Courage is not the absence of fear

it is in spite of it.

Just as generosity is not the absence of pettiness but despite it.

To indulge in small-minded nastiness and spiteful meanness is not only toxic and poisonous, it is ultimately self-defeating. In any kind of game, theoretical, simulation or practical, punishers end up last. Those that go out of their ways to avenge every slight, intended or perceived, are invariably out-competed by their opponents.

Deterrence theory has this to say on the subject of punishment; in order for punishment to achieve a goal of deterrence, it must be swift, severe and certain. The corollary applies, unless all three requirements met, the objective of deterrence in taking punitive action is unachieved. In a social context, for an individual to pursue this strategy is to display either a childish indulgence in base appetites or a shocking lack of imagination.

How do you want to spend your twenty-four hours? Don't sweat the small stuff, focus on the bigger picture and let four thousand years of social theory deal with the rest.

Anecdotal evidence is just that,

anecdotal. You can’t just ground a whole argument based on just singular experiences.

Just because your neighbour’s dumb but rich kid got into a top school on a diet of steroid brain boosters, subliminal tapes or just intensive tuitioning doesn’t therefore mean that top schools are all inhabited by spoilt rich bastards. (Although that might be a comforting thought for your poor and dumb kid, if any).

Similarly just because you got into a top school while working part-time as a toilet bowl washer cause your family was poor doesn’t prove the myth that everything is meritocratic and pretty. If you work hard you’ll succeed. What about all the other toilet bowl washers that didn’t make the honour roll?

Is this stating the obvious, of course it is. But that doesn’t deter people from stating their singular and anecdotal experiences as if it were a proof of social reality. Oh no, of course not. Everyone thinks they have a unique and detached point of observation from which to pass judgement upon the myriad societal flaws and inequities. (The irony of making this statement is not lost on me, trust me.) But still, when people say something like

“This _(insert social apparatus)_ is seriously _(insert appropriate epithet)_. That time I saw this __(recount amusing but irrelevant personal experience)___, so ya, all _(insert social apparatus)_ is really _(repeat thesis statement)__.”

Things like these can really make a person think. I’m not sure what it makes you think about, but it makes me think “wow, when you were born were you dropped on your head?” “Do you realise you just made the average intelligence level of the human race go down an infinitesimal fraction?” or just something simple like “Dammit I wish people weren’t so fucking stupid. And if they were I wish they wouldn’t fuck and have kids.”

Singaporean cynic

To be a social individual in the Singaporean society is to be one immersed in a brand of coffee shop philosophy that is perhaps as old as the coffee shop itself. While every government has its fair share of detractors and its own particularly fashionable style of critique. Here, I have found the anti-establishment critic takes a far more despondent, grimmer and yes, cynical view than others I've had occasion to observe. It is the thorough bred Singaporean cynic. To be a fashionable cynic, one must be able to deconstruct and reconstruct reality and truth with the skill of a consummate magician. The fault lies with a gross, uncaring, detached government. Then, now and always. That is the philosophy of the cynic. To struggle is futile, idealism is only worthy of scorn, hope, merely childish naiveté. The government that succeeds is elitist, aloof, condescending, and exclusive. The failures or inefficiencies of the state are due to the gross negligence and outright incompetence of the lords of the manor whose motives are to enrich only themselves at the expense of everyone else.

To join the PAP is to be branded a class-traitor, a betrayer of ideals and a shameless panderer to the powers that be for the right to scrabble for scraps and privileges at the masters' table. To be a supporter of the opposition is to be a reckless trouble-maker. A rabble rouser, malcontent, misguided fool and perhaps someone of unsound mind (for who in their right minds would actually challenge the established order?)

To express either view in the hearing range of the cynic is to invite an off the cuff lecture on the principles of governance and the multitude flaws of the Singaporean way of life. For the cynic bears his own brand of zealotry as furiously and jealously as any fundamentalist, he brooks no compromise and accepts no middle ground to his entrenched stance of cynicism on all government action.

Scratch the surface but lightly and a sense of slighted dignity emerges from all conversation with such cynics. For deeply rooted in the depths of the cynic's psyche is a gross sense of frustration, and even more deeply, an immense sense of inadequacy. Frustration because in spite of all he can achieve at work, he is still to all intents and purposes incapable of dictating the way of his life in any significant way. "Men are born free, but everywhere in chains". On all sides he is hemmed in and walled, cordoned, blocked, prodded, molded, cajoled and harangued. He has to act as he is expected to act, behave as he is required to behave and finally to breed and spawn as he is encouraged to.

But even deeper still the cynic is motivated by fear, a deep inexpressible fear of his own inadequacies. It is the terror that even if he did take up the gauntlet thrown down in challenge. Stepped up and struggled and fought for the change he desires. Even after the commitment of his utmost, he would fail. Fail to budge the machinery of state in the slightest. Fail to make the slightest difference. This deepest dimension of shame and inadequacy drives the self-loathing and vitriol of the dedicated cynic. To be revealed to all to as utterly insignificant and impotent. Hence, the sole remaining refuge of such an individual from himself and from the perceived judgment of his peers is a self-deceiving and contemptuous brand of cynicism.

Misery loves company. Only by projecting and compelling others to the same despondent philosophy does the cynic achieve any measure of self-worth. For if everyone was like him, then his flaws, his weaknesses have to be normal. There is comfort to be gained in knowing one is not alone. Now the zealotry of the Singaporean cynic is truly revealed. For to debate the cynic on his views is not just an intellectual or philosophic exercise, it is an attack on the very pillars upon which his self-worth is erected.

Funerals are for those left behind

Honour the dead, but remember the living

When they run out of space in hell...

Every year around this time of the year lots of people will start igniting big piles of paper and/or paper derivatives. While any other time of the year setting the local dust bin on fire will get you arrested, people are actually encouraged during this time to make use of the same gigantic metal bins to get their burning kicks on.

I've always been a little puzzled by this behavior, what are they actually trying to accomplish with all the burning, effigies , fires and huge plumes of acrid smoke sent up into the air? Is this to recreate an image of hell with its fire and brimstone so that the dead can feel more comfortable when they come visit? And every year the pyromania gets more and more out of hand, surely not a good sign?

Would not a newly deceased ghost after a few months in the underworld crave a waft of fresh clean air when out on an annual vacation? Surely if you worked in a factory for 11 months of the year, you'd not want to spend your vacation in a trash incinerator.

The logic, once again, escapes me.

One of the biggest pleasures of this job can also be one of its biggest torments. I've always enjoyed the freedom and being given the time to think and pursue ideas at work. That is, until some problem from outside work preoccupies the mind and expands and expands until it blots out all other thoughts. In that case, having the freedom to brood is not far removed from having the freedom of having a Colt 45 in the drawer.

Looking into the sun

''..the fuck you guys. No seriously, you guys. The. Fuck."

Have you ever had days where you felt battered by and at the mercy of your fickle moods. Little interactions and conversations through the day sending your emotions careening like a little bit of drift wood caught in a storm at sea. A random walk induced by the Brownian motion of social interaction.

I've heard from somewhere that the if hate was a substance, it'd be black and sludgy, staining and corupting everything it touches. What I'd like to do is to just sit with my eyes closed, focusing inwards. And draw all that thick, black, sticky tar-like hate out of every fibre of my being. Draw it out and feed it into a flame, and burn it. Burn with such a white hot fury that all that is left would be a single kernal. Small, round bright and hard. Hate that is forged through the purifying flames of my soul, a pure searing white orb, blinding to behold.

Kensai, sword-saint, poetry with three-foot steel.