal as can be in rural America until the story started to unravel and it turned out everyone (every single one) had all kinds of bizarre personalities and circumstances. The story then took stranger and stranger twists until it ended with a supernatural climactic bang.
“So you think they’ll be alright?” I ask halfheartedly.
“How should I know?” barks Farnsworth. “What, do I look like a psychiatrist to you? You expect beagles to degree from Harvard and set up practice downtown?”
“Hey pooch, easy… no need to get bent out of shape.” I pat him again on the head, hoping to calm him down. His tail wags weakly.
“Look… I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. What I mean is… yes I’m worried and yes I hope they’ll somehow come out of it someday… hopefully soon. Both are lovely people, Cindy and Charmie, and it’s just that life dealt them a tough hand.”
I think about something that’s been on my mind lately. I’ve always believed that everything happens for a reason. In the greater context of things, in the karmic ‘big picture’ of things that only He can understand, all our joys and tragedies, our euphoria and melancholies, our triumphs and tribulations… they happen for a reason. And we are not psychics nor prophets nor oracles. It is not for us to know… until it is time to know.
Farnsworth pants slightly with his tongue sticking out. Maybe he’s thirsty. Maybe it’s time for me to go.
“Hey Farnsworth… I think I better get back on my way. Maybe I’ll hit Munich, as you suggest. I’ll drop into Hofbrau House for a brew and ask around for Charmie. Can you please say hello to Cindy for me? Tell her I’m sorry about what happened and I hope she recovers soon. I know it’s not much help saying this… but tell her everything happens for a reason and I pray that someday she’ll figure it out.”
Farnsworth wagged his tail again and whimpered. “Nice dog” I said, patting his head, hoping he wouldn’t take offense.
“Hey, thanks for dropping by,” said the beagle. “Next time you see a cute poodle, somewhere in your travels, send her this way. Tell her I don’t bite and I can cook up some mean spaghetti.”
“Yeah, sure thing, Farnsworth… sure thing. You take care now.” A couple of friendly waves, and I’m on the road again…
(And when the night is cloudy
There is still a light that shines on me,
Shine on til tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.)
August 6, 2013
Excerpt from "S.A.I.N.T.S. Song of Winds", Ch.22
Audrey dreamt she was surfing on an enormous ocean wave, intimidating yet alluring and hypnotic. The water sparkled like aquamarine crystals under a breathtaking sky, with not a speck of cloud on its expansive dome. A gentle sun radiated warm and easy, like a late springtime morning. She’d never learned to surf but it didn’t seem to matter; she coasted smoothly and effortlessly, her feet seemingly glued to the surfboard. She marvelled at her balance, at the ease with which she could carve waves to and fro. She even threaded a perfect barrel, like a photo on a Hawaiian postcard. The live ocean mist sprayed refreshing dewy droplets upon her tingling body. She felt calm yet excited, exhilarated, alive … more alive, in fact, than she had felt in a long long time. She was having fun. She was happy. She had not been this happy in a very long time. Yes, she was alive and she was happy. She vaguely recalled her breakup, the despondency, the desperation of failure, the aftermath of depression. Perhaps she had invested too much emotion, too much dependence and faith, on someone who was never wired for the role. Maybe she had looked too hard to fill the empty space left behind by her beloved father’s departure. Maybe she had expected too much from a guy whose main goal in life seemed more about thrills than substance. It had been painful, but probably not any more so than that of other failed couples. Was it a bad thing though, she wondered? As she swerved again on her board, relaxed, philosophical, she asked herself once more. Was it really a bad thing? The process was an inevitable byproduct of necessity, like eating from hunger, like drinking from thirst … the instinct to love and, when failing, moving on and loving again, someday. When two people were not right for each other, it was more painful to struggle against the winds of incompatibility than to yield to the flowing currents of separation. It was over now, done with. The pain was gone, along with sadness and anxiety. Was this what surfing did to people – teach and soothe? Is this why big waves were called kahunas? She felt at peace now, filled with gratitude, for turning the chapter, for a chance to savor a new life, for being able to fling herself into the next unknown, the adventure of open skies and open seas.
She looked down, first at her luminous board, gleaming in creamy white, and then through the transparent waters below, at a school of tropical fish swimming alongside. Had they been there all along? They were tiny, colourful, like pebbled sweets at a candy store. They seemed happy, like her. Many kept leaping in and out of the water, twisting and flapping in the air like mini dolphins at a sea park. One of them, dressed in wide bands of purple and gold, sprung higher than any other fish and looked Audrey in the eye. It was now floating in the air, defying gravity, ignoring convention, gliding merrily alongside Audrey’s surfing board.
“Where are you going?” it asked in a squeaky voice. “Where are you going?” The little purple and gold fish was speaking to Audrey.
She blinked. She was being addressed by a fish. “Sorry … what?”
“Where … are you going?” the fish insisted.
She blinked again. The fish appeared to be smiling. Could fish smile? “I’m not sure,” she replied. “Why … where are you going?”
“I’m going where I want to go,” it answered, giggling.
“Is that, like … some kind of Zen answer?”
“Not sure what you mean by that. It’s just an obvious answer. Would I want to go where I don’t want to go?”
“So when will you get there?” asked Audrey.
“I don’t know, but that’s okay. As long as I have a direction, I know where I’m going. When I get there is not so important.”
She couldn’t decide whether the fish was wise or just simple-minded … or perhaps both. Maybe wisdom and simplicity were preludes to common sense, a trait not as common as commonly perceived.
“So where are you going?” repeated the fish.
“Not everyone can go where they want to go,” she protested. “People have responsibilities, duties and commitments and …” She paused, uncertain about her own convictions. “People have fears and hang-ups and … too many doubts.”
“Just go where you want to go, Audrey,” it suggested. “Go where you want to go.”
She got the idea, though acting on it wouldn’t be easy. It entailed a lot of honesty, especially to oneself. “I want to go … where I can be happy. Can happiness be a destination?”
“Going where you want to go is more about direction than destination,” said the fish. “Direction is a journey, while destination is but a moment. When you reach happiness, will you not continue on the same course? And if you encounter obstacles along the way, does it mean you should reverse course and go where you don’t want to go? Moments of joy and moments of sorrow are stations along the journey, and they should have no bearing upon the direction of where you want to go. You will not be lost if you have a direction.”
Audrey nodded. “So happiness is a direction, rather than a destination. I think I get it.”
“Smart girl …”
She felt relieved, lighter. Thank goodness for the little fish, she thought. “Are you, like, some kind of a little guardian angel?” she asked.
“Not sure what a guardian angel looks like ... I’m guessing it doesn’t look like a fish.”
“Pearls of wisdom from a little fish. This is pretty crazy.”
“Not really. You can learn from anyone if you keep an open mind. Would it be any different if I was a priest or a penguin? Would the words change in their meaning?”
“What about bad advice, then?” she asked. “There’s just as much bad advice as good advice out there.”
“It is you who decided that my words were good advice; you made the choice. The real fountain of wisdom is within each of us and it talks to us if we listen. We are simply reminded of what we already know by others, from time to time. This voice of wisdom, our conscience, often goes unheeded through no fault but our own. We often heed other voices within us; pride, hatred, avarice, for example, which competein our thoughts. But, of course, you already know all this.”
“Sounds almost religious.”
“If religion helps you clarify your conscience, it must be a good thing. But being a fish, I wouldn’t really know. I don’t need help listening to myself.”
Audrey smiled. “That must be why fish spend less time talking and more time listening.”
“Bingo.”
Audrey really liked the little fish. “I hope we can be friends. Maybe we can even see each other again.”
“Why, of course!”
She looked down, first at her luminous board, gleaming in creamy white, and then through the transparent waters below, at a school of tropical fish swimming alongside. Had they been there all along? They were tiny, colourful, like pebbled sweets at a candy store. They seemed happy, like her. Many kept leaping in and out of the water, twisting and flapping in the air like mini dolphins at a sea park. One of them, dressed in wide bands of purple and gold, sprung higher than any other fish and looked Audrey in the eye. It was now floating in the air, defying gravity, ignoring convention, gliding merrily alongside Audrey’s surfing board.
“Where are you going?” it asked in a squeaky voice. “Where are you going?” The little purple and gold fish was speaking to Audrey.
She blinked. She was being addressed by a fish. “Sorry … what?”
“Where … are you going?” the fish insisted.
She blinked again. The fish appeared to be smiling. Could fish smile? “I’m not sure,” she replied. “Why … where are you going?”
“I’m going where I want to go,” it answered, giggling.
“Is that, like … some kind of Zen answer?”
“Not sure what you mean by that. It’s just an obvious answer. Would I want to go where I don’t want to go?”
“So when will you get there?” asked Audrey.
“I don’t know, but that’s okay. As long as I have a direction, I know where I’m going. When I get there is not so important.”
She couldn’t decide whether the fish was wise or just simple-minded … or perhaps both. Maybe wisdom and simplicity were preludes to common sense, a trait not as common as commonly perceived.
“So where are you going?” repeated the fish.
“Not everyone can go where they want to go,” she protested. “People have responsibilities, duties and commitments and …” She paused, uncertain about her own convictions. “People have fears and hang-ups and … too many doubts.”
“Just go where you want to go, Audrey,” it suggested. “Go where you want to go.”
She got the idea, though acting on it wouldn’t be easy. It entailed a lot of honesty, especially to oneself. “I want to go … where I can be happy. Can happiness be a destination?”
“Going where you want to go is more about direction than destination,” said the fish. “Direction is a journey, while destination is but a moment. When you reach happiness, will you not continue on the same course? And if you encounter obstacles along the way, does it mean you should reverse course and go where you don’t want to go? Moments of joy and moments of sorrow are stations along the journey, and they should have no bearing upon the direction of where you want to go. You will not be lost if you have a direction.”
Audrey nodded. “So happiness is a direction, rather than a destination. I think I get it.”
“Smart girl …”
She felt relieved, lighter. Thank goodness for the little fish, she thought. “Are you, like, some kind of a little guardian angel?” she asked.
“Not sure what a guardian angel looks like ... I’m guessing it doesn’t look like a fish.”
“Pearls of wisdom from a little fish. This is pretty crazy.”
“Not really. You can learn from anyone if you keep an open mind. Would it be any different if I was a priest or a penguin? Would the words change in their meaning?”
“What about bad advice, then?” she asked. “There’s just as much bad advice as good advice out there.”
“It is you who decided that my words were good advice; you made the choice. The real fountain of wisdom is within each of us and it talks to us if we listen. We are simply reminded of what we already know by others, from time to time. This voice of wisdom, our conscience, often goes unheeded through no fault but our own. We often heed other voices within us; pride, hatred, avarice, for example, which competein our thoughts. But, of course, you already know all this.”
“Sounds almost religious.”
“If religion helps you clarify your conscience, it must be a good thing. But being a fish, I wouldn’t really know. I don’t need help listening to myself.”
Audrey smiled. “That must be why fish spend less time talking and more time listening.”
“Bingo.”
Audrey really liked the little fish. “I hope we can be friends. Maybe we can even see each other again.”
“Why, of course!”
Dreaming of Bohemia
“All the leaves are brown…
And the sky is grey…”
The melody resonates over and over in my mind as I look up and notice the skies are actually grey… depressing grey. California Dreaming, indeed… thanks Mamas and Papas. I’d take any dry Sunny-fornia over this place. “Miserable f*ckin weather,” I mutter, chewing and spitting out the words.
“Walked into a church…
I passed along the way…”
So I walk into the first church that comes into view. Smallish, nice, clean… Catholic? Not sure, but I feel the need to walk into something, anything…
I notice the confession booth. And why not? – I think to myself. I’ve seen it done countless times in movies, on TV… read it in books too. So it’s Catholic, I conclude in my own merry mind. I venture in, fearlessly, as if drunk on a late afternoon.
“Father, it’s been 2 weeks since my last blog entry.”
“You mean ‘confession’, my son?” says Father O’Reilly, an affable old gent, servant of God, with a soft Irish lilt.
“No, Father. I mean blogging. You know, writing an entry… on my blog page. Something people will enjoy; something witty, if possible.”
I can see him scratching his head behind the obfuscated screen. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”
“Umm… no, not really.”
“So what are you, my son? A Protestant? Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist, Lutheran? A Mormon, Adventist? Or perhaps Buddhist, Taoist, Shintoist, Hindu? Rosicrucian?”
“But Father,” I protest. “Does it matter? I just want to love God!”
He laughs heartily. “I see you’ve been reading ‘The Life of Pi’. Good one, my son… good one!”
I laugh with him. I’m starting to like Father O’Reilly. I can almost see him chugging a pint of Guinness at the corner bar, looking up at the high corner TV screen, cheering every soccer game and boxing match.
“I don’t really know why I’m here, Father. I was humming ‘California Dreaming’ in my mind, and next thing you know… I’m here.”
“OK, fair enough. Not too busy today, so why not? By the way, my son, I don’t really like the cold.”
“Huh? Come again?”
“You know… the song. It says the preacher likes the cold. Well… I don’t. I hate the cold. I hate dentists and I hate the cold. Well… I don’t hate dentists, per say… just going to one. I don’t mind if they come to me.”
“I understand….”
“So down to business… why are you here, my son? What do you want to tell me?”
“I need a burst of Bohemia, Father.” There… it’s off my chest. That felt good.
“So… what exactly does that mean? Is it something dark and morbid, like that Freddie Mercury song? Or is it something beatnik, like the bongo thumping free spirits of the 60’s?”
“Not exactly, Father. More like Hemingway, Picasso, Gertrude Stein… in Paris.”
His eyes lit up. Now he understood. “Ah… yes. Zola, Flaubert, Maugham…in Paris.”
“Yes, yes,” I cried with excitement. “Like Capote, Warhol, Kerouac in New York…”
“Ok, I get it,” he said, nodding slowly, savoring the images in his head. “A gathering place… a place to belong in the evenings, to stimulate the soul, to relieve boredom, to drink and dine and uncork another topic of conversation… a sanctuary.”
“Bingo, dear Father! Bingo-issimo! Uber bingo. Le grand bingo!”
“Ok, ok… dear child. Easy now. Don’t wet your pants. I get it.”
If I was a dog, I would’ve wagged my tail furiously, like a crazy compass.
“Father… I dream of Bohemia… my version of Bohemia. I’m sure there are lots of souls out there who crave the same thing. Not the incessant crowded earsplitting thumping of night clubs. Not the stale and stolid hushed atmosphere of restaurants and cafes. I’m talking about those places you often read about in novels… a place where affable people gather in the evenings, with a light heart and comfort, to talk about the latest work of fiction, about films, about philosophy and politics and history, about love affairs and heartaches, about food and travel, about dreams… yes, dreams…”
“About life, in other words…” I could see him smiling behind that thin screen. “About life, my son…”
“Yes, Father! About life… and then the whole thing would become part of one’s life as well. It would be a component of life.”
“A soothing component…”
“But how do I get one started, Father? How does one go about it?”
“Why ask me? Do I look like a wino Bohemian to you? How should I know?”
“Err… I see your point. I just thought that, you know, wise old men like you would…”
Father O’Reilly burst out laughing. “Wise old men, eh? So you rank me in the same league as those folk who brought frankincense and myrrh to baby Jesus? Given my religion, I’ll construe that as a bit of a compliment… but I’m stretching it, I’ll let you know.”
“Cheers, Father… thanks heaps…”
“So… tell me about this blog thing. What kind of things does one talk about?”
“Umm, lots of things, Father. Any topic, really. There’s lots of different personalities with lots of issues, lots of joys, angers, anxieties, problems… sometimes it’s just a practice of unburdening whatever’s on your mind.” I juggled in my mind the images of people I encountered through blogging. People I hadn’t actually met (physically that is) but I felt I somehow knew, through their writing. Courageous people, compassionate people, philosophical people, friendly people, intelligent people, uninhibited people. It is through the enlightening medium of the internet that one realizes all people are interesting, that everyone has a story to tell. Is this the way God looks at us, I wondered?
“So give me one example.”
“Let’s see… there was one recently by a nice lady asking whether it made sense for an older woman to engage in an amorous relationship with a younger guy.”
“Ah… interesting. So did you comment on it?”
“Well, yes… I said it might make sense for an older man but perhaps not with a younger man… like say, someone still in their twenties.”
“That’s not really fair now, is it?” I could see Father O’Reilly lifting an eye brow quizzically.
“Meaning what?” I asked. Confessions couldn’t usually be this interesting, could it? – I wondered. Maybe I’d been missing out all these years.
“I mean… son… what did you think of yourself when you were in your twenties?”
“I… I thought I was hot sh*t... I guess.” Did I push the limits here? Did I sacrifice the good priest’s temperament for the sake of brutal honesty? Did I break the decorum of a confession booth? His reaction soon took care of that.
He burst out in joyous laughter. “Precisely, my son… precisely. It is the age to enjoy unblemished self-confidence. So why tamper with that? In the immortal words of Doris Day, ‘Que Sera Sera’ right?”
“I see your point…”
“So were you, my son? Were you ‘some hot sh*t’, as you so graphically describe?”
“Of course not, Father…not in retrospect…”
He laughed some more and smiled at me. It was a soothing gentle smile, with the kind twinkle in his eyes gleaming through the porous partition.”
“Some other youngster left comments that younger men make better lovers. What’s your opinion on that, Father?” Again, maybe I was pushing the envelope.
“Well… I may not enjoy orgasmic interludes every night, but I bask in His love all day and night. So which would I prefer; an hour a day of making love to some sizzling vixen or 24 hours of loving Jesus?”
“Umm… Father. I think we’re getting a bit too religious for a simple question on sex.”
“So what did you expect? You walk into a church and expect me to trumpet the virtues of making love to beautiful women? If you walk into a book store, my son, you’re not going to order filet mignon.”
Simple and effective; Father O’Reilly was a class act, albeit a bit sarcastic. A bit of Monty Python in his TV diet, I suspected.
“So… is this lady hot?” he asked. The question stunned me for a second.
“Who? You mean the person who posed the blog question?”
“Who else? We’re not talking about last week’s Miss Universe pageant now, are we? If we are, I think Miss Venezuela was hot, but that’s just me…”
“I can’t believe you’re asking me this, Father. But, anyway, I’ll let you be the judge of that. She posts her photos on her blog pages. She showed several poses of herself kissing nice looking young men on their cheeks, so I teased her that she was a bit ‘gregarious’ and then she snapped back in protest. We even parried a few times on someone else’s commentary page (a very courageous woman’s blog site, at that). She’s a lot of fun and she herself is quite a valiant woman, albeit a bit gregarious.” I wondered how a servant of God could even ask such questions; whether someone was ‘hot’ or not. But then again, why wouldn’t he? Appreciating beauty is universal, I suppose. Isn’t he a man, after all? Besides, Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with scenes of unimaginable beauty and those were definitely meant for men of the cloth. I should not be so judgmental, I reminded myself.
“So bloggers habitually post their photos on their blog pages. Hmm… interesting. So do you post your photos, my son?”
“Umm… no, not really. I guess I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. For myself, anyway…” I wondered how a little conversation on posting blogs took this kind of turn.
“And why not? I can see you’re no Brad Pitt, but then again…”
“But Father O’Reilly,” I protested, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the normalcy, the sheer mundane curiosity from a casual conversation in a confession booth. If I was expecting a theological discourse on the virtues of God and his minions, the illusion was shattered. “I need your advise on Bohemia. How do I start Bohemia in Singapore?”
“Ok, fine my son. Let’s ask ourselves the question; why do you like to write blog entries and why do you like fellow bloggers?”
I let out a sigh of relief. Now this was something I could answer. “The writing, the posting of entries, allows me some kind of communion with an audience. You see, I’ve always liked to write, but I never had an audience. I find great satisfaction, therefore, in taking and giving feedbacks on mine and other people’s blog entries. And the greatest thing of all, I believe, is that I can share conversation with people from all walks of life. I get to interact with people who would’ve otherwise never crossed paths. Through the magic of the internet, we all have the unprecedented opportunity to meet people without the hindrance of physical first impressions and awkward ritualistic introductions. In other words, we are free to ‘see’ someone first from their inside. I think it’s a great way to make friends… not necessarily in a romantic sense, but perhaps in a more meaningful way.”
“I see,” he said, smoothing his stubbly beard like the wise old sage that I’m sure he was. “I’ve always espoused the belief that a soul looking solely for romance misses the greater beauty of a relationship. It’s like a person who darts through the Louvre, urgently seeking to snap a photo of the Mona Lisa, whilst failing to bat an eye for all the masterpieces along the way. Of course, when he finally gets there, he learns that it’s forbidden to snap photo flashes of the Mona Lisa in that dark little inner chamber of the museum.”
“Ok, Father; so advise me now as to what I should do. This blog entry is getting rather lengthy and there’s a limit to how much I can test a blog reader’s patience. And I haven’t even written that many funny anecdotes to humor the passage along. I fear the reader will jump ship and go read the leggy girl’s chic-lit entries or the young hunk in swimming trunks.”
“Fine, fine, my impatient Korean minstrel… let’s get to the point. A place like the one you describe will require a cozy space and affordable food and wine. It cannot be a high browed emporium of fine wine nor a luxurious center for the art of gastronomy. Ideally, it would be a charming local brasserie or café, such as the ones found in abundance in Paris. A neighborhood Trattoria in Rome or Firenze might also do the trick. The problem, of course, is that Singapore is neither France nor Italy and wine, by virtue of traveling across vast oceans to reach its destination, necessarily jumps several times over in price. So one would have to find a place that serves a lower caliber of acceptable wine, to which the company and conversation would take care of elevating the dear elixir to a more exalted domain. The location won’t be so important as long as it is accessible and at least moderately central for the convenience of all parties. Ambient music would ideally be soft… something jazzy perhaps, or classical… blues or soul, even.”
I took mental notes and, of course, agreed with his wise observations. I nodded pensively.
“So do you know such a place, my son?”
“Umm… can’t say that I do. You see, I’ve been in Singapore for less than 3 years and…”
“Excuses, excuses…” he was shaking his head. I somehow felt a pang of remorse. I so wished for his approval. Is this the type of thing Catholics feel during confessions?
“The solution is in your blog community, my son. If what you are saying is true… if it’s true that you’ve been in communion with your fellow bloggers… you should seek them out to join you in your quest for your version of the sangreal (or sangria, rather more fittingly). They may step forth to assist you. Feel the Force, my son. May the Force be with you.”
Father O’Reilly was starting to sound a bit corny. “Isn’t that, like, from Star Wars?”
“What, you don’t like movies? You only read books? Oh, don’t be such a snob intellectual. Star Wars had great lines. Remember the one between C3PO and R2D2?
C3PO: I don’t know what all this trouble is about, but I’m sure it must be your fault.
R2D2: (responds with a loud beep)
C3PO: You watch your language!
Father O’Reilly was right (No, not about the Star Wars lines). I would have to lean on the good graces of fellow bloggers to find the premise of a workable Club Bohemia. A place like Cheers, where everybody knows your name. A place to rest your weary limb and perk up your mind. The place you want to go when you arrive home after a long day of work. The place to call… your place, our place, ‘the’ place.
“Does it have to be a physical place, my son?”
“Yes and no, I suppose. I guess it could be a physical place… but it could also be, like, a loose club of some sort. We might meet at a particular place, but then, we could meet for a particular event. Who knows? It would be open ended.”
“But what about me, my son? Would I be welcome?”
“But of course, Father. Although… we might have a problem…”
“And what’s that, my son?”
“Well… you’re kind of… how should I put this?…you’re a figment of my imagination. You don’t really exist now, do you?”
“Ok then. I’ll make you a deal. I can appear on those occasions where much wine has already been consumed. When everyone is a bit tipsy, shall we say, I could sneak in and pretend to be there. That makes some sense now, doesn’t it?”
“You mean, like, an imaginary friend… err, pastor? Because of the wine and the feel good factor?”
“Yes, yes… something like that. Oh, I might even have a chance to meet that nice ‘gregarious’ woman.” His eyes sparkled once again.
“I’m not sure any of this actually makes sense but… hey, sure… why not?”
“Deal?”
“Deal.”
And the sky is grey…”
The melody resonates over and over in my mind as I look up and notice the skies are actually grey… depressing grey. California Dreaming, indeed… thanks Mamas and Papas. I’d take any dry Sunny-fornia over this place. “Miserable f*ckin weather,” I mutter, chewing and spitting out the words.
“Walked into a church…
I passed along the way…”
So I walk into the first church that comes into view. Smallish, nice, clean… Catholic? Not sure, but I feel the need to walk into something, anything…
I notice the confession booth. And why not? – I think to myself. I’ve seen it done countless times in movies, on TV… read it in books too. So it’s Catholic, I conclude in my own merry mind. I venture in, fearlessly, as if drunk on a late afternoon.
“Father, it’s been 2 weeks since my last blog entry.”
“You mean ‘confession’, my son?” says Father O’Reilly, an affable old gent, servant of God, with a soft Irish lilt.
“No, Father. I mean blogging. You know, writing an entry… on my blog page. Something people will enjoy; something witty, if possible.”
I can see him scratching his head behind the obfuscated screen. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”
“Umm… no, not really.”
“So what are you, my son? A Protestant? Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist, Lutheran? A Mormon, Adventist? Or perhaps Buddhist, Taoist, Shintoist, Hindu? Rosicrucian?”
“But Father,” I protest. “Does it matter? I just want to love God!”
He laughs heartily. “I see you’ve been reading ‘The Life of Pi’. Good one, my son… good one!”
I laugh with him. I’m starting to like Father O’Reilly. I can almost see him chugging a pint of Guinness at the corner bar, looking up at the high corner TV screen, cheering every soccer game and boxing match.
“I don’t really know why I’m here, Father. I was humming ‘California Dreaming’ in my mind, and next thing you know… I’m here.”
“OK, fair enough. Not too busy today, so why not? By the way, my son, I don’t really like the cold.”
“Huh? Come again?”
“You know… the song. It says the preacher likes the cold. Well… I don’t. I hate the cold. I hate dentists and I hate the cold. Well… I don’t hate dentists, per say… just going to one. I don’t mind if they come to me.”
“I understand….”
“So down to business… why are you here, my son? What do you want to tell me?”
“I need a burst of Bohemia, Father.” There… it’s off my chest. That felt good.
“So… what exactly does that mean? Is it something dark and morbid, like that Freddie Mercury song? Or is it something beatnik, like the bongo thumping free spirits of the 60’s?”
“Not exactly, Father. More like Hemingway, Picasso, Gertrude Stein… in Paris.”
His eyes lit up. Now he understood. “Ah… yes. Zola, Flaubert, Maugham…in Paris.”
“Yes, yes,” I cried with excitement. “Like Capote, Warhol, Kerouac in New York…”
“Ok, I get it,” he said, nodding slowly, savoring the images in his head. “A gathering place… a place to belong in the evenings, to stimulate the soul, to relieve boredom, to drink and dine and uncork another topic of conversation… a sanctuary.”
“Bingo, dear Father! Bingo-issimo! Uber bingo. Le grand bingo!”
“Ok, ok… dear child. Easy now. Don’t wet your pants. I get it.”
If I was a dog, I would’ve wagged my tail furiously, like a crazy compass.
“Father… I dream of Bohemia… my version of Bohemia. I’m sure there are lots of souls out there who crave the same thing. Not the incessant crowded earsplitting thumping of night clubs. Not the stale and stolid hushed atmosphere of restaurants and cafes. I’m talking about those places you often read about in novels… a place where affable people gather in the evenings, with a light heart and comfort, to talk about the latest work of fiction, about films, about philosophy and politics and history, about love affairs and heartaches, about food and travel, about dreams… yes, dreams…”
“About life, in other words…” I could see him smiling behind that thin screen. “About life, my son…”
“Yes, Father! About life… and then the whole thing would become part of one’s life as well. It would be a component of life.”
“A soothing component…”
“But how do I get one started, Father? How does one go about it?”
“Why ask me? Do I look like a wino Bohemian to you? How should I know?”
“Err… I see your point. I just thought that, you know, wise old men like you would…”
Father O’Reilly burst out laughing. “Wise old men, eh? So you rank me in the same league as those folk who brought frankincense and myrrh to baby Jesus? Given my religion, I’ll construe that as a bit of a compliment… but I’m stretching it, I’ll let you know.”
“Cheers, Father… thanks heaps…”
“So… tell me about this blog thing. What kind of things does one talk about?”
“Umm, lots of things, Father. Any topic, really. There’s lots of different personalities with lots of issues, lots of joys, angers, anxieties, problems… sometimes it’s just a practice of unburdening whatever’s on your mind.” I juggled in my mind the images of people I encountered through blogging. People I hadn’t actually met (physically that is) but I felt I somehow knew, through their writing. Courageous people, compassionate people, philosophical people, friendly people, intelligent people, uninhibited people. It is through the enlightening medium of the internet that one realizes all people are interesting, that everyone has a story to tell. Is this the way God looks at us, I wondered?
“So give me one example.”
“Let’s see… there was one recently by a nice lady asking whether it made sense for an older woman to engage in an amorous relationship with a younger guy.”
“Ah… interesting. So did you comment on it?”
“Well, yes… I said it might make sense for an older man but perhaps not with a younger man… like say, someone still in their twenties.”
“That’s not really fair now, is it?” I could see Father O’Reilly lifting an eye brow quizzically.
“Meaning what?” I asked. Confessions couldn’t usually be this interesting, could it? – I wondered. Maybe I’d been missing out all these years.
“I mean… son… what did you think of yourself when you were in your twenties?”
“I… I thought I was hot sh*t... I guess.” Did I push the limits here? Did I sacrifice the good priest’s temperament for the sake of brutal honesty? Did I break the decorum of a confession booth? His reaction soon took care of that.
He burst out in joyous laughter. “Precisely, my son… precisely. It is the age to enjoy unblemished self-confidence. So why tamper with that? In the immortal words of Doris Day, ‘Que Sera Sera’ right?”
“I see your point…”
“So were you, my son? Were you ‘some hot sh*t’, as you so graphically describe?”
“Of course not, Father…not in retrospect…”
He laughed some more and smiled at me. It was a soothing gentle smile, with the kind twinkle in his eyes gleaming through the porous partition.”
“Some other youngster left comments that younger men make better lovers. What’s your opinion on that, Father?” Again, maybe I was pushing the envelope.
“Well… I may not enjoy orgasmic interludes every night, but I bask in His love all day and night. So which would I prefer; an hour a day of making love to some sizzling vixen or 24 hours of loving Jesus?”
“Umm… Father. I think we’re getting a bit too religious for a simple question on sex.”
“So what did you expect? You walk into a church and expect me to trumpet the virtues of making love to beautiful women? If you walk into a book store, my son, you’re not going to order filet mignon.”
Simple and effective; Father O’Reilly was a class act, albeit a bit sarcastic. A bit of Monty Python in his TV diet, I suspected.
“So… is this lady hot?” he asked. The question stunned me for a second.
“Who? You mean the person who posed the blog question?”
“Who else? We’re not talking about last week’s Miss Universe pageant now, are we? If we are, I think Miss Venezuela was hot, but that’s just me…”
“I can’t believe you’re asking me this, Father. But, anyway, I’ll let you be the judge of that. She posts her photos on her blog pages. She showed several poses of herself kissing nice looking young men on their cheeks, so I teased her that she was a bit ‘gregarious’ and then she snapped back in protest. We even parried a few times on someone else’s commentary page (a very courageous woman’s blog site, at that). She’s a lot of fun and she herself is quite a valiant woman, albeit a bit gregarious.” I wondered how a servant of God could even ask such questions; whether someone was ‘hot’ or not. But then again, why wouldn’t he? Appreciating beauty is universal, I suppose. Isn’t he a man, after all? Besides, Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with scenes of unimaginable beauty and those were definitely meant for men of the cloth. I should not be so judgmental, I reminded myself.
“So bloggers habitually post their photos on their blog pages. Hmm… interesting. So do you post your photos, my son?”
“Umm… no, not really. I guess I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. For myself, anyway…” I wondered how a little conversation on posting blogs took this kind of turn.
“And why not? I can see you’re no Brad Pitt, but then again…”
“But Father O’Reilly,” I protested, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the normalcy, the sheer mundane curiosity from a casual conversation in a confession booth. If I was expecting a theological discourse on the virtues of God and his minions, the illusion was shattered. “I need your advise on Bohemia. How do I start Bohemia in Singapore?”
“Ok, fine my son. Let’s ask ourselves the question; why do you like to write blog entries and why do you like fellow bloggers?”
I let out a sigh of relief. Now this was something I could answer. “The writing, the posting of entries, allows me some kind of communion with an audience. You see, I’ve always liked to write, but I never had an audience. I find great satisfaction, therefore, in taking and giving feedbacks on mine and other people’s blog entries. And the greatest thing of all, I believe, is that I can share conversation with people from all walks of life. I get to interact with people who would’ve otherwise never crossed paths. Through the magic of the internet, we all have the unprecedented opportunity to meet people without the hindrance of physical first impressions and awkward ritualistic introductions. In other words, we are free to ‘see’ someone first from their inside. I think it’s a great way to make friends… not necessarily in a romantic sense, but perhaps in a more meaningful way.”
“I see,” he said, smoothing his stubbly beard like the wise old sage that I’m sure he was. “I’ve always espoused the belief that a soul looking solely for romance misses the greater beauty of a relationship. It’s like a person who darts through the Louvre, urgently seeking to snap a photo of the Mona Lisa, whilst failing to bat an eye for all the masterpieces along the way. Of course, when he finally gets there, he learns that it’s forbidden to snap photo flashes of the Mona Lisa in that dark little inner chamber of the museum.”
“Ok, Father; so advise me now as to what I should do. This blog entry is getting rather lengthy and there’s a limit to how much I can test a blog reader’s patience. And I haven’t even written that many funny anecdotes to humor the passage along. I fear the reader will jump ship and go read the leggy girl’s chic-lit entries or the young hunk in swimming trunks.”
“Fine, fine, my impatient Korean minstrel… let’s get to the point. A place like the one you describe will require a cozy space and affordable food and wine. It cannot be a high browed emporium of fine wine nor a luxurious center for the art of gastronomy. Ideally, it would be a charming local brasserie or café, such as the ones found in abundance in Paris. A neighborhood Trattoria in Rome or Firenze might also do the trick. The problem, of course, is that Singapore is neither France nor Italy and wine, by virtue of traveling across vast oceans to reach its destination, necessarily jumps several times over in price. So one would have to find a place that serves a lower caliber of acceptable wine, to which the company and conversation would take care of elevating the dear elixir to a more exalted domain. The location won’t be so important as long as it is accessible and at least moderately central for the convenience of all parties. Ambient music would ideally be soft… something jazzy perhaps, or classical… blues or soul, even.”
I took mental notes and, of course, agreed with his wise observations. I nodded pensively.
“So do you know such a place, my son?”
“Umm… can’t say that I do. You see, I’ve been in Singapore for less than 3 years and…”
“Excuses, excuses…” he was shaking his head. I somehow felt a pang of remorse. I so wished for his approval. Is this the type of thing Catholics feel during confessions?
“The solution is in your blog community, my son. If what you are saying is true… if it’s true that you’ve been in communion with your fellow bloggers… you should seek them out to join you in your quest for your version of the sangreal (or sangria, rather more fittingly). They may step forth to assist you. Feel the Force, my son. May the Force be with you.”
Father O’Reilly was starting to sound a bit corny. “Isn’t that, like, from Star Wars?”
“What, you don’t like movies? You only read books? Oh, don’t be such a snob intellectual. Star Wars had great lines. Remember the one between C3PO and R2D2?
C3PO: I don’t know what all this trouble is about, but I’m sure it must be your fault.
R2D2: (responds with a loud beep)
C3PO: You watch your language!
Father O’Reilly was right (No, not about the Star Wars lines). I would have to lean on the good graces of fellow bloggers to find the premise of a workable Club Bohemia. A place like Cheers, where everybody knows your name. A place to rest your weary limb and perk up your mind. The place you want to go when you arrive home after a long day of work. The place to call… your place, our place, ‘the’ place.
“Does it have to be a physical place, my son?”
“Yes and no, I suppose. I guess it could be a physical place… but it could also be, like, a loose club of some sort. We might meet at a particular place, but then, we could meet for a particular event. Who knows? It would be open ended.”
“But what about me, my son? Would I be welcome?”
“But of course, Father. Although… we might have a problem…”
“And what’s that, my son?”
“Well… you’re kind of… how should I put this?…you’re a figment of my imagination. You don’t really exist now, do you?”
“Ok then. I’ll make you a deal. I can appear on those occasions where much wine has already been consumed. When everyone is a bit tipsy, shall we say, I could sneak in and pretend to be there. That makes some sense now, doesn’t it?”
“You mean, like, an imaginary friend… err, pastor? Because of the wine and the feel good factor?”
“Yes, yes… something like that. Oh, I might even have a chance to meet that nice ‘gregarious’ woman.” His eyes sparkled once again.
“I’m not sure any of this actually makes sense but… hey, sure… why not?”
“Deal?”
“Deal.”
