MiReIA L@ NiLda’s Neighborhood

I've moved to Wordpress, as one does, when one wants a clean slate.

(Also when one wants one's friends to be able to comment on one's blog without having to sign up for an account and jump through hoops of bees.)

It's called Exercises in Fiction so don't take it too seriously.

Thank you in advance for dropping by, if you are.

I don't know why I bother, since whatever I say, people generally only use it to laugh at me. But I guess one line can't be the source of too much hilarity:

I have to start shifting my loyalties and stick to them.

I gave the address to this blog to so many people that now everytime I feel like writing something I hesitate and often decide not to after all, in case someone reading it gets hurt or pissed off. So it's not like nothing's been happening in my life, it's just that a lot of the stuff I want to get off my chest is bitching about people. I don't really have the patience to write about things that happened throughout the day and I especially hate talking about "wedding preparations" which is like the #1 phrase that gets thrown my way all the time now and which I hate hate hate. Please don't ask. I don't give a shit about the wedding. I have been avoiding:

- going to the tailor to have my measurements taken for the dress
- going for makeup trials
- meeting Don to talk about the photography for the wedding
- going shopping for the Russian's suit
- going shopping for shoes

Instead, I have been:

- dreaming about how to renovate my new flat
- coming up with a DVD shopping list
- buying lotssss of books

I am looking forward to being married but not the wedding ok. So if you like me don't ask me about preparations. If you ask me, I will assume that you are filled with hate.

A summary of the reasons why writing Singaporean literature is so difficult, if not impossible, according to Joon and Yasmine, or why all the existing novels written by Singaporeans that we have read are so unsatisfactory.

1. The language. Singaporeans generally speak, well, Singlish, and even if we don't, we often mix languages even within the same sentence. As Joon pointed out, sometimes when we want to really express ourselves truly and honestly, we automatically switch to Malay even though we speak English 99% of the time. How do you translate "ghetto step kental", "YA ALLAH (must be all caps)", "amik kau ubat" and the hilarity of the word "snek"? How do you explain why the word "korek" is so dirty-sounding, when the direct English translation, "dig", is not? Or "sumbat", which means "stuffed"? You either write in English and sound really fake or write the way people really speak and alienate 90% of potential readers. Unless you can find a publisher daring enough to print a Singlish version of Trainspotting or A Clockwork Orange. Otherwise, film is a better way to portray the country.

2. The urge to explain everything about Singapore and living here. A lot of the Singaporean novels/short story collections out there cram all the cultural references they can into one sentence and history lessons into one paragraph. We picked up a book just now that had a story about a fashion student who was dyeing batik until "his fingers turned red, like a Malay bride's". So unnecessary. There are descriptions of HDB flats in all of these books. There is always, always, an old Chinese person feeling disconnected from their offspring, who were English-educated and don't understand the traditional ways. If someone takes the MRT, there will be a description of the cleanness and the crisp announcer's voice. At some point we have to stop telling and start showing.

3. A lot of these books have also been written by people who don't seem to know all that much about Singaporean life across all classes and ethnic groups, and hence have to prove their knowledge by dropping as many cultural references as they can. (We have insider knowledge that the author who wrote about chinese boys playing "sepak tawak" at community centres once asked a colleague, "Where is Yishun?") The authorial voice is always of someone from outside Singapore looking in, not of a local writing while living in Singapore itself.

4. Good grammar does not equate to good writing lah ok.

Did I leave anything out, Joon?

Canadian guy who is not black: I'm gonna get my black friends to beat you up. I'm gonna get my black girl friend to come and beat you up. She's big, she's gonna hurt you. You can't out-hustle the hustler.
Mari.am: In my language, you are what is called "ghetto step kental".

Joon and I have started a page on our shared blog, The Portable Reader's Guide to Good Things, on contemporary novels/short story collections that are worth your time.

We read a lot of junk so you don't have to.

Oh my god:

Be pleased then, you, the living, in your delightfully warm bed, before Lethe's ice-cold wave will lick your escaping foot.

-- Goethe, Roman Elegies

Lethe: In Greek mythology, one of the rivers of Hades whose waters will cause complete forgetfulness.

I must read Goethe.

(I found the line from a review of You, The Living.)

Last week I went to view flats and at the second flat we went to, the agent who greeted us asked, "Who is the buyer?" I said, "Me," and he stared at me and said, "Huh?! So young? How old are you?"

Asshole.

Anyway I was thinking about it today and then I tried to move on to the next part of the memory, which was my reply, but then I realised that I'd forgotten my age. I couldn't remember what number I gave him because I honestly forgot how old I was. The first thing that came to my mind was 26, but then I thought, no... that's too old. I'm 25, right?

Because a couple of years ago when I was 24 I kept thinking I was 26 so lately I have a tendency not to take myself seriously when I think about how old I am.

But no. I really am 26 now.

Oh my God, you know. Jonathan Safran Foer had his first book published at 26. Zadie Smith too, I think. What have I done with my life?

Ok so I just had this will-we-ever-make-something-of-ourselves conversation with Joon the other day and we resolved that quite peaceably but obviously this is not the kind of thing that you just put to rest and never think about ever again.

What it is, really, is a widening chasm of fear.

Sometime back I said I was tired of waiting for life to start and back then I thought life would start when I got married and I got my freedom. But with marriage looming I am starting to realize that marriage is not the freedom I thought it would be. It’s so foolish to have thought marriage equated to freedom in the first place, but that’s what you do when you live in a prison – you feed yourself hope, even if it’s based on a lie.

Would marriage give me the life that I always thought I wanted? Maybe not. I don’t know if I’ll ever be happy. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel as if I am living life the way I want to and not dictated by someone else, or other people.

Why is it that whenever I finish a book, I can never decide what to read next, despite the fact that I have close to 40 unread books on my shelves (and table and floor)?

Anyway. How effective would a theme-based reading regime be? I just read this weekend's New York Times reviews, which focus on Chinese books and now of course I want to read Chinese books. If I spent a month or two reading only Chinese books, or Jewish or African or whatever, would it make me want to shoot myself?

There is such a feeling of dread that sloshes around inside me at the thought of the weekend ending. I will be listening to a nice song, and then when the singer hits a particular note of yearning, I will be reminded of work. Or the reminder could come in the middle of a TV show, for no reason at all. Even while reading a book, I could suddenly think of work if I come across any word that is related to the tasks I have awaiting me in the office.

The dread starts right at the centre of my chest, then throbs its way down to my stomach and my legs. Finally, I feel the dread in the soles of my feet, like a prickle. I have to squeeze my toes to make it go away, but it only travels back up to my chest, hiding in wait until the next reminder of work welcomes it back out again.

Will I ever reach a point in my life where I wouldn't fear Mondays anymore? I don't think so. Throughout my working adult life, it will be the thought of work that haunts me, and after retirement it will be death.

That's Saturday night optimism for you.