Coldheart Canyon, Clive Barker

"Was she awake behind her pale lids, he wondered, her nakedness a deliberate provocation? He suspected not. There was something too artless about the way her legs were splayed, too childlike about the way her hands were tucked up against her breasts. And the final proof'? She was snoring. If this was indeed a performance, then that was a touch of genius."

In a steam pot

It's quite a fortuitous thing, I’d say; a bout of illness has reacquainted me with the joys of a steamboat. Nothing fancy, it’s just a boiling pot of stock, into which you put an assortment of ingredients only limited by the your imagination and the diameter of your steamboat. The Swiss have fondue, we have steamboat. And into the pot, you can have anything from chicken broth (an excellent choice for weak stomachs or when you’re still suffering from stomach flu) to chilli oil Ma La soup, which is numbingly spicy and apt to give you diarrhoea unless you’re made of sterner stuff. But some people swear it’s how southern Chinese women stay svelte and shapely, as opposed the popular conception that it is the rigours of planting rice that explains their enviable BMI.

But back on the subject, it sure beats eating porridge. The very idea terrifies me. But steamboat, it seems, never gets tired. I could eat it every day. For a successful steamboat, I have found the following ingredients to be absolutely necessary. The beauty if it is, there’s no need to be dogmatic about steamboat, eat what you like. But I do recommend the following:

Tau Gua: its tofu, but the rougher variety. I’m sure there’s a proper name for it, but I’m tired.

Fish balls: fantastic eco-friendly shit. Not fish testicles (because they don’t have any. Whales aren’t fish), just some fish meat (very little, I gather), flour and seasoning rolled into a ball and there u have it – tasty seafood that does not denude the ocean, and there aren’t any bones to pierce your throat!

Cabbage: they’re so sweet, I can’t imagine steamboat without them. And I hear they are the reason why Korean senior citizens are so… robust, that they eat cabbages with all four meals a day. Easy to wash and prepare also, which is always a bonus.

Mushrooms: experiment. Enoki’s great, along with the while ones that look like little people.

And pick a meat.

Enjoy.

Crisis of Faith

As I write this, my faith hangs as claws dug into a chalkboard, slipping and making an obscene racket. Life is hard. I have often even, exclaimed that life sucks. Yet how precious is life! What would we do to extend our own lives, or even that of our loved ones? Anything. But as experience shows, such iron resolve is in vain, and largely irrelevant as events overtake our lives and best laid plans like an incoming tide over a sand castle. As individuals, we can effect woefully little; the Bible tells us, we cannot make ourselves any taller, or our hair, any blacker. Where then the cause for arrogance? It must come from stupidity, or else one is living in denial.

As I do. Not intending to be coolly self-deprecating, I count myself most unworthy of a Christian. Bitter, cynical, angry; carnal, worldly, and alienated, I am in speech, and action, near indistinguishable from the heathen. Yet I am a Christian because I believe in the God of the Bible, and have a relationship with Him; a relationship I am ashamed to admit that I am often running away from, as a man flees truth or his own shadow. Not the finest specimen, by far.

In this state of spiritual drunkenness, I didn't think I had much to lose; especially considering that I had lost so much already, I fancied myself a walking dead man, and did whatever i should not, as a vent of rage, a raised fist, a feeble self-destructive protest.

But in fact, though I seldom realise it, I am very well blessed. This was rammed home to me in the shape of a 'domestic emergency'. Too many of the most precious things in life are taken for granted – it is a terrible thing that we often realise how blessed we are only when we're on the brink of losing something really, really precious. It scared me, shocked me. What is the meaning of this, I cried to the Lord; why is this happening to me; in what way could it benefit the Creator of the universe to put His child through trial after trial, and sorrow after sorrow that our mortal frame can hardly bear? Why?! I implored in despair and rage.

After calming down somewhat, I could feel in my bones that the correct question was not 'why?' but 'what.' What was I supposed to learn from this crisis, what is God trying to tell me? Well, the thing that I came to realise, is how blessed I was. And the effect of this simple realisation is a huge Stop sign for me. I have to change my outlook; change my way of life, in order to make the most of what I have been blessed with. I'm not out of the woods yet, I could still lose; but one must make the most and not waste our life and time on things of no profit to the heart and soul. Treasure the people around us, and treasure ourselves, is what I've come to realise. So simple that it sounds a cliché; but it sure got me stumped.

Traveling with the Dead, Barbara Hambly

Of course, Asher had been a spy. And when Jan van der Platz--sixteen and Asher's loyal shadow for weeks--had learned that Asher was not German but English and had confronted him in tears, Asher had shot him to protect his contacts in the town, the Kaffirs who slipped him information and would be horribly killed in retaliation, and the British troops in the field who would have been massacred by the commandos had he been forced to talk.

Love Remains, Glen Duncan

"She wondered, too, whether she had hampered them by giving him her virginity. She knew that in his mind, she had forced them to start with him taking something from her. She could tell he felt guilty about it. The ribbon of blood on the sheet was a simple statement in cipher: this is serious.
Blood, she wrote in her diary, is the colour of love."

Eggs, and Lunching

Learned a couple of things over lunch yesterday, and being the generous soul that I am, I thought I would share. Much of this concerns boiling eggs, which to me are one of nature's most sublime gifts (along with clouds and light breezes), full of goodness despite the cholesterol controversy, voluptuously beautiful and pregnant with a wealth of erotic metaphors in their admiration, preparation and general experience. Simply, one could not be near an egg without thinking unclean sorts... in a clean sorta way.

I love eggs for the shape of the shell, for which I am at a loss for words to describe, beyond “perfect”, “sublime”, “mmm”; the shocking luminosity of “sunny-side up” which lights up a morning better than a kiss; the fluffiness of the rice wine infused egg white that forms the soft bed of a steamed crab; the rich taste and texture of the yolk, the way this seduces one's sense of taste, touch and smell in the mouth, before doing wonderful things to my head as it is swallowed. Does one wonder that the definitive cinema sex scene etched on my mind is the one in Tampopo... not when the chap jabs his tongue up his lover's arm, but when they are engaged in passing a yolk between their mouths... that is until the woman climaxes, whereupon she collapses into wordless convulsions, inadvertently breaking the yolk, which subsquently wells out of her mouth. Oh, boy.

But back to the lessons:

A: the best way to boil an egg, so the membrane separates from the shell and peels cleanly, is to start with a fresh egg. Put some salt into water, boil it, then lower the egg inside. Do not boil the water with the egg inside. The egg comes after. Then when you think it's done (see “B”), take the egg out, and run it under cold tap water. Peel.

B: to determine whether an egg has been hardboiled, try to pick up the egg from the boiling water with a pair of chopsticks. If this proves impossible, it means the insides are still liquid. If otherwise, it means the egg is done. Return to “A”.

And then I as I ate, I also reflected on what a fine time I was having, compared to the day before, when I ate on my own at the very same place. I was reminded yet again on one of the principles i hold about food... that ambience and company has somewhat to do with it also. You can order any fine dish so long as you have money and it's on the menu (granted, in some places, one must also wear a tie); but good company -- now that is much trickier. It took the establishment quite a few centuries to realise/accept that the earth was not the centre of the solar system, that the sun did not orbit the earth, but indeed it was the other way round. Individuals don't live for centuries. They have much less time to learn that the world does not revolve around them. What does this say? What connection there be between self-centredness and good company for lunch? Surely, come to your own conclusions.

Why Christians Suck...

I am sure, on many counts, we do. As do many, many things, in all fairness. For starters, the world, and life, just ain't fair. The good die young and we are left with assholes for company. People who need money, can't ever find enough of it; those with time on their hands have no idea what to do with it. Toast always lands on the side that's buttered, etc.

But back to Christians. Irking the world with silly notions and unwanted good intentions; always talking about salvation, thanking an unseen God for everything, always trying to convert people to Christ who is not even older than Buddha, have no respect for tradition (most offensively, at the refusal to partake in traditional funeral rites)...

I shall not explain everything at one go; the virtue of brevity is, after all, that it is relatively painless. But primarily, Christians suck because the world would not let us be. Christians (and here, I am generalising -- there are just so many types) have an other-worldly mindset. We do not fixate on this life, but the next. We believe in the resurrection of the dead; in an ever living God who walked on earth as a man, and once, exchanged His life for ours. Much of this does not make sense. It might even seem mad, the fairy tale of idiots. But that is our liberty. The point is, such a perspective, from believing what we believe, will naturally manifest itself in acts and words that seem 'weird'.

As a liberal myself, I would ask that for those who have already concluded that Christianity is foolishness, to let us be. But for those who are curious enough, that seemingly reasonable and sane people should espouse the abovementioned views, I shall try my best to explain. At worst, you shall gain an amusing bar room anecdote to share. At best, might one not hope to be utterly blessed.

Be Clean

When he was come down from the mountain, great multitudes followed him.
And, behold, there came a leper and worshipped him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.
And Jesus put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will; be thou clean. And immediately his leprosy was cleansed.

-- Matthew 8:1-3

War and Glory

For fuck’s sake, there is no such thing. Perhaps I should qualify that as my own personal opinion. Sure, why not. And you’re of course entitled to your own. But that does not mean I can’t be right.

I say war is bad… yet all too soon, the macho rhetoric rears its bulbous, balding head (I infer this from observing the majority of its proponents) – surely, there is greater virtue in a courageous death, than living in cowardice. Well. Courage is indeed more admirable than cowardice. But when courage is stirred in the service of dubious schemes cloaked behind big words like “justice”, “destiny”, “freedom”, as has been the case for far too many wasteful wars that men have fought, then this courage is but stupidity.

To put it mildly, sentimental bullshit is the magic ingredient most served when men of power seek to stir other men to take the bullet in building the former’s ambitions. No? Is war “just”? Is war “unavoidable”? Why conduct a little experiment: round up the generals, presidents and other assorted people’s representatives who are creaming their pants for a fight, and satisfy their express desire, put them in a ring (or a coliseum) and let them fight their own battles. Considering the amount of money saved from conducting full-scale warfare, we would be happy to chip in for swords, spears, even costumes and, surely, many many medals and ribbons without number.

If I might be so presumptuous to say this, we shall have more peace than we ever had. In most cases, bluster will pass into silence as courage fails. As people appear taller on TV than in real life, talk is braver too, in cases where no balls are need to back it. And in cases where people pick up arms, well, on the bright side (very, very bright), the blood spilling is contained.

As for members of the populace who buy the idea that war can solve problems (and I have heard enough such talk, on how we can “take out” country A or country B with ease considering what we have in our arsenal), that some notion of national dignity requires taking up arms, please consider how disruptive war can be. School will close. Yippy. Supermarket shelves will go empty. Oops. The economy breaks down – where to find money, and how much is it worth anyway? Oh, dear.

So much better, is the stability that peace affords, for us to work, make money, enjoy creature comforts, hang out friends, and die in our own beds.

The Language of God, Francis Collins

“Did I not consider myself a scientist? Does a scientist draw conclusions without considering data? Could there be a more important question in all of human existence than 'Is there a God?'”

The Republic, Plato

'With our new luxuries we shall need doctors too, far more than we did before.'

'We certainly shall.'

'And the territory which was formerly enough to support us will now be too small.'

'That is undeniable.'

'If we are to have enough for pasture and plough, we shall have to cut a slice off our neighbours' territory. And if they too are no longer confining themselves to necessities and have embarked on the pursuit of unlimited material possessions, they will want a slice of ours too.'

'The consequence is inevitable.'

'And that will lead to war, Glaucon, will it not?'

'It will.'

Power Relations

Absolute power corrupts absolutely — this is a maxim held with as much faith as “apples fall from trees.” And it’s generally true: as much as any open drain is clogged with discarded trash, history is littered with jerks (to put in mildly) who have perpetrated the worst excesses for no better reason than because they could get away with it. Having power helped. A lot.

While people are rightly wary of power in political affairs, I have a feeling they are not wary enough about the flip-side influence of power in social affairs. This was impressed upon me during a recent conversation with workmates over lunch — and what better dessert is there than a bit of idle philosophising? — about the relative merit/justice of alternative power structures in the relations between men and women. Who should be under whose thumb, in other words. Among those present, one of took immense pride in her matriarchal family background — grannies, aunts, mums, etc held fearsome power in the household, while the men were effete, soft. It was the preferred order of the universe, the one that, self-evidently, made more sense.

For perhaps the wrong reasons, those present looked to me for a response, the supposed male chauvinist in that merry company. I beg to differ, really. I cannot blame people for the impression they get from the jokes I’m wont to crack, but I do not think they will derive the male chauvinist from my conduct.

But I digress. My point really, is that power should not be allowed to corrupt the relationship between men and women. What’s the value in robbing men of their spirit, turning them into hen-pecked, spineless slaves? What’s the joy in bullying women into soulless submission? A criminal waste of the human potential, both extremes. We should take a pause, get some sense of the immense potential in each person, and help each other achieve that. People who cannot see beyond a “power equation” in gender relations, well, let them be dealt in the only currency they understand, taking futile delight in meaningless triumphs, or else grovelling when the tables turn, filling their nasty lives with ultimately worthless alliances, chasing after fruitless things.

Of course, it is their liberty to do so, and to take delight in this.

Participation

I hate politics. Yet as a citizen of a state, and not by choice a member of the trans-national human race, there is no excuse for not taking an active interest (at the minimum, a raised brow), in public affairs at both the local and global levels. Was it not Pericles who said — I paraphrase, the more industrious among you can look it up in Book Two of Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War and be amply rewarded — that one of the points for which Athens is worthy of admiration, lies in the fact that even ordinary citizens, though occupied with the pursuits of industry (shoemakers, making shoes all day), are fair judges of public matters — informed, sensible, participative. Those who have no interest in public affairs are not called unambitious, but “useless”!

I have an interest in politics. I don’t love it. Interest and love are not the same, else “love interest” would make no sense, or no more sense than “banana banana” or “horse horse”. Why am I thinking of bananas? That may have somewhat to do with pyjamas…

Anyway, before I say anything more about politics, I should like to recommend that we temper our passions in this respect. The young (forgive me, I generalize; anyone with a heart is in danger here), fired by idealism, rage etc, are easy prey for vested interests that feed on such passions to achieve its own ends, sucking dry lives and souls in the process. The suicide bomber, the campaign activist, the volunteer… are they not giving their lives for something they believe to be right? Who’s telling them right from wrong? Left-wing, right-wing? What do these labels mean? Are they not parts of the same body? I suspect so. Take care before you lend your heart to a cause, and find you can't get it back.

Thinking about Food; and Scrambled Eggs

Contrary to popular belief among those who know me (a highly qualified use of “know”, since how well do we even “know” ourselves, much less our peers?), I do know (again, “know”!) a little bit about food. Not so much in its preparation, but surely, in its enjoyment.

Would that I didn’t; but as a man of the flesh, possessing a heightened consciousness and sensitivity to the pleasures from the physical senses (are there but five?), I’m ashamed to admit that earthly pleasures hold not a little sway over me — and food is one of these.

Food for me is a sentimental thing; a language, a window — touching without touching, talking without words. Beyond technical skill and finesse in its preparation, like music, much of the enjoyment also comes from the care and heart that is put into it, which is communicated to the person doing the eating. As the eyes reveal a person’s soul, food is likewise a portal, a direct window into a mind or a culture. I’m not making this up — you could look past a painting gaining no impression, or you connect with it, as in art. Should cooking be any different?

In any case, let me not waste the reader’s time by parting with a mere thought. Here’s a recipe even a lazy bone could try, magic ingredient in caps:
- scramble two or more eggs over low fire
- pinch of salt, tablespoon of butter
- 1 or 2 tablespoons of EVAPORATED MILK
- have tea and toast ready.

Nothingness.

Consistent with my general habit of setting modest goals, this blog's opening entry shall be about nothingness – which is not the same as nothing. Nothing is just nothing. Nothingness is about being nothing, which consequently becomes something (being is necessarily about being something or other...) This is not trickery with words. There must be something about nothing; otherwise there would be nothing to say or think about it. The latter would be absurd, since we are always fussing about nothing: doing nothing, getting upset over nothing... even basing religions and belief systems on the pursuit of pure nothingness.

Could it be, that on a thought (about nothing), nothing became something? Is that how life and the universe came about? On a thought? Whose? Back on planet earth, I recall, as a first-year philosophy student, that one of my tutors was especially fond of saying, that “there is more that exists than meets the eye.” A rather clumsy way of saying whatever she wanted to imply, I thought, like something lifted off an '80s detective drama; and worst of all, a Caucasian American woman teaching Chinese Philosophy. What evil did Confucius do to deserve this? Needless to say, I paid her no heed. Young, brash, relatively untamed by experience, I fancied myself an empiricist, that only things that can be measured, held, captured by the senses (mainly sight, we are so blinded by our eyes), exist.

Ain't that a lovely, modern notion; reality squeaky clean and safely, triumphantly self-evident, freed from ghosts, goblins and assorted creations of myth. I forgot about me. The ghost in the machine. Even if all other real things were physical, my mind/consciousness is not. The moral of the story: don't be in a great hurry to stuff unknown/vague things into the bag labelled “nothing”, for no better reason than to free our scope of life from the straitjacket confines of physical reality. More on this later.