tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27670046152941109452024-03-18T11:03:23.641+08:00ArtxyArtxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.comBlogger652125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-53220053874381313642021-03-19T07:36:00.004+08:002021-03-19T07:36:31.646+08:00Night Walk <p>On 26th December, I tried walking into the forest alone. There was no need to overthink. The weather was cooling, the sky, cloudless, and the moon, candescent. Light would shiver across wet surfaces. Everything, bright, everything, beautiful.</p><p>Just walk, I thought, one step after another, foot by foot. Most mammals are capable of locomotion and I should be no exception. Yet, every step on the gravel pathway was resonant in the silent forest. The absence of noise was unnerving. I was so used to the incessant hymns of chatter and traffic, too desensitised in the sauna of unwanted sounds. </p><p>My bones vibrated as the gravel crunched. My senses were afire, I was body electric. The absence of light created monsters. Was that outline an equatorial spitting cobra, a king cobra or a pit viper? There are snakes which leap from trees to land on succulent preys. Did my silhouette look delicious like a piece of fatty char shiew? Would an owl mistake my admittedly unkempt hair for a rat and tear off my scalp? </p><p>Someone told me that there is always a silver lining. If I were to die from a venomous bite, I would at least live on in the news - 'Top School Teacher Dies From Snake Bite On Solitary Night Trek, First In Singapore In Fifty Years'. </p><p>How reassuring. </p><p>Every sound was louder, more surreal. An owl kept hooting. Was it a call of boredom or caution? Leaves were in cahoots with branches. Something would happen, something sinister. There was a sudden snap and a huge thing - Bat? Insect? Alien flying saucer? - flew towards my face. </p><p>Enough, it was enough. I retreated in shame. Less than ten minutes, maybe even less than five, that was the extent of my courage. I made my way to Soi 19 and ordered dinner. The lady stared at me. I stared back. <i>Drinks</i>, she asked, and I replied, <i>no</i>. Didn't she already ask? She stared, paused, <i>payment?</i> Ah yes, I truly forgot I had to pay for a meal. Defeat is disorienting. </p><p>I did not overthink before the attempt. I honestly thought I could do it, having had experience with solitary day walks and group night walks. Besides, I did a similar route a week ago with a friend. Army had not trained me well. Military night camps are festivals of light, with portable lamps ablaze in every corner and glowsticks lining every gravel pathway as if in preparation of a fashion show. </p><p>Fear is disorienting and shame is a fat seed. Think about it long enough and it will sprout. Water it and watch it grow. There is a banyan tree of self-mortification about to burst through my skin. </p><p>All these years have taught me to break monumental tasks into baby steps, to draw a menagerie bird by bird. I need something doable, something manageable. No defeat is lasting, I have to believe. </p><p>A few days later, I decide to take precautions and try walking in absolute darkness again. I had trained myself by walking with my eyes closed (but only when no one was looking)(because I have no desire to come across as a nutcase)(does this mean I care about what strangers think?). I am prepared to be fearful. </p><p>I start in the evening, knowing that I will be trapped in the middle - alone and afraid - when it's too dark and be left with no option but to move forward. If I have to, I will crawl out.</p><p>Mary Oliver once said, 'You do not have to be good. / You do not have to walk on your knees / for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.' </p><p>But I have to. My ego speaks and I am subservient. </p><p>Along the boardwalk, I see someone. He seems old and healthy and most importantly, he is wearing a facemask. He is, to the best of my knowledge, a human and not a ghost or a crocodile demon. </p><p><i>I must see something. I must</i>, I keep thinking, <i>there must be something for me to see</i>. This mantra, this desperate desire to make this solitary trek worth something - worth anything - this repetition blunts the fear. </p><p>Which is to say, this fear still nibbles, this fear still exists, this fear is instinctive. It is tough to be in the unknown, with limited vision and vulnerable to the whims of a thoughtless cosmos. People pass away from broken branches and barely noticed insect bites. A sudden snap, a careless step, and I will cease. This fear lurks in the background, like the irritating hum of an old computer. </p><p>What am I living for? If not, what am I fearful about? </p><p>A frayed strand from my shorts brushes against my thigh and I jump.</p><p>Leaves scrape against my umbrella and I jump.</p><p>There is something glowing off the boardwalk and I jump. Is this what I have been looking for? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7vNAvYsVPNKCjbDsTPXF7oxF6t7UetrHHSKJaI9ZOSJgbKxFKamQGySHniXEDSje77iANUIat-yH3i2G-FLgcayB7VzyjFcJZrlFWcYwretcDmQRvCj6vmEwTGiOscy_oyTBKS0I_Apv/s2048/IMG_20210102_222850.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7vNAvYsVPNKCjbDsTPXF7oxF6t7UetrHHSKJaI9ZOSJgbKxFKamQGySHniXEDSje77iANUIat-yH3i2G-FLgcayB7VzyjFcJZrlFWcYwretcDmQRvCj6vmEwTGiOscy_oyTBKS0I_Apv/s320/IMG_20210102_222850.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrR6iHtfdU_d934kpurPuKEOqbg7B76FZpRRbXU4BoguAn72akrUQo97gbI9nBrhXuH2E2dytNrN-moPEad9tvzabRbjZLaB8ueI8lLQJCULCHDR-p6xhlA4tV5BR54IpPi6co-MhLQGe/s2048/IMG_20210102_222939.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrR6iHtfdU_d934kpurPuKEOqbg7B76FZpRRbXU4BoguAn72akrUQo97gbI9nBrhXuH2E2dytNrN-moPEad9tvzabRbjZLaB8ueI8lLQJCULCHDR-p6xhlA4tV5BR54IpPi6co-MhLQGe/s320/IMG_20210102_222939.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSAAxvcZ7_5yzDDzv1DdtR63BZRLeTyIMXlUFJA7NgJjSHAgsEU6ahb6uL3R35J6Zk3n7PS0I9wApRtg4djXgg8jUsbOgg2nUTrnZCDOnAtabjRHr0sozMUkTkiHpOZ4658fEYG0652Lly/s2048/IMG_20210102_223126.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSAAxvcZ7_5yzDDzv1DdtR63BZRLeTyIMXlUFJA7NgJjSHAgsEU6ahb6uL3R35J6Zk3n7PS0I9wApRtg4djXgg8jUsbOgg2nUTrnZCDOnAtabjRHr0sozMUkTkiHpOZ4658fEYG0652Lly/s320/IMG_20210102_223126.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>The leaves rustle with secrets. Do they hide a colugo or the elusive pangolin? Good god, I do want to see the only mammal wholly covered with scales. Every member of this species looks lovably dumb and it is quite clear that not all dumb things are lovable. </div><p>A wild boar - not quite a baby, not yet an adult, just as big as a Labrador - grunts. It sticks his head out of the foliage before backing into the forest. 'Hello,' it says, 'and goodbye.' </p>XYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08183273388875203336noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-64295704334543978562021-01-01T14:19:00.006+08:002021-01-01T14:26:52.629+08:00Bodies<div class="separator">There are bodies. There are bodies of water. We are bodies of water, water bags just floating around, mostly mindless, waiting for the eventual implosion. </div><br />Every body is a timer counting down. Every second brings us a step closer to the eventual rest, every new year is a reminder that the body does not have much left. Telomeres are shortening, cells are rebelling. The skin records every laughter and every teardrop. <br /><br />The body soaks in oxygen, drinks in water, bloats with excesses. It sees beautiful things and yearns to possess them. The mushrooms angry with light, the serpentine pitchers of nectar. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQMLVEeoHXz1WfSVET2q0Ea52iszw8wnudrF_v6L_D-ldKjLQreOqCTPuEZk2nVVeU6wUm08zTwxEUlqt3BCBHdT-8abXrwJOS3AX1158FOzash1akLYTuYQO1SssyxjnfesmYsi4ipCG/s2048/IMG_20201230_102517.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXQMLVEeoHXz1WfSVET2q0Ea52iszw8wnudrF_v6L_D-ldKjLQreOqCTPuEZk2nVVeU6wUm08zTwxEUlqt3BCBHdT-8abXrwJOS3AX1158FOzash1akLYTuYQO1SssyxjnfesmYsi4ipCG/s320/IMG_20201230_102517.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdjQuHMbv-8CkXPIYsS74YG7Ri08_ToXaIrXCBcMwUzS-Hejci-xvb3HKrKs4dv3Z0G8DyEAznu74VyGlsvwK_p0ghLmaqf0SkJq9GBXtLq7fOcYks_BtEZEu96k8c78dFF3twthRLkF1/s2048/IMG_20201228_111731.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2047" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdjQuHMbv-8CkXPIYsS74YG7Ri08_ToXaIrXCBcMwUzS-Hejci-xvb3HKrKs4dv3Z0G8DyEAznu74VyGlsvwK_p0ghLmaqf0SkJq9GBXtLq7fOcYks_BtEZEu96k8c78dFF3twthRLkF1/s320/IMG_20201228_111731.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The woodpecker is furious against glass. It hurls its body against its image. It pecks, furiously, once, twice, again and again. What does this tiny feathered body seek? What does it want so desperately that it would batter itself with such fierceness? </div><div><br />What does this body want? Can it fold itself into neat rectangles to be tucked into the drawer and called upon as and when necessary? <br /><br />Sometimes, the body tussles with its ego. So easy to be restless, to be greedy, to want more, to keep wanting, to consume and keep consuming. The body needs to learn contentment. It has all its bourgeoisie comforts and still hankers after that exquisite plant or quixotic workplace. Be still, body, restless ambitious body, be quiet.<br /><br />The body argues all. the. time. It loves arguments, particularly those with itself. Is this self-love or self-entertainment, the body does not know. <br /><br />There is another body, white and frilly and aglow. It promises to love, one and only, now and forever. A vow in front of the altar, in the company of loved ones. But does that body know such a promise is frivolous? It can promise to love for now but not for ever. Who knows what the next year may bring. Who knows what the next hour may bring. A taxi beating the red light can rearrange lives. <br /><br />Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold. Marriages dissolve like sugar or salt. There are few ways to live wondrously but so many ways to fail, some as tiny as a grammar slip, some as spectacular as a slap in the face. The body keeps returning to the sound recording, that confrontation between once-lovers. <br /><br />The body aches, it complains. It had taken the ichor of youth lightly, spent it frivolously on late nights, bad postures and books read in dim lighting. Its cells chronicle every micro-transgression after the age of thirty. There can be white hair or backaches or crow’s feet or skin that takes increasingly more time to sink back into its position after being pinched. <br /><br />It is inexorable, the sluggish metabolism, the gradual piling of weight. The body finds it difficult to lose weight. The body must lose weight. It carries its unhappiness around, fats that sit resolutely on the arm, the belly, the cheeks. The body does not want to be an obese dinosaur which a python won't want to eat.<br /><br />And yes, the body is elastic. It stretches to contain the self, to accommodate serendipities. It sheds old skin that no longer fits. There is space within for mousedeer, pit vipers, spiny hill terrapins, nepenthes gracilis and a stenocladus larva. There is space for the kapok tree taller than a giraffe and there is space for the ladybug as shiny as a water droplet. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6M0KjYURjojsHFJ7rS57Qym376cc6i22DpjC0QMCs8c0HCVPoGKdEYFxn07Qyj2AWn1qKMoJu4qHeI3IEq9xgSz8dTTZHP60_ocZ9MNh0mxzHahQ_DMXacxkDbwbua4KhBmtkHSkN4rV/s1546/IMG_20201230_110838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1546" data-original-width="1546" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6M0KjYURjojsHFJ7rS57Qym376cc6i22DpjC0QMCs8c0HCVPoGKdEYFxn07Qyj2AWn1qKMoJu4qHeI3IEq9xgSz8dTTZHP60_ocZ9MNh0mxzHahQ_DMXacxkDbwbua4KhBmtkHSkN4rV/s320/IMG_20201230_110838.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyF1QuZg_DXxvLiBVMRvXtDavGpLE_ggy46hs6xcp4FS6jjCIaU6Gx1KwSoqFgV9Kv17citROSZMkA0ndGiE5Ay39dTUZkjMGExH1fy61XrbXqh8OfW7lqwoMbG1F4aiMYlT8bZ5n65kgc/s2048/IMG_20201222_120655.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2047" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyF1QuZg_DXxvLiBVMRvXtDavGpLE_ggy46hs6xcp4FS6jjCIaU6Gx1KwSoqFgV9Kv17citROSZMkA0ndGiE5Ay39dTUZkjMGExH1fy61XrbXqh8OfW7lqwoMbG1F4aiMYlT8bZ5n65kgc/s320/IMG_20201222_120655.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNsfwGTh0S-0zO9pFtmWiknVB97a7ZexbFWM-9Z_yq6Gi8e7UO1OltvELaEdoHmEbeMLEC8AcWVEuiDd90eWsmSKBYot-CGZfhGTdVn2VVnWVmlTBX5ILrCtXoazkEhvHkbOB5ctyrsTaX/s2048/IMG_20201024_113315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2047" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNsfwGTh0S-0zO9pFtmWiknVB97a7ZexbFWM-9Z_yq6Gi8e7UO1OltvELaEdoHmEbeMLEC8AcWVEuiDd90eWsmSKBYot-CGZfhGTdVn2VVnWVmlTBX5ILrCtXoazkEhvHkbOB5ctyrsTaX/s320/IMG_20201024_113315.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The body must be reassured, that its efforts are not for naught, that it is appreciated, it exists and its existence is affirmed, if not at least acknowledged. The body is excitable, though not excited often. <br /><br />The body wavers between apathy and antipathy. <br /><br />The body is impatient with itself. It seeks retirement before it is ready. It wants trauma to leave scars, but only scars of a certain depth and pattern, but only scars fit to be eulogised into poetry. <br /><br />It's the last day of 2020 and the body is in the living room, listening to angst-songs, sipping plain water from a huge glass mug. It remembers the family of ex-colleagues, how nasi lemak would be bought for one another on Fridays.<br /><br />The body is one big eye, looking backward then swivelling to face the unknown. The body knows it must be ready. The body, like all other bodies, has very little say in the swelling river of seconds, minutes, hours, days. The planetary rotations will continue, the bodies will age. <br /><br />The body is ready. The body is.</div>XYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08183273388875203336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-55470313024735168332020-08-07T22:35:00.008+08:002020-08-07T22:37:25.339+08:00Thank You<div>Stories, they bring us together, they stitch wounds close. Stories, they catch us unaware, at the twilight just after waking, the forgotten pauses between mouthfuls of rice, gooey with an unknown sauce. Stories, they leave us alone. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today, I was reminded of how my batch of army comrades helped to direct the social media outreach of National Day some years ago. We looked at fireworks and sighed over the fiery bursts of taxpayers' money, of our parents' money, our money. </div><div><br /></div><div>We scurried around like little mice, digging for stories to post on blogs - are blogs even a thing now? - on twitter, facebook, flickr. We argued like little people who had not been exposed to life, its tender infancy, its gradual decline, its sudden bursts. </div><div><br /></div><div>Last Thursday, Mrs Ho, an ex-colleague, boarded a cab home in the evening. It was the day before a public holiday. The cab tried to beat the red light. A heavy vehicle smashed into the passenger side. Mrs Ho passed away.</div><div><br /></div><div>Like many who have been touched by her generosity, kindness and patience, I spent the weekend, caught in grief's waves, barely buoyant in its ebbs and flows. I sat on the stairs, picking apart weeds struggling to survive. I was distracted and messy and missed my family of ex-colleagues. Grief was alienating.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was not the first time someone I knew passed away. I should know better, I really should, but grief, it is an alien. It is strange and unknowable and pierces the bubble of comfortable doldrums. </div><div><br /></div><div>An ex-colleague has this story of Mrs Ho moving the entire assembly to the afternoon slot so that him, a fledgling teacher, could attend the session.</div><div><br /></div><div>Another shared the story of how Mrs Ho gave her a box of macaroons after her somewhat unusual attempt of being a little miss sunshine. </div><div><br /></div><div>A student mentioned how she was the only one teacher who constantly reached out to him and reminded him that growth was within reach. </div><div><br /></div><div>She was my mentor, back when I was new and tender, bruised by screaming kids who flipped tables, tore notes, cheated during tests, fought in the air-conditioned music room over a fan and in the garden over a girl. </div><div><br /></div><div>She gave thank-you notes and bought little thoughtful gifts to inspire and encourage everyone around her. </div><div><br /></div><div>She was the well-loved mother of the staff room, the beloved granny to her students, a kind soul who deserved to enjoy retirement after years of being the first few to reach the office and the last few to leave it. </div><div><br /></div><div>So many people spent that long weekend, battered, broken, wrecked, tearing, sobbing. </div><div><br /></div><div>This week, I drifted. Marked test scripts and mumbled. Cooked and mumbled. Walked and mumbled. There was grief, of course, and shame. The ignominy of impatience, of raising my voice at my classes. In what world would she shout at her students? </div><div><br /></div><div>She wouldn't and I shouldn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>An ex-colleague said that Mrs Ho wouldn't want us to be self-reproachful. She would say something warm and remind us to be loving. She would say that there is a long journey to being a good teacher, to be kind to oneself, to try and last in the service.</div><div><br /></div><div>The enormity of this all, the injustice, the ugliness, the sheer unfairness. </div><div><br /></div>I want to write about parade colours, the flags in the orderly march-past, the bright metallic bursts across the city skyline. To recollect the countless KFC meals given to servicemen during rehearsals. The sparrow-like squabbles about the social media efforts. <div><br /></div><div>When I was a kid and loved reading superhero stories, I would imagine myself having powers like super-strength or psychic blasts or pyrokinesis, all destructive forces with a sudden wave of hand. I never thought about having powers like time travel, I mean, how lame can that be.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I imagine the power to reverse time, for the opportunity not to ever board a cab. </div><div><br /></div><div>I imagine her family, the magnitude of their grief, and the gentleness that would eventually come after the wounds have scabbed over and the scabs have fallen off.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you, Mrs Ho, for your mentorship, your kindness, your inspiring example. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUIiUyCIQQlQ-YEXF4h4UjAogDIRZlQCyx4V2FxDMZF2Tq6ahaU9gr8uuAykvrCO8aFc50jBn3VvChV2y67uygBbnShvYxCdXjrr2m_wTaxUYE2FJobSk3z6IZ9cLsi-wOifBdBp97dR-/s960/104441536_10157776560407982_2691969408602232592_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUIiUyCIQQlQ-YEXF4h4UjAogDIRZlQCyx4V2FxDMZF2Tq6ahaU9gr8uuAykvrCO8aFc50jBn3VvChV2y67uygBbnShvYxCdXjrr2m_wTaxUYE2FJobSk3z6IZ9cLsi-wOifBdBp97dR-/s640/104441536_10157776560407982_2691969408602232592_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div>XYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08183273388875203336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-27974894659581128822020-07-22T09:13:00.001+08:002020-07-22T09:58:22.892+08:00Growing Catasetinae Orchids <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Catasetinae is a group of orchids consisting of 8 genera. These resilient plants grow on branches, stumps and lamp posts. They go dormant in winter by shedding all their leaves and explode with growth in summer, the botanical equivalent of being a Sleeping Beauty. </div>
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Some growers tend to trim away roots and leaves to force them to go into hibernation for a better show the following year. However, I find this unnecessary since the local weather is humid with sunshine year round. In fact, there may be no noticeable dormant-growth passive-active phases. </div>
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They are way hardier than other family of orchids and almost impossible to kill. A small fragment which I broke off grew into one sturdy plant this year and may flower the next. Keeping my fingers crossed. </div>
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Here are some ideas on growth culture, based on my past three years of keeping them. </div>
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<b>Potting mix</b></div>
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Inorganic media which allow water to flow through freely yet retain some moisture work really well. A mix of pumice, volcanic rock, clay pellets and charcoal is good. I simply use whatever media I have. During the growth phase, I may add a thin layer of moss on top of the medium. </div>
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Spagnum moss tends to rot easily in our tropical weather, becoming a soggy mess. As such, care must be taken not to overwater the plants.</div>
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Another grower I know use coconut chips. It works really well for him. </div>
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There is no hard-and-fast rule for choosing the potting mix. The trick is to get a medium or a mix of media which meets the water requirements of a plant and fits how often the caregiver likes to water. </div>
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<b>Pots</b></div>
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I used to like clay pots for growing my catasetinae orchids. They do grow well. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjudR9Ffd2hMMtPuWxqMvEdlre0BWCxBkeHRdK-cqSjHsjw6jlLUf90jefvjz9-1wGjSoCyNqSqglErXHU_CgxkcUncBcXdZTiLcRAupiMA0p1OvYqpD_qJezmr8M1bvKDXmPQlDmQVb8ip/s1600/IMG_20200720_185050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjudR9Ffd2hMMtPuWxqMvEdlre0BWCxBkeHRdK-cqSjHsjw6jlLUf90jefvjz9-1wGjSoCyNqSqglErXHU_CgxkcUncBcXdZTiLcRAupiMA0p1OvYqpD_qJezmr8M1bvKDXmPQlDmQVb8ip/s320/IMG_20200720_185050.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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However, I find that the plants grow even better in a semi-hydroponic manner. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjllKpEtQnX2dkh_e9tHwYKe5v1A7PNITqQz1n6l9EJwAzwwH0Yi5jJabEz7_7ntJNFNPH0_Cpu-a1R9dk0PbHdj4Xr3F163t0qZynxQ9N63PxQslMMweYlkeYdWl4Z7BTDQpo_5eKj9N/s1600/IMG_20200720_185052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjllKpEtQnX2dkh_e9tHwYKe5v1A7PNITqQz1n6l9EJwAzwwH0Yi5jJabEz7_7ntJNFNPH0_Cpu-a1R9dk0PbHdj4Xr3F163t0qZynxQ9N63PxQslMMweYlkeYdWl4Z7BTDQpo_5eKj9N/s320/IMG_20200720_185052.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Many of them have huge pseudobulbs!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIZQv7SU651HVINtivksPvUQE9F8vgLgTfY1cASGN4FnTNbb1ewsQDy0KmP1k-0GePvQ9KfhR8H7bSRhAjr63as72rUYDsueitzGnReSxSTcN_5i1L7rD7AKaRzrNvFABYC2MJJkoLAejX/s1600/IMG_20200720_185056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIZQv7SU651HVINtivksPvUQE9F8vgLgTfY1cASGN4FnTNbb1ewsQDy0KmP1k-0GePvQ9KfhR8H7bSRhAjr63as72rUYDsueitzGnReSxSTcN_5i1L7rD7AKaRzrNvFABYC2MJJkoLAejX/s320/IMG_20200720_185056.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Guvn083mg6Ybc7dNk5IFFVGg3j5QGbtJt90jDoSG4Pnh_cXbYXXslRxCO2TCPxtnzPwI2uIa3AHIvgvDnRQBxqGTSHAQIR0piSAgHkBW6JCal1TYXpAVUY-qrAvCDU6f9NOraZ2VQIwv/s1600/IMG_20200720_185120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Guvn083mg6Ybc7dNk5IFFVGg3j5QGbtJt90jDoSG4Pnh_cXbYXXslRxCO2TCPxtnzPwI2uIa3AHIvgvDnRQBxqGTSHAQIR0piSAgHkBW6JCal1TYXpAVUY-qrAvCDU6f9NOraZ2VQIwv/s320/IMG_20200720_185120.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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The plastic pots come from halved bottles. Holes are melted in with a soldering iron though they could be formed with any cutting tool.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzEpLvT0LtpQ27i8wdoL_ciW0kkTGbw2g4UEzmMPhnX9V23jLUitvv_HHA6dbRPWC0IWgdhZei_YkbgtVRV0B1oeKSn1j7iiYDo7b0PAp3SJVGBEqeLz124t_fIX6crwNH1xCcDPP3ECUM/s1600/IMG_20200721_140637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzEpLvT0LtpQ27i8wdoL_ciW0kkTGbw2g4UEzmMPhnX9V23jLUitvv_HHA6dbRPWC0IWgdhZei_YkbgtVRV0B1oeKSn1j7iiYDo7b0PAp3SJVGBEqeLz124t_fIX6crwNH1xCcDPP3ECUM/s320/IMG_20200721_140637.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxyjdM3AyBaM0oGw54p8msXWMM6Vi9vJTUuduLkj96yVwMlhOUZiQe4cR0cSjQ81TFSgtl6XqwcGcDIBxBqhfBkPPf9BHyOOagj1L3OdWmyoyNG5JuRg4bYQzkGSH_VS-aAm3Fl1-Gn6Ri/s1600/IMG_20200721_140643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxyjdM3AyBaM0oGw54p8msXWMM6Vi9vJTUuduLkj96yVwMlhOUZiQe4cR0cSjQ81TFSgtl6XqwcGcDIBxBqhfBkPPf9BHyOOagj1L3OdWmyoyNG5JuRg4bYQzkGSH_VS-aAm3Fl1-Gn6Ri/s320/IMG_20200721_140643.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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There are no holes at the bottom of the plastic pot. This ensures that there is a very thin layer of water at the bottom of the pot. It is important that there are holes at the sides of the pot at the bottom to ensure that the layer of water is very thin and mosquitoes do not breed in the pot.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHxl8PKszIdKqRVMOhYl21HeMzKz3ya1wTqzvPxi5bOBWqgqbJUUFwoQqZaPAvmix3wpwCEXuQbChiGOs1OG7ix8RYa-OZwrJhD_Q4j9AOOvFJdPR1h95wZYZ8TIcZ_veQ49l8pJkXNZs/s1600/IMG_20200721_140644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHxl8PKszIdKqRVMOhYl21HeMzKz3ya1wTqzvPxi5bOBWqgqbJUUFwoQqZaPAvmix3wpwCEXuQbChiGOs1OG7ix8RYa-OZwrJhD_Q4j9AOOvFJdPR1h95wZYZ8TIcZ_veQ49l8pJkXNZs/s320/IMG_20200721_140644.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<b>Fertilisers</b></div>
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I tend to use a variety of slow release pellets and top up as and when I remember to. Every now and then, every green creature gets a heavily diluted fertiliser solution - a few drops to a large bucket of water. </div>
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Sometimes, the plants remind me to fertilise them when they push out new growths and flower spikes.</div>
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I would have to say that the plants thrive with my benign neglect. When I was working from home, I killed a number of plants - not Catasetinae - by spraying Baygon on them to get rid of imaginary pests. </div>
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<b>Pest Control</b><br />
<br />
Small conical snails tend to be attracted to the fleshy roots. The bright pink snail pellets work but are incredibly toxic. I find that Mr Garrick's organic snail powder - it smells like coffee residues - is much more effective.<br />
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Ants are drawn toward the nectar produced by new growths and flower spikes and can be poisoned off with ant gel.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGNW_6Jn7x3Q_kUXaIQZdgNHTfm6EuVFXNLfYcFEr7oJAFPyJYd9jbwD27Sanc0VxsHykzO-ITH4-Hiv9D9VmO9UbIe__Xp76hyjoCQm1t3qwvDAEK_XpqKvzDVHpcv_bJc1oi6-OZdmTM/s1600/pink+pellet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGNW_6Jn7x3Q_kUXaIQZdgNHTfm6EuVFXNLfYcFEr7oJAFPyJYd9jbwD27Sanc0VxsHykzO-ITH4-Hiv9D9VmO9UbIe__Xp76hyjoCQm1t3qwvDAEK_XpqKvzDVHpcv_bJc1oi6-OZdmTM/s1600/pink+pellet.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baaaaaaaaaaad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjADaiU6Acrys4kwOqy_Pu-YmSg8tgkbpuN0X_pjb50BEiV_NgTT82tki73P9rZfUS4cri99sXx6G2U00XpqvyFiLoUAG7Vf4lP5K97-D3YPIk6FCxGmpKFTOjXmSATkzGFd_c7uup7X0xg/s1600/b0299995d842249ad64be6adcca9821b.jpg_340x340q80.jpg_.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="340" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjADaiU6Acrys4kwOqy_Pu-YmSg8tgkbpuN0X_pjb50BEiV_NgTT82tki73P9rZfUS4cri99sXx6G2U00XpqvyFiLoUAG7Vf4lP5K97-D3YPIk6FCxGmpKFTOjXmSATkzGFd_c7uup7X0xg/s320/b0299995d842249ad64be6adcca9821b.jpg_340x340q80.jpg_.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good<br />
(Also, they didn't pay me to advertise their products.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Photos</b><br />
<br />
Here are some photos of past blooms:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVN2BpUEi0Eko1LyS_pxfOHxhp-WNzW6Tfj2V0U9bwrs3z7fqUB12pozPjgW0kz8je76alQJOxf5EcWIXKtw9L7-BlEVSADVuUV4EcJwuE1VSJEtg1NjnYhqTfjLS0rWfaafSsRDDz7m3H/s1600/81898870_10157255596447982_6576387050994401280_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVN2BpUEi0Eko1LyS_pxfOHxhp-WNzW6Tfj2V0U9bwrs3z7fqUB12pozPjgW0kz8je76alQJOxf5EcWIXKtw9L7-BlEVSADVuUV4EcJwuE1VSJEtg1NjnYhqTfjLS0rWfaafSsRDDz7m3H/s320/81898870_10157255596447982_6576387050994401280_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc4a0lMy4UEQSF_iETCBS2jZYaM1a8xerbT1NuJulYlKAt3oJhr9G06MqVv_iv8oeum2p4FGHc7HR5tJkkkEDqyatCGpCp0VU8JZ4Y5440Ly5jNE1IMaAe85rJUfV6FUmPqStMIy2uzKjN/s1600/95265390_10157631248662982_4246524218134495232_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="960" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc4a0lMy4UEQSF_iETCBS2jZYaM1a8xerbT1NuJulYlKAt3oJhr9G06MqVv_iv8oeum2p4FGHc7HR5tJkkkEDqyatCGpCp0VU8JZ4Y5440Ly5jNE1IMaAe85rJUfV6FUmPqStMIy2uzKjN/s320/95265390_10157631248662982_4246524218134495232_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVT_lSraKL7m6t4mr2KKG3Y4dGt6PbfgUWS9XQR2DJUUaOaWaNExUUrwgKBLgJXP0ty0Ac_IRVCwTStL11GIhqH_7_3JwN8eYe1MAGhyMvJstjJabGPtI4L8FWfEjtsfysKz8pXy1asZ85/s1600/95295724_10157631250837982_5726556492203556864_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVT_lSraKL7m6t4mr2KKG3Y4dGt6PbfgUWS9XQR2DJUUaOaWaNExUUrwgKBLgJXP0ty0Ac_IRVCwTStL11GIhqH_7_3JwN8eYe1MAGhyMvJstjJabGPtI4L8FWfEjtsfysKz8pXy1asZ85/s320/95295724_10157631250837982_5726556492203556864_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHs9MB4Pa5yCLqpr-QfqlIFJwFhCA7LanCvYEqpZUugf-2Etl4Fhv3hddF872iRidss1bnMNc2-Ipe7EeBadGYeOgoRVX8Z_B2kKy4bB2rzV8Kdgq5G_9XT7gLWVOREq6GO3OJtZK-E9rk/s1600/71285004_10157011193642982_4427393593140838400_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="958" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHs9MB4Pa5yCLqpr-QfqlIFJwFhCA7LanCvYEqpZUugf-2Etl4Fhv3hddF872iRidss1bnMNc2-Ipe7EeBadGYeOgoRVX8Z_B2kKy4bB2rzV8Kdgq5G_9XT7gLWVOREq6GO3OJtZK-E9rk/s320/71285004_10157011193642982_4427393593140838400_n.jpg" width="319" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJg85HdR9Q5xv4xsRb_r6r-lJw4VMV6HfWMgUqfCBwNhkkvHO8ONgOML28iY27ggNylBM-lTRPHK7ZcCXAmjj4RkUceHdOgGpmg9RubGSx3_vnmB-LvHY6yVaUD8qRUbFPPb4rpUNwBMnc/s1600/115880867_622471082029560_2371166027541858209_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJg85HdR9Q5xv4xsRb_r6r-lJw4VMV6HfWMgUqfCBwNhkkvHO8ONgOML28iY27ggNylBM-lTRPHK7ZcCXAmjj4RkUceHdOgGpmg9RubGSx3_vnmB-LvHY6yVaUD8qRUbFPPb4rpUNwBMnc/s320/115880867_622471082029560_2371166027541858209_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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</div>
Have fun gardening!</div>
XYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08183273388875203336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-86891369986387945572020-07-06T16:47:00.001+08:002020-07-06T16:48:33.019+08:00A Dinner Conversation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Son: Hi, Mum, what’s for dinner?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mum: It’s your favourite long beans fried with onion and
garlic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Son: Wow, what delicious organs!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Mum (puzzled): Huh?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Son: Do you know that a bean is basically a seed-containing
pod, which make it scientifically, a fruit? Since fruits are organs, thus beans
are organs, thus we are eating organs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mum: Wow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Son: What wonderfully caramelised onions. Just the other
day, my friends and I looked at the onion cells under a light microscope. The
upper epidermis has cells which are more oblong compared to the lower
epidermis. Potato cells even have starch granules which turn an amazing
turquoise when iodine is added, due to the formation of the starch-iodine
complex!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mum: Wow, wow, wow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Son (oblivious): What’s that lovely smell, Mum?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mum: It’s the night fragrance of the butterfly ginger
flowers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Son: Oh my, are we indulging in the smell of a reproductive
organ?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mum: Aren’t we glad that you receive such a good education.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Note: The reproductive system of plants are generally
covered in the Y3 Biology syllabus. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Note: Sambal-fried beans are yummy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZRWYAKuz5cW36uHXF0JwzTdpDHiTpX4mh7ido0VzjESvZmS8SnpPCJMi7EiBqwt8zBWZx3abEA5_ldkyrsM5cwUTjwaKGW8Cn3QLJtk0auBw0poZFS8crJa-JrGpBpMUgFkqMa2htMSk/s1600/100670819_10157704223637982_7712992146642436096_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="959" data-original-width="960" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZRWYAKuz5cW36uHXF0JwzTdpDHiTpX4mh7ido0VzjESvZmS8SnpPCJMi7EiBqwt8zBWZx3abEA5_ldkyrsM5cwUTjwaKGW8Cn3QLJtk0auBw0poZFS8crJa-JrGpBpMUgFkqMa2htMSk/s320/100670819_10157704223637982_7712992146642436096_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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XYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08183273388875203336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-34335838217590978452020-06-20T19:27:00.001+08:002020-06-20T19:27:11.040+08:00MicroscopyWhat I like most are lab sessions. The slicing and dicing of potato cells, the skinning of onions, the faces that little things seem to make under the glare of a microscope. Some of these critters just do not appreciate attention. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The mixing of chemicals is the equivalent of a Potions class, the double bubble boil of trouble. Flares of magnesium light and effervescent joy of discovery. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is intuitive, perhaps, but onion cells look so different. Those from the purple outer skin are squashed oblong figures while those on the white inner skin are stretched rectangles. Things are simpler under a microscope. </div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lab sessions, usually and unfortunately, are a mess. Sometimes, a sense of being inundated, swept away by so many voices clamouring for immediate attention. </div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>'Cher, is this okay?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>'Cher, is this what I am supposed to see?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>'Cher, I broke glass. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>'Cher, my cover slip fell into the sink. It is gone.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A thin square glass fell into the sink and the poor child asked for help. How could glass disappear? I walked over. There was a smooth watery mirror and I - with mild reluctance - who knows what have been poured into this sink? - used my hand to tap around.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There was a thin square glass. I held it up and looked at him. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>But, 'cher -</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I waited. My eyebrows might have been raised in anticipation of a juicy retort. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>But... never mind. </i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Another student requested for help when the thin wet glass refused to budge from the plastic petri dish. </div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>How, 'cher, how?</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I reasoned that this problem of surface tension could be resolved by using a paper towelette to dry the petri dish. It worked.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Big brain, wow, thanks, 'cher.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I felt strangely validated and rather virtuous. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When surrounded by so many voices - each urgent and insistent - it is easy to feel an adrenaline rush. At the end of most lab sessions, I would be deflated, like a poor helium birthday balloon, all limpness and lethargy. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's no wonder why my neighbours keep screaming at their three children, insisting that they behave, else threatening to throw them out. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, yes, I am thankful. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thankful and grateful for the care that my parents have afforded to my brothers and I. The four of us, once scampering around like invasive chipmunks, now adulting to various degrees of success/failure.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So yes, happy fathers' day, to those who have kids, who look after kids, who might have kids. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cheers to one and all. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLVrXUUpuFQd0DUU2QOMJT1l33PC9a7hEgy3LGL9VJVq1-HjuwWeFtTwtQi5DgR4KUtK6zIGOsFmIN_PsGqSLSE8tODyneBO-tomDywNRHEBvQKVClILteK0DGUJ_tyiXawgb4H6oIt3M/s1600/Animal+Cell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1561" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLVrXUUpuFQd0DUU2QOMJT1l33PC9a7hEgy3LGL9VJVq1-HjuwWeFtTwtQi5DgR4KUtK6zIGOsFmIN_PsGqSLSE8tODyneBO-tomDywNRHEBvQKVClILteK0DGUJ_tyiXawgb4H6oIt3M/s320/Animal+Cell.jpg" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Animal cell with its nucleus, mitochondrion,<br />endoplasmic reticulatum and other organelles.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-31380354564937998852020-05-27T19:47:00.001+08:002020-05-27T19:47:50.576+08:00Best Wishes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
These days, I miss my students. Their antics, their humour, their sarcasm. Their agitated bouncing on seats whenever they are released late for recess or from school. Their misguided - and utterly foolish(?) - impatience to grow up. Their distemper against authoritative figures, power and hierarchy.<br />
<br />
I remember secrets that they would tell me on the condition that I would not tell anyone. On one occasion, I promised to do so... and what a spectacular fallout. The child turned out not to have told the truth and the resultant brouhaha was <i>memorable</i>. <br />
<br />
The truth, crystalline, susceptible to fractures. The truth, refracting into multiple truths. The truth was it was tough. Tough to hold on to a student's bag and ask him what's wrong while he tries to squirm free and begins to cry. Tough to speak to the girl who post videos of red marks on her forearm, only to realise that they are just realistic make-up.<br />
<br />
The truth was it was hard to leave. These chewren are young men and women now, people of promise, people of potential. I remember how I used to call my first batch <i>chewren</i> because they are always masticating food. I hope they grow into assured adults who know how to eat in a refined manner. I hope they are happy with their growth. I hope they are well. <br />
<br />
I remember how students would spend their time co-creating romances between their teachers. Maybe their Science-CCE-form-English teacher would pair up nicely with their Chinese teacher, if not the adjacent class's English teacher.<br />
<br />
They are, of course, busy with their own romances too. For example, a battle to the death in the Eco-garden between two barely presentable mammals and the winner gets the hand of the fair damsel. <br />
<br />
I remember Sol, her frailty, her charisma, her stage presence. That magical performance - what else could it be but magic? - that feeling of being shaken, destabilised. I remember telling Ms Chan that I was touched to the point of tears. She looked at me and said, 'Aiyoh, I already started crying.' <br />
<br />
I remember J, how he confided in me about his feelings for this particular girl after everyone told me that he liked her. The class - any class - is a rumour mill where the slightest side-way look could be interpreted as a look of love, despair or displeasure.<br />
<br />
Of course, I did not do up the seating plan so that two nice kids would sit side-by-side due to their good nature and compatible looks. Of course, I did not need any entertainment throughout the academic year.<br />
<br />
As I write this, I think of all the brilliance that I have missed, all the brilliance that the nature of this job demands that I miss. Just a short interaction - a year, or two, four if I'm lucky - before they go on their ways and I'm relinquished to a dusty corner of their memory, pulled out for a good laugh during reunions every other year. It's not the present that we miss. It's not the present that we treasure.<br />
<br />
Dear child, wherever you are, whatever you are doing, do good, do well. All the best.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzXFu1I9eUzA_ZmnU3Zte1ngxhJaVVzPKkum_g0MENGQhqUictrYRDMCVy899gvGaLoFRmQ55x8dPn0VyDAuIkLvgrIEyb1Pl99TlerDkWxkcNG-Wn-xwOGrkXJwggZ0ybD_NBAT0cnn1/s1600/Deep+fried+oyster+mushroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="959" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzXFu1I9eUzA_ZmnU3Zte1ngxhJaVVzPKkum_g0MENGQhqUictrYRDMCVy899gvGaLoFRmQ55x8dPn0VyDAuIkLvgrIEyb1Pl99TlerDkWxkcNG-Wn-xwOGrkXJwggZ0ybD_NBAT0cnn1/s320/Deep+fried+oyster+mushroom.jpg" width="319" /></a></div>
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And here's a picture of the oyster mushroom I fried for lunch last week.</div>
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XYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08183273388875203336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-41542411985881920972019-12-28T17:57:00.003+08:002019-12-28T17:59:26.912+08:00Trekking in Bako National Park<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It has been a long while since I last posted anything.<br />
<br />
A child discovered this dying blog - the final effervescence of forgotten wine, the dehiscence of a poorly stitched wound.<br />
<br />
Is it because words have dried up, from an overflowing river to a mere trickle to a dehydrating puddle of mud?<br />
<br />
Thoughts are there, still there, just not processed into anything coherent, anything worthy of being read.<br />
<br />
I wish I could talk about how the baby mammals misbehave, how they remind me of those infant primates clinging to their mummies' tummies.<br />
<br />
These little creatures run around, hooting, screeching, touching, smacking. They are adorable and infuriating and (sometimes) show sparks of intelligent life.<br />
<br />
But since I am circumscribed by my circumstances, I shall talk about what I did this holiday.<br />
<br />
Let's start with a photo of this handsome fella, ruggedly bearded. He was loitering around the accommodation in Bako National Park and seemed lovingly tame.<br />
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2xhUmYFLcw_GdSPF9-3W5gVlIt41MZg_wEE0XolP6m75QHIJSxY85hXaiQf1RN6gOKAAb-_l-zgtU1ExVrfInggb5dzVEPRiO3CqN5slQ_rg2jlFKD50iXYt1qWD9SbBMW20yDwJ2D65/s1600/81247749_10157232790612982_2078173445757075456_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="959" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2xhUmYFLcw_GdSPF9-3W5gVlIt41MZg_wEE0XolP6m75QHIJSxY85hXaiQf1RN6gOKAAb-_l-zgtU1ExVrfInggb5dzVEPRiO3CqN5slQ_rg2jlFKD50iXYt1qWD9SbBMW20yDwJ2D65/s320/81247749_10157232790612982_2078173445757075456_n.jpg" width="319" /></a></div>
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There are many beautiful pitcher plants - seven different subspecies! - twining around trees, like snakes.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaciYU8LCbpUK156eC0AYIAc6pWceHy3w6Hed_ImyZlgB51wbUB6-rP-q2tNjtslHr1rqD6nIAu2gRz-PG_VwLhmYu40aLGhSiIEscJliJertARvz5IJ7IFOGLnUmlP4IerzlzfzebVKUd/s1600/71919824_10157232493957982_7514966614966534144_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaciYU8LCbpUK156eC0AYIAc6pWceHy3w6Hed_ImyZlgB51wbUB6-rP-q2tNjtslHr1rqD6nIAu2gRz-PG_VwLhmYu40aLGhSiIEscJliJertARvz5IJ7IFOGLnUmlP4IerzlzfzebVKUd/s320/71919824_10157232493957982_7514966614966534144_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The most charismatic animals are, of course, the endangered proboscis monkeys. This one was foraging for tender leaves just a few meters away.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWaoBsjXdmxRMDGK6SpRA13q8SXmkvewtgzREm3eNGUVf5c1-YsflfEvybl22d2m_F6kAj57yQFmISDJeT6hbzjXny3oM2X1taiS3BnRBuN2LlxLzhaBdNSgaoI0uucD4maB7cfPlnF3eS/s1600/79938379_10157232790747982_2964891318284713984_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="958" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWaoBsjXdmxRMDGK6SpRA13q8SXmkvewtgzREm3eNGUVf5c1-YsflfEvybl22d2m_F6kAj57yQFmISDJeT6hbzjXny3oM2X1taiS3BnRBuN2LlxLzhaBdNSgaoI0uucD4maB7cfPlnF3eS/s320/79938379_10157232790747982_2964891318284713984_n.jpg" width="319" /></a></div>
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Silver leaf monkeys are more cautious and take extra care to maintain a healthy distance.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNWbEqxvXNw6_C_-UZW2-inqOj5jALXAo7zza7eQutyRzyNLofYfTDmh_oIynQ-rPzPwgmT9uH465v9Z4bp6030zdfxY8-BjP36KyQ5Xggi4TpAkPKq1Tgvvhbk5y7BV1L-x_AvkP4SIxd/s1600/79971953_10157232494817982_8409060260601397248_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="958" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNWbEqxvXNw6_C_-UZW2-inqOj5jALXAo7zza7eQutyRzyNLofYfTDmh_oIynQ-rPzPwgmT9uH465v9Z4bp6030zdfxY8-BjP36KyQ5Xggi4TpAkPKq1Tgvvhbk5y7BV1L-x_AvkP4SIxd/s320/79971953_10157232494817982_8409060260601397248_n.jpg" width="319" /></a></div>
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Here are photos of the flora and fauna we encountered in the park. I'm lazy to write descriptions of the many wondrous things we have seen.<br />
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There was a constellation of stars in the sky and a constellation of fireflies in the mangrove and everything was blinking and the world was magical and beautiful.</div>
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It is banal and unfortunate and irrefutable that everything must become the past. Work will begin again next week.</div>
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XYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08183273388875203336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-73138443709630287242017-09-17T13:42:00.000+08:002019-12-31T22:01:38.468+08:00ConstellationsThere are always bright spots in the darkening sky. That's how we see metaphors in constellations, Orion in the scatter of stars, Ophiuchus from disparate pinpricks of light.<br />
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We see meaning in what that may be essentially meaningless. Random clusters of rocks are imbued with myths. Within stars, there is an archer, a lion, the snake charmer.<br />
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We are meaning-making creatures, prone to see colours in drifting leaves. Apophenia: that's our tendency to attribute meaning to perceived patterns between unrelated things. <br />
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Sometimes, it's easy to be disheartened by young people, how they lose their temper for what may be trivial reasons. That vulgarity, that arc of marker across the classroom, that defiant tilt of the chin.<br />
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How easy to see patterns in these acts, a constellation of why not to be. How easy to forget the oft printed call to make a difference.<br />
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Much more challenging to remember the laughter within the classroom, the easy smiles along the corridors, the unexpected gifts between lessons. <br />
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There are many people to leave behind, many reasons to leave. How then to perceive the network of light to stay for, to remain for.<br />
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<br />Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-33998961684111442882017-08-11T20:01:00.002+08:002019-12-31T21:59:14.145+08:00A Reminder On Why We TeachSometimes, it's easy to forget why we teach. There are exams to set, students to counsel, stacks to mark, meetings to attend, parents to call... There's a litany of activities, one after another, a frantic rush.<br />
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The key point, of course, isn't grades. It isn't about the number of passes, the percentage of distinctions, the mean subject grade. <br />
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It's about sitting down and talking to students and explaining your point and raising your voice when you have to and softening your voice when you have to and trying to grow with them, beside them, alongside them. It's a balance that's impossible, given the sheer number of individuals we try to help.<br />
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It's easy to be swallowed by the rush, to forget.<br />
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Today, during assembly, the principal shared about a call she received. Usually, these calls are complaints about students not moving to the back of buses on their morning trips. I was ready to nudge students into paying attention. <br />
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"A seventy-five year old uncle called me last week," she said. "He was on his bicycle when he made a turn and fell off. Two of our students went past, paused and offered help. He told them that he would be fine, just let him rest on the ground. Our students said, "We cannot leave you in the rain." This was the line which touched him: "We cannot leave you in the rain." They helped him to the bus stop and wanted to call for an ambulance. But the uncle said that his wife was waiting for him at home. So they helped him home and even called him regularly to ensure that he is well. Turns out that the fall had caused a fracture and he needed a surgery to insert a metal plate into his hip. Our students help were invaluable."<br />
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It's incidents like this, that reminds us of why we teach.<br />
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The warmth, it's akin to swallowing a mug of hot chocolate.<br />
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(Monkeys seen in Bako National Park)</div>
Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-53608064581405107702017-06-02T20:50:00.002+08:002017-06-02T20:57:04.997+08:00Day at the Flower DomeI rushed into the staff room with a box of orange files and a fistful of papers. There was a need to prepare them - files and forms - for checking by some colleagues. It was the last day of the first week of June holidays and I simply wanted to rest.<br />
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In the neighbouring cubicle, there was a little girl playing with Lego blocks. My colleague's daughter.<br />
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'Hello, girl girl. Do you still remember my name?' I smiled, hopefully in a non-creepy way.<br />
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She mumbled something. 'Sian Yoo.' For that, she deserved and got a bottle of Vitagen drink.<br />
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'Girl, you must be polite and say thank you loudly,' my colleague pointed to me. 'Do you call him Kor Kor or Uncle?'<br />
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The child looked at me, paused and said, 'Kor kor.'<br />
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It was a sweet glorious moment.<br />
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After a while, my colleague wanted to bring her to the washroom. She came back up and whispered, 'Uncle, I'm going off to visit the forest today.'<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at her. She's not cute at all. How could she call me an UNCLE?!</td></tr>
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We were going to the Gardens by the Bay, to meet up with a group of elderly and show them the myriad of flowers. It was strange, every interaction with such elderly seniors, their vulnerabilities and ours, all exposed.<br />
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I wondered if I would be stuffed into an old folks' home next time, deprived of possessions, a living thing waiting for death.<br />
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My colleague and I were paired with a 76 year old lady. She kept reminding us that we were fortunate to receive an education and to be paid decently for the work we do. At the end, she reminded a nurse to buy 4D for her.<br />
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Some of these old ladies told another colleague - very forthrightly, perhaps too forthrightly - that she should lose weight. <br />
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There were many flowers in the dome, all resplendent and cheerful. Their colours were a promise; their youth, a harbinger of rot. </div>
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There were many orchids as well. Some look so different from others that one could scarcely believe that they were grouped into the same sub-genus. </div>
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<br />
All in all, this was an interesting trip - the intersection between the faded, the fading, the blooming and the just-blooming.<br />
<br />
Where we are, the multi-generational fabric is fraying. Threads unravel, everything falls apart. <br />
<br />
Through this trip, we remember the whys of our existence.Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com018 Marina Gardens Dr, Gardens by the Bay, Singapore 0189531.2815683 103.86361320000003-24.2404662 62.555019200000032 26.8036028 145.17220720000003tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-11322553191728805482017-03-05T07:47:00.004+08:002019-12-31T22:00:54.724+08:00Comical Moments In Class<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
1) Was standing in front of the classroom while going through a newspaper article when I spied a cable twisting towards a charging point. 'W h o i s c h a r g i n g y o u r p h o n e? o w n u p n o w.' The class went silent before starting to giggle.<br />
<br />
It turned out to be the school's air purifier which was installed since last September.<br />
<br />
2) A group of hyperactive students went past the room. I casually remarked to the three students right in front, 'These sec ones are so cute. So bouncy and mini. You know, you were like them last year.'<br />
<br />
They swivelled their heads, looked out and said, 'Cher, they are prefects, not sec ones, and they are old.'<br />
<br />
3) Under the subtopic of human circulatory system, students learn that valves are present in veins to prevent backflow of blood.<br />
<br />
'Valves only let blood go in one direction.'<br />
<br />
There was a studied silence.<br />
<br />
'Valves, blood, one direction. One Direction, get it? One Direction.' Their groans drowned out my little One Direction hum. <br />
<br />
4) 'From food to faeces, from ingestion to egestion.' It was the topic on the human digestive system.<br />
'In fact, Disney wrote a song about how our digestive systems end. Do you know which one?'<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
'It's
about the excretion of waste materials. And it has a line like this...
... Let it go, let it go, can't hold it back anymore, let it go...'<br />
<br />
5) Probably something of an equivalent nature will happen tomorrow.<br />
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Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-12663841941035905092016-12-24T18:06:00.000+08:002019-12-31T21:59:56.737+08:00Decisions After N LevelsThere are <a href="http://www.seab.gov.sg/content/pressReleases/Release_of_2016_GCEN(A)_and_N(T)-Level_Examination_Results_19122016.pdf">many pathways available</a> now that you have received your N level results. Let’s take a look at some of them:<br />
<br />
1) Promotion to Sec 5N(A)<br />
<br />
Must get less than 19 points in English, Math and three other subjects (ELMAB3) and at least a Grade 5 for these five subjects.<br />
<br />
Will sit for the O level exams in the same school.<br />
<br />
2) Direct-Entry Scheme to Polytechnic Programme (DPP)<br />
<br />
Must get less than 19 points in English, Math and three other subjects (ELMAB3) and at least a Grade 4 for English and Math and Grade 5 for three other subjects.<br />
<br />
Will attend the Higher Nitec course at ITE for 2 years, and if the minimum score is achieved, will get into a corresponding poly course.<br />
<br />
3) Polytechnic Foundation Programme (PFP)<br />
<br />
Must get less than 11 points for ELMAB3.<br />
<br />
Will study for a 1 year curriculum related to a diploma course and then proceed to that course. <br />
<br />
4) N(T) students can go to ITE and if they get A for Eng and Math, and B or better for one other subject, they can apply to 4 N(A).<br />
<br />
5) Those who cannot or choose not to go through the aforementioned options can opt for the Nitec courses at ITE OR repeat the N level exams. <br />
<br />
6) Those with the means – time and money – can opt to study for a private diploma/ degree. <br />
<br />
Now that the options are all laid out, let’s have a discussion on what suits you better. The following points are based on my experiences and discussions with colleagues. Please consider them with your own teachers, counsellors and family members before coming to a decision that will be satisfying or at least cause minimal regrets.<br />
<br />
1) Many students will be tempted to take the O level exams. They may wish to spend another year with their classmates or their parents want them to avoid ITE. The peer pressure and social stigma can be overwhelming. <br />
<br />
The truth is that a student who gets a 1 for N level is expected to get a B4 for O level. This is the general trend. Are there exceptions? Yes. Are there many exceptions? No. There is a sudden and huge leap in curriculum demands between N and O level exams. A student who gets 4 for a N level subject will most likely get a D7 for O level. <br />
<br />
For example, my younger brother was a top N level student in his school. He achieved 9 points. After spending an extra year at school, he sat for his O levels, failed badly and could only qualify for ITE. If you are sure that the 5N(A) students with whom you will be in class with are diligent, you may benefit from this choice. If your form and subject teachers hint that you should return, this choice may be apt. If you had the option of choosing between N(A) and Express streams after PSLE and decided on the former, you may benefit as well. If a school has a very strong 5N(A) team of teachers with a commendable track record, you may benefit from opting for this choice. It takes a great alignment between many different factors for N(A) students to do well at O levels.<br />
<br />
The truth is that O level exams are more competitive because there are many more people taking them. There are, of course, former N level students who did well for O levels. Based on experience, however, most should avoid this option as they tend to fare poorly at O levels. <br />
<br />
2 and 3) Direct-Entry Scheme to Polytechnic Programme (DPP) and Polytechnic Foundation Programme (PFP)<br />
<br />
If you meet the academic prerequisites, you should opt for the DPP and PFP. The truth is that the O level exams are centred on generic knowledge not very useful in real life. Being able to calculate differential equations and balance ionic equations would not be useful to most. Why not spend that extra year learning skills and acquiring information more aligned to your interests?<br />
<br />
Do note that not all courses are available for the DPP and PFP. If you already know what you wish to study in polytechnic and are certain that these courses are not available at the DPP/PFP level, then you may have to consider option (1). <br />
<br />
4) N(T) students can go to ITE and if they get A for Eng and Math, and B or better for one other subject, they can apply to 4 N(A).<br />
<br />
As with all other options, consider your natural inclinations and decide on a most suitable pathway. Do note that the N(T) curriculums are vastly different from the N(A) ones and be prepared to make necessary efforts to adapt to steep academic changes. <br />
<br />
5) Those who cannot or choose not to go through the aforementioned options can opt for the Nitec courses at ITE OR repeat the N level exams.<br />
<br />
Between these two options, the first one of going for a NITEC course seems more appropriate. You get to pick up new skills though you may have to face a certain social stigma. The truth is that many students who choose to spend one year and repeat their N levels end up with the similar grades. Unless you are certain that you will put in a much greater deal of daily effort, it may be more realistic to go to ITE and learn new skills. <br />
<br />
A side note: school fees can be heavy for foreign students. It may be a economically sound decision to sit for N levels again and try to get into a polytechnic course in as few years as possible. <br />
<br />
6) Those with the means – time and money – can opt to study for a private diploma/ degree.<br />
<br />
Many people do end up taking degrees at private institutions even if they were to attend polytechnic courses. My cousins, my own brother, many relatives. For some of them, having a degree opens up certain job opportunities. For others, not at all. I will not rehash tired arguments about the value of a degree and relative academic prestige of various institutions.<br />
<br />
If you have the money and are certain that a private diploma course will be useful and am willing to learn more independently, you may wish to consider this option. <br />
<br />
Again, please note that these opinions are derived from observing batches of students. THERE ARE EXCEPTIONS – a N level student can do well at O levels – though most are not exceptions – a N level student usually do poorly at O levels. Consider carefully if you can be one of these exceptions and make sure that it is not just wishful thinking. <br />
<br />
Also, note that academic grades are not everything. One is more than the sum of one’s N/O level grades. If you were to run your own business(es), grades are not important at all. However, if you were to choose more traditional career pathways, grades may have an outsized influence. <br />
<br />
Lastly, a less appropriate decision may set you back by a year or two as well as incur an expense of time, money and opportunities. BUT it is not a life-or-death decision. Different openings will present themselves whatever your decision. <br />
<br />
I shall end with this disclaimer: the following points are based on my experiences and discussions with colleagues. Please consider them with your own teachers, counsellors and family members before coming to a decision that will be satisfying or at least with minimal regrets. Bear in mind that there are exceptions to academic stereotypes though not many. After all, these stereotypes exist because they have been proven true often enough. Either way, there is no easy option in choosing and in life. <br />
<br />
All the best and choose wisely! Enjoy the break while it lasts.<br />
<br />
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<br />Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-73147913856651168342016-12-24T16:15:00.000+08:002016-12-24T16:55:18.168+08:00Growing Heat Tolerant Cymbidiums in SingaporeIt has been a month since that day I woke up in Bangkok, half my face numb, sagging and immobile. Now, I've recovered. My friends tell me that I look perfectly normal and there is no trace of that sudden health scare. To think that I couldn't even blink properly back then!<br />
<br />
When I was in Thailand before the right side of my face flattened, I intended to get some cymbidiums. These orchids are elegant with gently arcing spikes of flowers. They can thrive in the equatorial sunshine.<br />
<br />
My uncle would buy cold-climate orchids for Chinese New Year and it is such a waste to watch them wilt in the heat, petal falling by petal, tear-like, the image made more heart-rending by the fact that these cool-growing plants are prohibitively expensive.<br />
<br />
In Bangkok, I didn't manage to find any heat-tolerant cymbidiums when I first arrived and completely lost the sense of holiday good cheer when my body felt apart thereafter.<br />
<br />
Upon knowing that my younger brother would be visiting Bangkok, I casually asked him to get some of these orchids for me. He can be rather mean - having said that I shouldn't go out to frighten people when I was miserable with the facial palsy - and somewhat kind - buying random food goodies for the family. I honestly didn't expect him to get any for me. It would have been troublesome for him to search out these plants when he has no interest in all things green and would probably enjoy the more touristy offerings of Bangkok.<br />
<br />
A few days later, when I was lunching at the nearby food court, he called and asked me what I want. Good question, what do I want? World peace, cooperative students keen to learn, a reversal of environmental damages caused by years of negligence and greed.<br />
<br />
What do you want? He insisted. He was referring to those orchids that I asked him to buy. He took some photos and asked me to choose. Honestly, I felt touched by his rare act of concern, us being part of a typical Asian family with members who don't really voice words of care and concern. <br />
<br />
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<br />
They look slightly traumatised, having been
uprooted, charcoal ripped from their roots, leaves somewhat crumpled and
dry. These blooms will drop off before their time. I'm hoping that they
will acclimatise quickly and celebrate the next festive occasion with
joy.<br />
<br />
There's something satisfying, these things that sprout and flower and grow into spaces around them. A quiet understanding that maybe I've been marginally responsible for their growth. <br />
<br />
Have a great Christmas tomorrow and a great year six days later. All the best with your hopes and health. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
Here's a thoughtful article on tending to cymbidiums by Kobsukh:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.bloggang.com/mainblog.php?id=sam-phao-ngam&month=22-11-2008&group=2&gblog=2">Growing Heat Tolerant Cymbidiums in Tropical Climates</a><br />
(by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/kobsukh">Kobsukh Kaenratana</a>)<br />
<br />
Growing heat-tolerant cymbidiums (HTCs) in tropical climates is easy, comparable to growing dendrobium hybrids, which is usually the starting point for beginners. Generally, HTCs can stand the impact of rainfall; therefore they do not need a rainproof roof.<br />
<br />
Most cymbidiums enjoy good ventilation and moderate humidity. It is not advisable to grow cymbidiums with other high-humidity genera or under hanging baskets of other orchids. Though cymbidiums do not enjoy high humidity, they need to remain moist at the root ball. It is important that the growing medium is well-drained, yet retains some moisture well.<br />
<br />
Pots should not be placed on the ground or closer than 18” to it as this will allow fungal diseases to infect the root ball. However, placing cymbidium pots directly on a dry clean surface, such as a balcony or terrace is acceptable. One precaution is to watch for water trapped at the bottom of the pot. To solve this problem, pots with one or two holes on the side of pot near the base are suggested. Another solution is to use pots with standing legs that prevent the bottom holes from contacting the floor. When cymbidium pots are placed in a well-ventilated location without exposure to strong & direct sunlight, growing cymbidiums is quite easy.<br />
<b><br />Light and Growing Location</b><br />
In most tropical climates, 60-70% shade cloth is suggested for most HTCs. This rather heavy shade cloth will help prevent leaf burn during the hottest and driest months when the sun shines directly from above; peak sunlight in upper Thailand comes during March through May. Shade might be reduced whenever clouds and rains are more prevalent throughout even in the summer months. Less shade is also appropriate in the southern peninsula of Thailand, where heat is reduced by the nearby seas.<br />
<br />
Growing in a home garden requires a well-ventilated area not exposed to direct sunlight in the afternoon. However the desirable intensity of sunlight for each cultivar can be quite different. It depends on the different species in the background of the hybrid. For example, hybrids with a heavy background of C. ensifolium can tolerate areas of particularly heavy shade and poorer ventilation. In contrast, hybrids with a large proportion of C. canaliculatum in the background prefer greater sunlight, very good ventilation and a drier environment.<br />
<br />
Importantly, most cymbidium hybrids will not yield any bloom if plants are placed under other hanging orchids.<br />
<br />
<b>Pots and Medium</b><br />
Clay pots are the best for growing cymbidiums in tropical climates as the porosity of the clay encourages evaporative cooling during hot weather. This is the real advantage over plastic pots. In addition, the heavier weight of clay pots helps increase stability for cymbidiums with large top growth. Taller pots also add another advantage as the depth allows better roots development. This increases the overall health and energy storage of the plant. In addition to the bottom hole, a few additional side holes near the bottom of the pot will prevent water from standing at the bottom, which might cause root rot.<br />
<br />
In general, baskets are not the preferred pot for growing most cymbidium hybrids. There are some exceptions, such as species that are highly epiphytic, including C. dayanum, C. lowianum, C. aloifolium, C. atropurpureum, and C. madidum. Baskets are only suitable for those species that form upright pnuematophores (upright aerial roots). It should be kept in mind that the terrestrial root trait always dominates epiphytic root traits in hybridizing. This explains why most hybrids should be grown in pot rather than basket, as most hybrids are the combination of both terrestrial and epiphytic species.<br />
<br />
The base of the pseudobulbs should be placed on the surface of medium as this keeps good ventilation around the bulbs, thus preventing any rot problems in monsoon season.<br />
<br />
There always seems to have a common misunderstanding in perceiving and treating cymbidium as a terrestrial plant. Many people try to grow cymbidium with soil or soil-like medium. This almost always leads to root rot. The resultant demise will be fast, especially in hot and humid weather, but will be delayed in cool climates. <br />
<br />
Growers should select the media that fit their local climates, something locally available and that do not break down too soon. Examples include hydroton balls, charcoal, volcanic rock, construction rock, broken pieces of new clay pot and quality pine bark. All mediums should be in the size of 1/2”-1”. Sphagnum moss is a very good choice for the mix.<br />
<br />
In many cases, staking the newly repotted plants is essential for the success. If plants are grown in loose mediums that allow plants to shake, it will take a very long time for the plants to establish.<br />
<br />
In areas with less rain, such as upper Thailand (central plain, north and northeast region), the proportion of pine barks can be increased or some sphagnum moss might be added at the bottom to stabilize the moisture during the dry season. When moisture is constant, roots will grow faster.<br />
<br />
It is common that pH in a medium drops to an undesirably acidic level over 3-4 years. Low pH is harmful to cymbidium roots and this will retard growth and reduce flower productivity. Adding or mixing Dolomite with the medium when the plant is potted helps regulate the pH. The prolonged proper pH level can prevent the plant from being damaged by bacterial and fungal infections. In addition, calcium and magnesium in Dolomite will boost growth vigor and spike productivity.<br />
<br />
For deflasked cymbidium plantlets, the agar should be removed. It is better to grow plantlets in a medium such as sand or rice-husk charcoal in trays or community pots. Unlike other epiphytic orchids such as dendrobiums, vandas, and oncidiums, cymbidium plantlets will not tolerate drought or being bare-root. They will dehydrate quickly and die.<br />
<br />
Once plantlets are well established, they should be moved to individual 3”-4” pots with coarser media, such as small coconut chips of 0.5”-1” size. They will grow in these small pots about one year before needing to move to the final, blooming size, 5”-6” pots with regular media mix.<br />
<br />
<b>Diseases and Pests</b><br />
Most diseases and pests of cymbidiums are common among other orchids. Basic fungicides like Orthocide (Captan) and common pesticides like Carbaryl (Savin) still work well. Herein, typical and common problems for cymbidiums are mentioned.<br />
<br />
1) Red Spider Mites can be more common to cymbidiums than to other orchid genera because of the soft long arching leaves, which are suitable for mites to dwell underneath.<br />
Symptoms: Plants stop growing, leaves turn patchy yellow or colorless and dry, necrosis appears in older leaves, white spider web and red mites are found under leaves.<br />
Treatment: Spray with Propargite (Omite) alternately with other miticides such as Pyridaben every seven days and emphasize spraying the underside of the leaves. <br />
<br />
2) Bacterial Rot can cause damage from time to time, especially in monsoon season with poor ventilation. Another possible factor is too low a pH in the potting medium. <br />
Symptoms: Brownish, soft, wet rot occurs on new young shoots.<br />
Treatment: Improve ventilation and raise pH by adding dolomite. Repotting with new medium is recommended. Move the infected plant away from water and rain for a week.<br />
<br />
3) Fungal Rot is usually caused by soil-borne fungi, mainly Fusarium wilt.<br />
Symptoms: Soft rot, but not as wet as bacterial rot; occurs on new young shoots.<br />
Treatment : Raise pH in medium by adding Dolomite or change the whole mix. Prevent the mix from contact with contaminated soils. Improve ventilation and spray with Terachlor if necessary.<br />
<br />
4) Virus can cause hidden problems to all orchid growers. In fact, there are many viruses that cause diseases in orchids, but the two most common ones are CyMV (Cymbidium Mosaic Virus) and ORSV (Odontoglossum Ringspot Virus). It is possible that infected plants may not show any sign of viral symptoms. <br />
Symptoms: The most common symptom is chlorosis on leaves. This is caused by the lack of chlorophyll in damaged cells; thus that area appears colourless or yellowish instead of green. In some cases, chlorosis occurs on floral tissue where it creates small colourless patches on flowers.<br />
<br />
Since there is no cure for a virus-infected plant, it is crucial to understand the mechanism of spreading virus so that growers effectively can prevent the spread of virus.<br />
<br />
Prevention: <br />
• Cutting tools must be blazed or burn or treated with antiseptic agents before use between each plant.<br />
• Never use recycled water from other orchids.<br />
• Keep control of viral vectors such as spider mites, thrips and aphids.<br />
• Keep good ventilation and enough sunlight around the growing area.<br />
• Never pollinate with pollen from virus-infected plants.<br />
• Never reuse pots and potting mixes.<br />
<br />
5) Thrips and Aphids can be widely spread during dry periods.<br />
Symptoms: Receding colour or colourless patches and burns on floral tissue.<br />
Treatment: Spray with pesticide such as Carbaryl (Savin) or Methomyl (Lannate) every 2-3 weeks.<br />
<br />
<b>Watering and Fertilizing</b><br />
Most cymbidiums hybrids are not sensitive to less desirable water quality. They can tolerate water with higher dissolved minerals than many other orchids. This characteristic becomes more evident with the hybrids that have a large proportion of terrestrial species in the background.<br />
<br />
Watering cymbidiums can be done every day or once every week, depending on rainfall, moisture, and the ability to hold water and moisture of the potting mix. Watering cymbidiums should not be done more than once a day even on a very dry day.<br />
<br />
Besides spraying fertilizer weekly, slow-released type fertilizer should be applied on top of the medium. Magnesium (Mg) as an additional micronutrient can be added a few months prior the end of the monsoon season or the start of blooming season for boosting the bloom. <br />
<br />
<b>Taking Care of Flower Spikes</b><br />
For cool-growing cymbidiums, key factors to initiate flower spike and spike elongation are low-enough night temperature accompanying with minimal 10-degree differential day-night temperature. However, these two factors become less relevant and less pronounced for HTCs.<br />
<br />
During the period of breaking flower sheath, plant should not be moved around to many different locations. To help reduce chance of bud drop in tropical weather, plant with spikes should be moved to a shadier location or grower must provide more shade cloth.<br />
<b><br />Propagation (Division)</b><br />
A sign to repot is when the plant has formed a big clump and its root ball has pushed the whole plant upward or even breaking its pot. Another less desirable sign to repot is when the plant lost vigour and blooming productivity. This is because the medium has stayed in the pot for so many years, thus pH has dropped down to too acidic level. This condition makes roots damaged and rotted.<br />
<br />
Dividing cymbidium can follow the same rule as we do with other orchid genera such as Cattleya. Each new division should be composed of at least 2-3 mature bulbs plus one leading new shoot/bulb. Apply the cutting wound with fungicide after cutting. Healthy root ball is usually dense and well pact. Big knife or, sometimes, saw is needed to divide them.<br />
<br />
Backbulbs can be planted in tray of sand or rice-husk charcoal. In a few months, new shoots will emerge from the base of backbulb. Then, move to 4” pot.<br />
<br />
Dividing should be done during the start of growing cycle, which generally matches the start of monsoon season. This timing helps the plant to recover faster and will be able to bloom in the next blooming season. One should not divide and repot at the end of growing cycle period or the end of rainy season as this means a waste of another blooming year since newly repotted divisions will not grow right away after repotting.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Conclusion</b><br />
A huge clump of cymbidium leaves will yield wonderful spikes of flowers. As with everything, be patient and you'll be rewarded.Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com2Singapore1.352083 103.819836000000010.8441055 103.174389 1.8600605 104.46528300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-65277804527138646302016-12-19T10:49:00.001+08:002021-01-01T10:44:14.236+08:00Mid-Palsy ThoughtsLike many steeped in the certainty of modern science, I've developed a scepticism of Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM). This field conjures an image of monks amid misty mountains, chanelling qi to levitate and shatter boulders. I remember childhood comics with a lady picking herbs to fend against poisonous human toads.<br />
<br />
Desperation, however, is more powerful than scepticism. When Voldemort was terrorising the country, people shelled out precious moolah for pseudo-protective amulets. They were willing to pay when frightened. Wealth, they hoped, would buy health.<br />
<br />
I'm no different. If money could bring back a sense of facial symmetry-mobility, take mine, take all ten million dollars I’ve in my bank account. <br />
<br />
(Kidding. I don’t have ten millions.)<br />
<br />
Faced with the prospect of a drooping face, I didn’t hesitate for long when my father asked me to go for acupuncture sessions. Despite inconclusive research, many have given online testimonies that TCM would help in relieving facial palsy. <br />
<br />
The sinseh sat there, observed and described my face with a certain curiosity. She didn’t seem to have any experience with people who suffer from facial palsy. My lips were peeling, she explained, because I didn’t drink enough water. Throughout the session, she sustained a monologue about Chinese politics, how Chinese women are more fertile and help to stem declining number of babies in Singapore, how productivity is a misnomer for more work, how the Chinese Premier is giving money left right centre to buy power over other countries but how citizens are suffering.<br />
<br />
At first, it felt strange to take off my clothes, put on cheap white cotton shorts, recline on a hospital bed, topless. My soft 6-pack-less belly shone in the dim lighting, accusing me of showing it to the world unnecessarily. It was surreal when the sinseh pulled part of the shorts down, exposing a butt cheek, smooth as smelly tofu. I shivered, fearing that the hitherto innocent me might be taken advantage of. Had I wandered into a dubious settlement? <br />
<br />
After the acupuncture – pins on my body – and a electrogel-massage – slight shocks to the face – my face became less flat. It was a noticeable change. I could finally see the contour of my right cheek and my mouth was less lopsided.<br />
<br />
Five sessions costed four hundred dollars – equivalent to a good holiday in Malaysia – and I felt somewhat wistful. This episode reminded me that while wealth is important, health is critical. <br />
<br />
The sinseh said to drink warm water – no coffee or tea – shower with warm water – no exercise – eat only bland healthy food – no chicken or seafood – no exposure to chilly winds and air-con. I promised myself that I will be a paragon of good health habits henceforth, only to break this promise a few weeks later. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
At the polytechnic, I experienced the failure/ inefficiency of the healthcare system. It is unsettling, how we are bounced from place to place, wait for period by period before seeing the doctor for minutes.<br />
<br />
The first session with a local doctor went pretty well. He stared at my face, checked to see if I had infection, concluded it was Bell’s Palsy and sent me off with a high dosage of corticosteroids. <br />
<br />
The second session with a foreign doctor was discomforting. She told me that she doesn’t encounter Bell’s Palsy patients often and went online to search for more information. “According to this website, you should have these symptoms…Let me check… I should taper the dosage but I’m not sure by how much…Let me check…” I wondered if I would die from a misdiagnosis. A study based in America concludes that as many people die from misdiagnosis/wrong medication/unnecessary surgical invasions as they die from illnesses. Finally, she messaged a pharmacist and asked for advice.<br />
<br />
The third session was a waste of time. I was told to make an appointment and return for a review. But what was the point of making an appointment if I had to wait for an hour? If I were to come early in the morning, I would only have waited for thirty minutes. I felt a sense of anxiety, being trapped into waiting when I knew that there was a better alternative. <br />
<br />
After these repeated exposure to one facet of the healthcare system, I can see why people are angry at the government. When one isn’t well, the last thing one wants to face is long waiting lines and being pushed from place to place. What one hopes for are professional expertise and advice and support and reassurance. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
It was one of those lazy mornings with nothing much to do, except work or writing. Both activities felt bland, stagnant, unappealing. I felt like moving even though my face didn’t. At the nearby food centre, I ordered two popiahs, rolls with radish, peanuts, cabbage, carrot and chilli. It was an attempt to eat healthily.<br />
<br />
While searching for a seat, I met Mrs L, the photocopying lady from school. She is a rich taitai who stays in a condo but finds the taitai life so boring that she would rather work. I hope to have a similar problem one day. Because it was obvious that the right side of my face was sagging, I told her the diagnosis.<br />
<br />
“This should happen to people over the age of 50. You don’t know when their legs will go straight and never bend again… but you’re so young! It’s such a pity.”<br />
<br />
Her concern was evident, so was her curiosity. Her husband, by then, joined us at the table. They seemed covertly glad that they aren’t suffering an affliction like this and that youth is no barrier to infections and age is no guarantee of illnesses. I suppose this is one way to bring people a sense of joy this festive season.<br />
<br />
“When would you recover by?”<br />
<br />
“I’m not sure but I hope it’s soon.” Hope is the thing with feathers. My wish is that this ugly crippled little thing with feathers can grow – not a stillborn within an egg or swallowed by a monitor lizard before its time. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
I tried jogging. My face twitched. My neck ached. My eye refused to blink and paid the price by becoming dry and red. See, you suffer when you refuse to do your job.<br />
<br />
Ms Chan – the first person from my workplace to know about this health condition – told me about her ex-colleague with Parkinson’s. This neuro-degenerative disease causes the brain to rot. The patient loses control of his hands, legs, mouth, the ability to think, remember, reason. It is irreversible, this damage, bewildering for the person and the people around him. How does it feel to lose the ability to stroll in a park, to lift a spoon to one’s mouth? How does it feel to watch someone’s body fall apart, a fork damningly still on the table? During such times, we lose understanding of logic, of science and turn to the warmth of religion.<br />
<br />
Many people are suffering worse down the street, a cubicle away, along the supermarket aisle, in a bombed city square, at the foot of a mud slide, within a home. A health scare sensitises one to pain. In the newspapers, people died when an unstable driver drove in the opposite direction of the lane at a speed of 120 km/h. People died when a bus rolled off a slope in Johor. People died when bombs fell like shooting stars on an ancient piazza. They left human-sized holes in the lives of survivors.<br />
<br />
I feel loss – lost? – tinged with camaraderie. What I have is merely a molehill-sized affliction but there is something about pain which opens one up, stripping away protective green sheaths. We are here on borrowed time – borrowed from whom, for how long, until when, why for – no one can be sure. After turning and searching, I am left with the truism that what we can do is to do our best, contribute in whatever ways we can and cast our hopes like fishing rods into the cosmic unknown. <br />
<br />
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<br />Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-4257645848743865072016-12-01T07:15:00.004+08:002021-01-01T10:39:50.773+08:00The First Five DaysLet's see, I have some lovely brushes, some budding orchids, some rare pokemons, some pieces of fruit bread, a few anthologies and Bell's palsy.<br />
<br />
On Saturday, after waking up in Thailand, I realised that half my face feel numb. I had experienced it before, a few times in fact. One side of my face would be slightly squashed after sleep. It would regain its senses quickly so I pottered about, planning the day's visits. During meals, rice and vegetable bits kept getting stuck at the right corner of my mouth and I had to gurgle or hook them out with my index finger.<br />
<br />
The merit of solo-travel would be the peace. No one to talk to, thankfully, and time to reduce mind clutter, to tidy up threads of unfinished thoughts. Maybe there's energy enough for an essay on PSLE results and how we are simply reinforcing an already oppressive power structure with stories of I-didn't-do-well-for-PSLE-but-look!-I'm-an-engineer/lawyer/professor/teacher/someone with degree(s)/someone who fits nicely into societal-definitions-of-stability/success. <br />
<br />
It was only after more than a day - some thirty hours - that I realised the right side of my face wasn't just numb, but immobile as well. There was no mirror in the hostel room so I stood in the only toilet cubicle with a canvas curtain - no doors - and a mirror. I looked carefully - which I usually don't because ... ... ... of obvious reasons - and tried contorting my face. The left brow twitched, lovely. The right one, nope. A smile became a sneer with the left end being able to jerk up and the right end refusing to quiver. <br />
<br />
I knew it was wrong but I did it anyway. According to Wikipedia, there are 12 main causes of facial paralysis, with the root cause being some kind of nerve damage. Okay... more to fret about, hence less energy to fret about how to resolve this in a foreign land where I communicate by pointing and saying I'm-not-Thai-I-don't-speak-Thai-can-I-get-this-please. <br />
<br />
Even though the plan was to visit the Grand Palace and pay respect to the king, I spent my time trawling through the internet, turning and tossing on the bed like a jilted lover, before forcing myself to sketch, read and write at Starbucks. It was a complete waste of dwindling overseas holiday time. <br />
<br />
Should I be composing my will? What about my obituary?
Oops, no travel insurance. Does the typical insurance cover this? What
does my insurance even cover? Perhaps 40 percent of my savings to my mum, 40 percent
to my dad, 5 percent to the local publishing companies, 5 percent to
animal charity. Does this make 100 percent? Good grace, my right eye is
blurring, the muscle beneath it is twitching.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*** </div>
When my youngest brother asked about my lopsided face, I felt embarrassed, as though I was caught doing something I shouldn't have been doing.<br />
<br />
I didn't mention my fear of it being the residual effect of a stroke or heart attack. I didn't dare to say 'nerve damage' because it seemed so severe and permanent. Hence, I said that the right side was slightly numb and that I had no idea why and all the clinics were closed and I had already been like this for two days and asked if a lopsided face would merit a visit to the emergency department of a local hospital. <br />
<br />
By then, the scientific curiosity about this condition had faded. Even the desire to observe for the sake of writing poetry became muted. Anxiety budded like an ugly alien and I told this to Rodrigo, the first person whom I spoke to on Facebook after suffering this condition. I semi-joked about how this experience can inform my writing project. He, a treasured friend-poetry critic from a writing workshop, said that the poem could be titled Self-Portrait in Bangkok with a Half-Frozen Face.<br />
<br />
Only the left side of my face laughed.<br />
<br />
I didn't tell my mother because she would just flutter about in distress, wanting to show concern. I told my father once he stepped into the living room.<br />
<br />
You had a stroke. Did you sleep under the air-con?<br />
<br />
Yes.<br />
<br />
Look at you, so young, a stroke. Can't you learn to take care of yourself?<br />
<br />
My father's brand of medicine - a buffet of multivitamins to be ingested or sprayed on - wasn't reassuring. I messaged Jolie because she is a super doctor and would know what to do. She replied for a while and went offline. Was it because I am a hopeless case?<br />
<br />
The clinics were close for the night. I had to wait. While waiting, I fretted. Worry is like a rocking chair, a friend once messaged, it is something to do but it doesn't get you anywhere. But since I had time, I might as well worry. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
I felt old. My back was aching. My arms were aching. My neck as well. My body was falling apart.<br />
<br />
Dr Chan, my prof for language teaching, commented that teachers' health would fall into pieces during holidays. It was almost an instinct - work hard for months, work, work, overwork, then fall apart when there's time to do so. <br />
<br />
While waiting to see the doctor, I looked at the old uncle holding a walking
stick, sitting right in front, now hobbling past to the washroom.<br />
<br />
In the book How We Die, Sherwin Nuland suggests that it is only ecologically sound for deaths to occur so that life can continue. We must not hoard the earth and deplete its resources selfishly. I agree with him, really, but I want more time before re-entering the carbon cycle as ashes.<br />
<br />
One chaperon shepherded two people into a room.
They were wearing tattered clothes. Because I was trying to appear as if I weren't
eavesdropping, I couldn't catch their words and accents, hence failed to
deduce their provenance. There are a few stories of employers leaving
their injured workers on deserted roads to die/ be saved by
passers-by/whatever heaven decides.<br />
<br />
At some point, I became tired of people-watching and my increasingly morbid thoughts. I flipped the cover off my phone and spun for pokeballs. <br />
<br />
The polyclinic doctor - he was trying to be reassuring - said that 30 percent of all patients recover fully, 30 percent partially and 30 percent not at all. The other 10 percent, I still don't know what happened to them.<br />
<br />
Since the odds didn't favour me - 60 percent chance of not recovering fully - I went online and searched for better odds. According to the <a href="http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/bells/detail_bells.htm">National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke</a>, <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
with or without treatment, most individuals begin to get better within 2 weeks after the initial onset of symptoms and most recover completely, returning to normal function within 3 to 6 months. </blockquote>
3 to 6 months?! School would have started within 1 month. At this point, I typed out a string of expletives.<br />
<br />
*&Q!(#^@(&^#<br />
<br />
Okay, I just deleted those words because (1) I just reprimanded my Sec 2 nephew for using a procreation-related expression on Facebook, (2) one must conduct oneself with the grace befitting the profession and (3) there are more apt words in the dictionary. <br />
<br />
More ominously, the website states,<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
For some, however, the symptoms may last longer. In a few cases, the symptoms may never completely disappear. In rare cases, the disorder may recur, either on the same or the opposite side of the face.<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></span></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
Jolie replied. She confirmed that I'm most likely suffering from Bell's palsy.<br />
<br />
If my face doesn't regain its sensation by end December, I may have to apply for a few months' leave. Take some time off and hope that my face would flow back into position, upwards, against the law of gravity.<br />
<br />
In a classroom, what one says, how one behaves, one's clothes, even a change of spectacles will be observed. Students are experts in dissecting adults, mainly because they have to pay attention to them all the time and it can be tiring to do so. Most don't really care about what they have seen but some might try to use their observations to further their interests. For many reasons, a child can be cruel. Don't be surprised - if there are adults one can't get
along with, there will be children one can't get along with. These adults were once children.<br />
<br />
My face has (had?) always been expressive. I remember how Prof Lim would
call me out in class, saying that I appeared to disagree with what she just said. Not really. It's just that my face scrunches up whenever I am thinking. Which, now that I come to think of it, may give my superiors the impression that I am hyper-critical during meetings. Sometimes, some students will laugh because my eyebrows tend to move
about especially when discussing important concepts. I cannot imagine what they will say, when the left brow wiggles
while the right brow is as still as a dead caterpillar. <br />
<br />
A few teachers once told me to relax, to slow down because they have seen people who leave late in the evening all the time and know that these would eventually leave the service. I used to be shocked - why would they say that to a novice - but now, I know better. <br />
<br />
As I type this, my right eye is tearing. I need to blink my right eye manually - push the eyelid down - and it's easy to forget to do so. <br />
<br />
I am no longer excited that I am suffering from Bell's Palsy. Perhaps poems about this experience would come, but not now. Who is this Bell anyway? Does he chime and tinkle? (Answer: Bell discovered that damage to the 7th facial nerve can cause partial facial droop. Yes, it's probably nerve damage caused by a virus attack and it's not contagious, so thank guan yin ma.)<br />
<br />
Being an agnostic with no particular faith in any particular god, I can only blame the vague generic idea of gods. Which is silly, considering (A) how can someone push responsibility to an abstract concept of divine guardians and (B) why should deities be blamed when there is misfortune and not thanked when there is good fortune?<br />
<br />
My upper lip is peeling. Perhaps too dry because the right side of my mouth tends to be open unless I consciously close it. That dry sheath of dead cells irritates me and I cut it away, slowly. <br />
<br />
My third brother, ever encouraging, tells me that I shouldn't go out and frighten people.<br />
<br />
My elder brother kicks him.<br />
<br />
It is
the school holiday and I am supposed to be kicking back at a Bali beach with a coconut drink. But this.<br />
<br />
I keep telling my parents that I'll recover fully within 2 months. 1 month, if I am lucky. I also tell them not to tell my relatives. My dad says this cocktail of miracle multivitamins will restore my facial dexterity within 1 week. Doubtful but hopeful.<br />
<br />
Of course, I do not tell them that some only regain partial use, a minority doesn't recover. The typical I-don't-want-them-to-worry filial piety (which Taiwanese 1000 episode long dramas seem to thrive on).<br />
<br />
Probably not going for the upcoming JC class outing - I feel foolish when messaging Tricia about this as in this-is-a-silly-affliction-and-I-used-to-behave-in-a-spastic-manner-now-I-even-look-(more)-spastic. May also avoid two Christmas events which I have already committed to go. There's this guilt, this shame, that I must have done something wrong to deserve this.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
Apparently, there are some 100 cases in Singapore every year. Most have recovered fully - hope! - and moved on. <br />
<br />
Many suffer from worse traumas. Some lose their loved ones, some lose their sight, some lose limbs. A doctor climbed into a wrecked car to support a victim. She held the victim's head in her palm when that head fell off completely.<br />
<br />
I suppose I should be thankful. Factually, I am not that old and would probably be classified as someone who has the capacity to contribute to the economy directly (expenses, work) or indirectly (work, procreation). If I were to apply for an extended leave - nope, not going to tussle with the future while I am down - would someone somewhere in an echelon of the Ministry be thinking, <i>oh dear, this guy isn't paying his dues, what a waste of taxpayers' moolah</i>. <br />
<br />
Good/bad, light/night, right/wrong, life can't be reduced to binaries, some people claim. In the case of Bell's palsy, life can be reduced to binaries. Now I think of everything in terms of right/left.<br />
<br />
Why the right side? Why not left? I imagine
some kind of angels(?) deciding what to afflict me with in order to best occupy my holiday and enrich my life experiences.<br />
<br />
I'm not greedy. If I can't recover fully, at least let me recover partially. If I were to recover partially, at least let me regain the use of the lower right section where the right side of my mouth is. I want to be able to smile and talk without sneering.<br />
<br />
It seems that I prize control of my mouth over my eye. Unfair to my eye really. Also disconcerting, talking about my face as though it is a Picasso painting with distinct halves and quarters. The upper right section, where my right eye is... hmm, important as well so it is best if it could recover. There, I've said it. I'm greedy, I want all parts of my face back, I want full recovery.<br />
<br />
It takes a health scare like this to stir up one's mind clutter. Which is what this piece is essentially, a formless cluttered mess. I can only that after the muck has settled, after the gritty sediment has come to a rest, what is important would become clear. <br />
<br />
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<br />Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-19770259563054725012016-11-19T22:56:00.000+08:002016-11-30T22:01:59.242+08:00A Growing InterestIt has been a long while since the last art-making spree. Years, perhaps, since I felt the desire to draw, to ink, to watercolour. The frenetic pace of creating resources - marking - attending meetings - crafting forms - giving extra lessons - handling all sorts of administrative matters - in essence, a seastorm of work - has just washed away all other interests. Writing, drawing, reading, jogging, all these take a backseat to the call for sacrifice, to be noble at the expense of oneself.<br />
<br />
How easy it is to be two-dimensional when work begins. All energies are poured into one's profession, leaving little by way of one's interest. The desire at the end of a working day is to watch mindless videos, one after another.<br />
<br />
Work more, work harder, work longer, work after work hours, work on weekends. It's challenging, somewhat, to resist the relentless push towards greater productivity. Especially for a Type A workaholic. Is work the opiate of the mindless?<br />
<br />
Whatever we choose to water will grow and whatever else, wither. Naturally. I wish that I have something more interesting to offer that this bit of dime-store philosophy. Since I don't, I might as well offer another platitude: Inertia can be a boulder, challenging to overcome.<br />
<br />
After chatting with friends who do art and write poems - "you only need pens and paper to draw and write" - "your fears/ insecurities/ self-doubts are imaginary" - "it can't be simpler" - I understand that I've been giving myself excuses. There's always work, work, work but no one will be eulogised for the amount of work they do. And it's healthier to have interests independent of one's work.<br />
<br />
Since October, I've been trying to rediscover lost interests. Enough with the excuses. Now, here, there's time and room for growth. <br />
<br />
Here's a series of plant-infused sketches: <br />
<br />
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Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-16048540863259168222016-09-09T20:23:00.000+08:002016-10-23T12:24:26.246+08:00Teachers' Day CardsDuring my secondary school years, a Teachers' Day was a special occasion which called for glue and glitter. I would sit around, creating cards and handicrafts from pieces of construction paper, sensitive to how I couldn't afford gifts. Other students would buy chocolates and sea salt and miniature soft toys and roses. I could only make cards, wishing that these flimsy papers were enough.<br />
<br />
Now that I am a teacher, I realise that my secondary school teachers weren't lying. Everyone appreciates handwritten notes over chocolates (which they could have bought themselves). <br />
<br />
My students don't understand how much energy it takes to care for them, to discipline them. The truth is that I get so worked up sometimes that I can't sleep and eat properly. It's decorum and dignity and life skills and values that I'm teaching. They, in their youthful bubble of invincibility, can't appreciate how draining it is to guide them on the proper path.<br />
<br />
Not only do teachers have to deal with students, they have to deal with parents as well. I have parents who told me to control their children, who hinted that they have degrees and not to lie to them, who insinuated that I'm not fit to care for their children.<br />
<br />
It's hard - impossible, sometimes - to remember that there is a purpose to the daily frenzy. Rushing from corner to corner, answering calls from different mothers, finding that one form for that one student who manages to lose everything. The truth is that we are teachers but many students treat us as maids. It's not possible to be a maid to 160+++ students at one go. <br />
<br />
It is with much gratitude that I read the following poems and notes from lovely, lovely students. <br />
<br />
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<br />
It's selfish and unprofessional and irrational, but how I wish that every day can be a Teachers' Day.<br />
<br />Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-51528385779573398242016-08-04T22:55:00.000+08:002016-08-06T08:11:16.529+08:00SunflowerThere are words and there are words. There are moments when words aren't enough. I am still thinking about a published poem which feels incomplete.<br />
<br />
A piece - which I worked on since 2013 - has finally found a home in Unhomed, a collection of prose and poetry by Ethosbooks. <br />
<br />
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<br />
I kept revisiting this poem, condensing it from a narrative form of around two hundred words to this eventual distillate.<br />
<br />
How do I put it?<br />
<br />
It is one of those life experiences that writing is supposed to absolve (and naturally doesn't). <br />
<br />
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<br />
It is about abuse, <a href="http://www.art-xy.com/2010/04/consensus-with-oneself.html">based on an experience with a child who lived a five minute walk away</a>. The boy, with his collection of bruises, had shocked the teenage me. Sheltered in school and confronted with the dreaded O levels and puzzled by the reluctance of adults to do anything, I had avoided the child.<br />
<br />
Every now and then, I would take a detour to see if he was still living there. About three years ago, his home was redeveloped. <br />
<br />
As a civil servant embedded in the public education system and an adult (?), I have grown to understand that there are many just don't care simply because they have too many problems of their own to care about others' problems.<br />
<br />
There are parents who fulfilled their reproductive potential and pretty much did nothing else. There are some who keep having children whom they will not look after.<br />
<br />
A recent outing reminded me that I used to dream about pursuing art. A bitter aftertaste, this realisation that I have somehow stopped at some point without even realising so.<br />
<br />
Do I feel regret though? At least I am where I am needed and my work, while draining (always) and frustrating (almost always), is meaningful.<br />
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Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-47569645159014284852016-07-15T22:34:00.004+08:002019-12-31T22:54:04.936+08:00After the Home VisitIt has been a long day today. Work review - lesson observation - level meeting - CCA visit to a home for the elderly. The assault of activities was so draining that, by evening, my mind was like a fat cat that refused to roll over. <br />
<br />
At the home, cadets enjoyed themselves while interacting with the elderly. They conversed, played games and sang songs. After these activities, we bid farewell.<br />
<br />
The moment we reached school, I went oh-oh-oh. Where was my backpack?<br />
<br />
Answer: It was in a corner of the hall in the elderlies' home at a different part of Singapore. What should I do? Okay, there are some valuables within (but nothing as valuable as my lovely students). Maybe one hundred dollars worth of cash? What a wretched thing to happen, just when I was ready to head back to school, tidy up the various administrative loose ends before collapsing in a heap at home. <br />
<br />
Had a student left his belongings behind, I would have been visibly and thoroughly crossed. Writing this now, I can imagine how I would chastise him - perhaps a lecture on the importance of taking care of one's belonging and how no one could be responsible for us but ourselves. <br />
<br />
"Excuse me, I am a teacher of the school who just visited. <b>A student</b> left his bag behind. A blue bag with a green water bottle. Is it possible to see if it is still in the hall?" I was too embarrassed to admit that I was the one who forgot his belonging.<br />
<br />
"Sorry, what's your name?"<br />
<br />
"Mr Tan."<br />
<br />
"Your handphone number?"<br />
<br />
"9*******."<br />
<br />
"Okay, we will call you back if there's anything."<br />
<br />
A few minutes later, my phone rang.<br />
<br />
"Is it your bag?"<br />
<br />
From the identification card in my wallet, they realised that it was not a student who forgot his bag, It was the teacher who forgot.<br />
<br />
It was mortifying, how easily my face-saving gesture was exposed. <br />
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<br />Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-1227070547325065142016-07-13T21:50:00.001+08:002019-12-31T22:58:27.141+08:00Things to be happy about These few days, I have been thinking about why I teach. There are many students, all with unique quirks, who don't fit neatly into the architecture of a public school. They rage - at times with quiet stabs at question papers, at times with hysteria along walkways. <br />
<br />
Perhaps it's because of their intrinsic nature, perhaps it's because of their upbringing, perhaps it's because of peer influence, perhaps it's because of their hormones... but it is evident that an ordered educational experience does not serve their needs.<br />
<br />
That's the problem with any public system, be it the healthcare system or transport system or voting system or educational system. It caters to the masses, the averages, sometimes to the expense of a significant group of individuals.<br />
<br />
I just look at so many children and know that my ranting and raving will not save many of them. My patience and persistence is recognised but that's all. It is recognised but not reciprocated. The fact of the matter is that children have to save themselves. As the saying goes, you can lead a horse to the stream but you cannot force it to drink. This saying has lost the ring of truth from endless repetition but it remains true nevertheless. <br />
<br />
Being a player in this system requires a recognition of one's limits - how to direct resources to serve the most number of students in a limited space and within an allocated period. There are just too many students who need help that only others can offer.<br />
<br />
Because today was a particularly tough day with spectacularly misbehaving charges - think water jambu flying towards the fan and a vice-principal who happens to walk past - I feel the need to list down some things that I should be happy about:<br />
<br />
1) A colleague who offers support to students with special needs tells me that one student told her that I did not give up on a classmate. <br />
<br />
2) Three different sets of parents gave encouraging feedback.<br />
<br />
3) A child said thank-you when I placed a consent form on his table. (I think it is the first time I have heard someone expressing gratitude for receiving a X-country consent form.)<br />
<br />
It is easy to be engulfed - defeated even - by sheer hopelessness at how powerful and gormless the system is. Credit for any form of success, no matter how trivial, will be usurped while fault, taichied around to the least powerful. Yet, it does us good to remember that there are silvers of hope and sometimes, it is all we have and must make do with.<br />
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<br />Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-51376556083316951002016-06-13T23:39:00.002+08:002016-06-13T23:42:32.079+08:00Mass Shootings in USHow to forget that breakfast? The newspapers had reported that a child went treat-or-tricking on Halloween, dressed as a skunk. His uncle saw an animal scrambling on the lawn and gunned the child. <br />
<br />
'Why?' I asked my American professor.<br />
<br />
'America is a big place. There are many events happening, many people to report on. It is actually quite safe. Most cities are safe.'<br />
<br />
A year later, a mass shooting occurred on her university's campus. Some of her students passed away.<br />
<br />
Today, I read <a href="http://thinkprogress.org/justice/2016/06/12/3787494/heres-long-will-take-america-forget-orlando-massacre/">a report on mass shootings</a>, prompted by the recent massacre in Florida. Behind this statistics, there are lives and families.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFXq5n4MGVs0rKXE24vC9JKxmVf45pERJKqLEaZaoOSZ78h8arKEL5Fw-551-S9e9AAJDIpUOPajrwhsm53D77AoH0D1eq64UUofPfIqRECKBb6SucqfKWi556mCBUTAxfFRrAye4vD0/s1600/CkwrallWkAA6H6T.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFXq5n4MGVs0rKXE24vC9JKxmVf45pERJKqLEaZaoOSZ78h8arKEL5Fw-551-S9e9AAJDIpUOPajrwhsm53D77AoH0D1eq64UUofPfIqRECKBb6SucqfKWi556mCBUTAxfFRrAye4vD0/s640/CkwrallWkAA6H6T.jpg" width="560" /></a></div>
The above chart suggests this: even though there are many mass shootings in America, most victims are not killed.<br />
<br />
But what if we were to compare the absolute number of mass shootings, the picture becomes less comfortable.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbKlXj6soIyY2VQaEBbOa1EpIwh4kmKSoH6v4Pg_WsGfhDHERum5GmveJzJgseZIogjZ5b0XN6FTEmS6bmvjA1KCD1PVamor3D1QJnZLi2DVi5e9fQ1tmw0W4sMRKACmsAnpl2MytHuZQ/s1600/Number+of+Mass+Shootings.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbKlXj6soIyY2VQaEBbOa1EpIwh4kmKSoH6v4Pg_WsGfhDHERum5GmveJzJgseZIogjZ5b0XN6FTEmS6bmvjA1KCD1PVamor3D1QJnZLi2DVi5e9fQ1tmw0W4sMRKACmsAnpl2MytHuZQ/s640/Number+of+Mass+Shootings.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Number of Mass Shootings In US (2010 - 2014)<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Data from the Wall Street Journal, which cited researchers from <br />State University of New York and Texas State University</span></td></tr>
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The absolute numbers of victims, including those who are injured, are not captured in both graphs. The emotional toil, the wounds to local communities.<br />
<br />
It takes about <a href="http://thinkprogress.org/justice/2016/06/12/3787494/heres-long-will-take-america-forget-orlando-massacre/">two months for America to forget a mass shooting</a>. How easily memories fade, how easily bruises re-appear.<br />
<br />Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-67939668925264422972016-06-03T05:57:00.001+08:002016-06-03T05:57:34.664+08:00TiredI am exhausted.<br />
<br />
I wonder how to care for youngsters who don't care for themselves.<br />
<br />
I wonder how to make them care.<br />
<br />
I wonder how much more I can wonder. I wonder how much more I can care.<br />
<br />
There are lotus buds, green tightness laced with pink. There is a wound in the clouds, light tearing through an opening.<br />
<br />
There are books, Babel via Negativa, An American Lyric. There is a Kindle which isn't charged.<br />
<br />
Items on the table, red pens, mobile adaptor, umbrella. Objects, many of them. <br />
<br />
My mind is about to shut down. My eyes refuses to stay open. It is 4.53 am.<br />
<br />
So much happened. Too much. <br />
<br />
I should sleep but I am exhausted.<br />
Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-46916350388496746082016-03-25T08:29:00.000+08:002016-10-23T12:38:50.260+08:00We Are All WinnersHaving to choose between marking worksheets on ionic compounds and correcting grammatical errors on essays is akin to making a choice between having a tooth extraction and pulling out a toenail, both without anesthesia. It can be rather painful, sifting through a molehill of scrawled words, at times accompanied with dried pasta splatters and oily spots.<br />
<br />
There is a distinct advantage to marking essays over science worksheets though. Children can describe their experiences in the most fascinating manner. One student described his classmate as a model with an external organisation - <i>What? Strutting about at her age?! </i>- because she sculpts objects with her hands <i>(ohhh)</i>. <br />
<br />
In a writing exercise, a student penned a personal letter to her friend:<br />
<br />
<i>I like how you are fun-sized. You are not really short and not really tall and I wish I could have your height. To be honest, you are really really pretty. If I could compare you to something, it would be a teddy bear. You are an epitome of cuteness. You are like really cute. I wish I could hug you. </i><br />
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In a concluding paragraph about a memorable experience spent with his family - students are supposed to write about the intrinsic value of their families - another shared his most illuminating insight:<br />
<br />
<i>I've discovered that the Go-Kart station isn't open on Sunday. It was really disappointing that we could not play on it. I will ensure that we do not go to Sentosa on Sunday because we cannot play the Go-Kart in that case. </i><br />
<br />
One student painted a vivid picture of why we should volunteer in a home:<br />
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<i>There are two places which we can visit and I recommend that we visit the home for the elderly. We can cheer up people lying on a straight row of white beds and sitting on heavy-duty wheelchairs, as they wait patiently for death. </i><br />
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Another wrapped his essay with:<br />
<br />
<i>I don't want to write anymore because I don't want to sound like one of those old aunties in the supermarket. [...] [...] [5 sentences later...] I hope forward to receiving your reply!</i><br />
<br />
In a reflection about his greatest achievement, another wrote:<br />
<br />
<i>We are all great as our greatest achievements are being born. There are millions and millions of sperms that could have entered our mothers' eggs. But we are the ones to do so. We are sole survivors in the sperm arms race. We are great achievers. </i><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ev6VsyZpn3HSyOs6mHMgfi_ASDIqPIZv4ShCsP7hXeGGuOOHnM4vvr_mi_powtBzE7p79Du8jvZp_pwYagEr_v4WP1mFSM0OQd-Y-L-ILp9mshB-7mxtzPK1zFnAAUPixIy-4sxpCo0/s1600/Fractal+Art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ev6VsyZpn3HSyOs6mHMgfi_ASDIqPIZv4ShCsP7hXeGGuOOHnM4vvr_mi_powtBzE7p79Du8jvZp_pwYagEr_v4WP1mFSM0OQd-Y-L-ILp9mshB-7mxtzPK1zFnAAUPixIy-4sxpCo0/s320/Fractal+Art.jpg" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fractal Art (Source credit: Google)</td></tr>
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<br />
It is humorous, really, what these children are capable of. It is my selfish wish for them to maintain some form of innocence even as they are buffeted by the relentless curriculum.Artxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06702349588199942741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767004615294110945.post-84989557844757839802016-03-13T11:14:00.000+08:002016-03-25T08:36:18.673+08:00School Answering MachineThis video is of especial importance to all teachers who have to deal with unreasonable parents. <br />
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<br />
Hello! You have reached the automated answering service of your school.<br />
<br />
In order to assist you in connecting to the right staff member, please listen to all options before making a selection:<br />
<br />
To lie about why your child is absent - Press 1<br />
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To make excuses for why your child did not do his work - Press 2<br />
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To complain about what we do - Press 3<br />
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To swear at staff members - Press 4<br />
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To ask why you didn't get needed information that was already enclosed in your newsletter and several bulletins mailed to you - Press 5<br />
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If you want us to raise your child - Press 6<br />
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If you want to reach out and touch, slap or hit someone - Press 7<br />
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To request another teacher for the third time this year - Press 8<br />
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To complain about bus transportation - Press 9<br />
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To complain about school lunches - Press 0<br />
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If you realise this is the real world and your child must be accountable/ responsible for his/ her own behavior, class work, homework, and that it's NOT the teacher's fault for your child(ren)'s lack of effort - HANG UP and HAVE A NICE DAY!!!<br />
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Thank you for your interest in public education. </div>
XYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08183273388875203336noreply@blogger.com0