number9dream by David Mitchell 

number9dream

number9dream by David Mitchell

I was quite hesitant to read another book by Mitchell after reading his debut novel Ghostwritten some years back. Then, I was at the peak of my contemporary Japanese literature craze, having read much of Haruki Murakami, Ryu Murakami and Banana Yoshimoto. I looked for pulsing Tokyoesque cityscapes cluttered with buildings and offbeat creatures, human and subhumanl; noir-ish adventures that dived into the backalleys of national psychodrama; unlikely yet redemptive and very much endearing love stories that cleared the way to new futures. Ghostwritten was all of these in part but holistically none of them at all. Overly ambititous as a first novel, it read unfocused at best and you never quite settled in comfortably enough to care for any of the principal characters from Mitchell's global montage before you were forced to jump to the next. Yet, number9dream, Mitchell's second effort if I did not get my facts wrong, is everything Ghostwritten was not. Dizzying and dazzling all at the same time, this novel weaves a story around you that is exactly what the title promises--"the ninth dream begins after every ending"--a cryptic postapocalyptic dreamworld as ethereal and Dali-esque surreal as the John Lennon song of the same name.

number9dream opens with the protagonist Eiji Miyake arriving in Tokyo to search for his biological father whom he has never met, having been abandoned along with his twin sister Anju when they were born. He sits in the Jupiter Cafe, opposite a towering monolith known only as the PanOpticon building, on top of which his father's lawyer Akiko Kato has her office. Before you know it, however, the opening chapter runs you through several expositions of vastly differing genres, from sci-fi wham-bang to pulp fiction political intrigue, only to reveal them as false introductions, fantasies in Eiji's wild imagination--this is merely a taste of things to come. Once the reader launches fully into the world of number9dream, Mitchell repeatedly takes the reader twisting and turning through the alleyways and cul-de-sacs of the Tokyo urban labyrinth. Eiji encounters the yakuza, hacker nerds, modern geishas, WWII suicide torpedo pilots and even one particular Debussy-crazy pianist geek Ai with whom he falls in love. The almost madcap adventure constantly surprises, but never disappoints, just let the momentum of the writing hurtle you through a dream you wish would never end.

The success of the novel lies in its terrific blend of myth, superstition, tech-fiction, detective novel, love story and most of all, growing up. Eiji is the anti-picaro in a picaresque novel--timid, shy and always fumbling into situations, he somehow endears when he never fails to fumble out of them as well. And for those who have an interest in the novel's social relevancy, behind Eiji's personal odyssey, of course, lies Japan's national conundrum with its troubled past. Just as Eiji has to lay his tumultuous past to rest before he can construct new possibilities with his estranged mother and Ai, Mitchell calls for his adopted country to put the ghosts of the past aside, so as to look ahead for new futures. After all, that is what it means to grow up, for Eiji as well as for the national polity. In the novel, it is therefore no surprise that he picks a seeming champion of wartime heroism, the kaiten suicide torpedo pilot, to voice an acknowledgement of defeat and wrongdoing. Eiji himself, upon finally meeting his irresponsible father in the end, casts aside resentment and chooses to let sleeping dogs lie.

At one point in the novel, Eiji meets John Lennon in a dream and questions him on the meaning of the song. John replies that number9dream was in fact meant to be a sequel to Norwegian Wood, but while he initially meant for the song to signify harmony, he decided to forsake that salvation/enlightenment for Norwegian Wood's brand of loneliness instead. I am certain Mitchell intended number9dream to be a kind of sequel to Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood. Murakami's novel was very much about memory and forgetting, losing and forgiving as well. That novel was a love story between the past and the future, each embodied in a ghostly, fragile maiden and spunky, energetic college girl respectively between whom the protagonist had to make a choice. In number9dream, Mitchell transmutes the choice into Eiji's growing pains and I think in this way, he achieves a more coherent and affecting story than the former. Where Norwegian Wood divided what the author saw as two paradigms of history neatly into black and white, Mitchell's novel strikes a far more subtle chord: After all, at the very end, the novel leaves us still cheering on for Eiji to finish the metaphorical race, for the ninth dream has only begun.

Blooie Phooie

I was going to write about this in the last post, but I think it deserves a posting all of its own. Admittedly last week wasn't all that bad. On Wednesday night, I drag Dani out to Blooies for beer and chow--after all that was going on, I figured I needed some quality weeknight company. So we find ourselves back at our one-time favourite joint, and we're greeted by this waitress we've never seen before. Denise (she tells us her name after we ask for it a little later) turns out to be the strangest or rather, quirkiest, ordering experience I've ever had. I'm not saying she's not ISO9000 but if there ever is a service awards ceremony, Denise deserves a whole new category to herself. Her attention-grabbing assets notwithstanding, her mind works in a wondrously curious logic. Here's a sample of the conversation:

Me: I'll have the chicken gumbo please.
D: We don't have that anymore.
Me: Oh okay, that sucks. Lemme see... what should I get then....
(I flip through the menu for a minute, but can't make up my mind.)

D: Why don't you get the nachos?
Dani: We've had the nachos before.
D: What about the wings?
Dani: We've had the wings before too.
D: The wings are really good. You gotta have the wings.
Us: uhhh....
D: You didn't like them? The wings are great.
Dani: Well..they were okay.
D: Get a burger.
(I flip to the burger page)

Me: Okay okay, I'll have the cheese burger.
D: (looks doubtfully at me) You sure?
Me: What's wrong with the cheese burger?
D: I wouldn't get that. Get the mushroom, bacon and cheese burger.
Me: I can't. It's too fattening. I need something light.
D: Get a salad.
Me: I hate salads.
D: You're right. Salads are no good. Get a sandwich.
Me: (turning to sandwich page) Alright. enough fuss. I'll take the dory sandwich.
D: I don't know about that.... Get the mushroom, bacon and cheese burger.
Me: It's too fattening! I'll take the BLT.
D: Too boring. Get the mushroom, bacon and cheese burger.
Me: Fine Fine! I'll take the mushroom, bacon and cheese burger. With the Blooies special fries.
D: Which ones are those?
(I look at the menu. They only have one type of fries: the Blooies special fries.)
Me: The ones with the special spice?
D: Oh...those... right. (walks two steps away then turns back) Actually, get the Cajun Chicken Burger. It's better.
(Dani and I are wonderfully amused.)
Me: Okay okay. Just get me whatever.

Halfway through our meal, we notice Denise has gotten herself a ginormous plate of wings. I guess the wings REALLY are that good. You have been forewarned, get your ass to Blooies now!

Afterthought
Oh I forgot to mention: later in the evening, she gets off work and joins Dani and me at our table. We are chatting about Eye for a Guy 2's debut episode that same night and Denise promptly informs us that Rachel "FHM Bikini Model" Lee is her cousin (explains soooo much...) and that she shares the same initials as Denise Keller. Don't even ask.

My room post-Heater explosion.  

The Happiest Week of My Life

whoa. it's been a while since my last post. well, I wanted to write about the worst week in my life, but I didn't want my blog to become all whiny so I stuck the week out and got myself over feeling down before posting again. I'll do a quick recap of the week's happy mishaps though:

1. The Pager Incident
Can anyone explain why the SAF, ever at the forefront of technology with its newly acquired Apache helicopters and fancy rifles that shoot around corners, still insists on using pagers to contact duty officers in the case of emergencies? While on duty a week ago, my antique personal communication device beeped twice (yea that's right...*beep* *beep*... everyone jump to your feet at the sound of that earthshaking alert chime) to a surprise GSOC test page, and surprise surprise, I didn't hear it. 45 mins after the page, they decide to call me on my mobile to ask me why I didn't respond to the pager. Of course, they contacted me immediately on my cellphone. Define absurdist comedy. Who said Kafka wrote fiction?

I might have to sign seven extra duties for not answering the page within 5 minutes. Hurray for this country where paranoia is the principal instrument of control.

2. The SOC Incident
On the second last day in camp before I begin clearing my leave en bloc, Clement and myself, the final vestiges of the old Republic collide head-on with the closing deathgrip of the new Empire. Too accustomed to the former system of conducting exercises within the brigade, we went ahead with the conduct of SOC training on Wednesday morning without the Supervising Officer being present. In the days of old, our usual Supervising Officer, OC Capt Joseph, was NEVER around. Two words, "Carry on," ruled the universe. Not anymore. The new Emperor has decreed that we reformed ourselves as a professional fighting force. Unfortunately, our Supervising Officer on Wednesday, Lta Alvin, hadn't quite caught on to the times: "Carry on," he said, and now we await the collateral damage from his downfall. I see Darth Jackie (our RSM) doing the Sith hold on Alvin. Alvin doesn't stand a chance. Mercy be on Clement (I guess he should be an Ewok) and myself (I fancy myself as Han of course...hehe).

3. The Water Heater Incident
It is true that this part of the world has become increasingly susceptible to earthquakes, tsunamis and all sorts of natural disasters. On Tuesday evening last week, the water heater above my bedroom ceiling inexplicably exploded, raining gallons upon gallons of water, and with it--death and destruction, onto my room and all its precious hoard of books, cds, magazines--my lifetime's worth of cultural collectibles that make up that strand of meaning that is myself. In an instant, my room is transformed into a disaster zone. The next few days resembles a minor rescue effort. Sun-dried artifacts are stacked in disorganized fashion: clothes piled on dictionaries; underwear sitting on cds. On the bright side, the upheaval has let me unearth heaps of unwanted garbage now finally disposed of, after sitting inconspicously beneath treasured junk for years serving as makeshift labyrinths for covert mosquitoes.

4. The I-Turned-My-Car-Into-the-Curb Incident
Self explanatory.

Immediately after Item Number Four on Friday night, Dani, who is sitting next to me in the car, discovers that I'm not all too upset and finds it rather puzzling. I explain to him that my recent run of gorgeously bad luck and poor timing can only point to the way up--meaning, I think I'm going to find myself a hot chick real soon. The law of karma says what goes up must come down, and vice versa. I tell Zhirui this same logic on Saturday morning before we go biking in Sentosa and he points out that if I got run over that morning while on my bike, I would definitely get a supermodel girlfriend in no time.

I almost get my right foot crushed by a careless driver reversing in the parking lot that same morning. Chiling Lin, here I come baby!

Tokyu Hands

it's a beautiful saturday morning and I really should be outside biking on Bukit Timah with Zhirui, or windsurfing, or working out in the club gym, or playing tennis, or ..., or... BUT I'm stuck at home instead staring at my stigmatized hands. I have only myself to blame.

My hands got torn apart first on Thursday when I took the new Starboard Formula 175 out for my virgin run and I got blown away by the wind and suffered one of those uphaul trauma episodes. Stuck somewhere around 300m off the coast and drifting rapidly towards Bedok jetty, I tugged and tugged on the uphaul rope, slipping and sliding all over and off the board uncountable times, as my hands first blistered then tore. Desperate, I even tried swimming back to shore, lugging the board and the ton-of-bricks 7m sail behind me, but it was quite futile. This was when I discovered the miracle of human survival instinct. I swear that the body musters reserves of energy you never knew you had in times of crisis--I gave the uphaul one more go and thankfully managed to sail myself to the beach.

That was Thursday, and my hands really weren't that badly hurt, but then came Friday. Heading down to the beach once more, I was seduced again by the howling winds and the possibilities of the new board and sail; ignoring my wounds, I hopped onto the board for one run, just one run, I told myself. Bad bad mistake. I got barely 100m out when I decided to turn the board around and head back. Wind whipped the boom out of my hurting palms and the sail fell again into the water. Back to the uphaul fight. I yanedk on the uphaul rope with all the life left in me as I see blood and pus oozing out of my hands. I almost screamed.

So now, I'm sitting in front of my computer wondering at my own stupidity. Was supposed to have gone salsa dancing last night with Usha and Celine. It didn't happen--we got intimidated by this one guy who looked like psycho nerd from Full Metal Jacket dancing to moves from some 80s Footloose/Flashdance variant, the whole time we were there at Xen Bar, this dude was completely fixated on his own reflection in the mirror and dancing vigorously to himself. Oh, did I forget to mention the rapid multiple pelvic thrusts? Scary. Salsa did seem pretty fun, however, with all the hand-clapping and foot-stomping and hip-shaking. It was dance oomphed up with sexual innuendo, with the couples exchanging furtive glances and the occasional suggestive brush of hand against back or waist. Just as advertised on the Xen Bar website, "the dance floor is filled with couples dancing in close proximity, with the male’s knee in between the girl’s legs. It is like being transported to the Caribbean Island where no one wants the night to end. This is probably the only club where a male can be this close to a total female stranger without offending her." Now we know the target clientele. Anyways, it was a good thing in the end we didn't have to dance last night. I was quite worried about the pus shooting out of my palms onto whoever's hands I would have had to hold while dancing. I was actually running all the possible scenarios through my mind. here's one:

Girl A and Me dancing to salsa beat
A: how come you're wearing white gloves? you think you're michael jackson har?
Me: umm. my hands get cold easily.
A: ....
(in the middle of a spin)
A: EEEEE! there's a splotch of blood on your glove!!!
Me: don't worry!!! it's just dried up pus, not blood. not lai ang la.
A: eh Sanchez! get this guy away from me!

I imagine if there had to be a bouncer at a salsa club, his name had to be Sanchez amd he would have greased up hair and a curly moustache.

P.S. I got the title of this post off a Japanese dept store. I never quite figured why they called themselves Hands, but it's neat.

Dayang diving crew. From left: Joe, me, June, Thomas, Hooi Boon and Horst 

Dayang Dive

So I finally find the time to write about my weekend dive trip to Pulau Dayang. It was my virgin dive trip and honestly, I don't think I'll be exaggerating if I say it was one of the best trips I've had. Though there were no bikini beauties in my dive group (save for the big-boned girl on the same boat from Yap Hsiang's Liquid Room X'mas tete-a-tete whom I sadly failed to recognize until it was way way too late...ack, nevermind, she was squat anyways. *sourgrapes*) there was a real synergy within our group dynamic--I noted, however, that it was a strange confluence of three boss-subordinate pairings: Horst and boss Joe from BetaSquared, Thomas and boss June from Frontline Premium, and myself and AO highflyer Hooi Boon (well, he's my boss, sort of, being higher up the slave chain of the civil service) We got on really well with one another in spite of the vast cultural differences: the angmohs and their unyielding American accents versus Thomas and June's equally stubborn localized ones complete with the frequent lapse into mandarin or hokkien altogether. Then my seeming boss and me caught inbetween having to switch between the two frequencies with our flexible mish-mash tongue. At any one time, we were either engaged happily in a joint effort to introduce exotic local cuisine to the anymohs or equally united in chorus in urging June to conquer her deep-seated fear of the sea. At the end of the trip, though the angmohs were still terrified of our unforgiving culinary habits (out of courtesy, I'm sure they would deny it, but I saw those wide-eyed looks before they swallowed--just like on Fear Factor) and June never passed the course having flipped out on her last two dives (woman, if you're reading this, you gotta calm down!!) I think we would all agree that all of us had the grandest time right down to that last supper in JB.

Oh I almost forget to mention Raymond our crazy dive instructor with the crazy hairdo. We probably owe a lot to Raymond for the experiences we had on the trip. First of all, his driving. This sonofabitch drives like a madman high on speed and crack and ecstacy all tossed into five pills mashed up and snorted right into his nose. On the straights to Mersing, in pitch darkness, he tore down the road at about 150, overtaking relentlessly by cutting into the opposing traffic lane--it was only a dual carriageway--at one point even dashing ahead of five cars plus one bus around a blind corner. (I quote June after the ride from hell, "eh. you last time Formula One driver har?") I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep through it all, in spite of the giveaway sensation of my crown jewels floating in midair with every jump the minivan made. Second, the faceoff with the trigger fish. We're on our third dive of the trip when Raymond gets attacked by this fearsome little bugger. Fiercely territorial creatures, trigger fish are little terrors with razor sharp fish which hesitate not to attack all trespassers. So Raymond pulls out his diving knife and engages in a sort of underwater swordfight with this one trigger fish. Now you would think this would make perfect action film material, except it was really bordering on comical because Raymond was nothing like the prototypical action hero. Crazy bedhead hair spiking out in every conceivable direction, and a tummy that could hide a baby kangeroo with ease, add to that his cheeky wide-mouth grin baring his two rows of pearly whites and his bushy unibrow, Raymond was more like a diving version of Doraemon. Now imagine Doraemon fending off a little ferocious fish in an underwater swordfight and you get a mockery of James Bond's deepsea action sequence with sharks.

So yea, the dive trip was really an adventure on all counts. We saw cuttlefish, puffer fish, lots of clown fish living in anemonae ala Finding Nemo (did I even mention Raymond's 'confirm can impress girl' underwater bar trick of putting a clown fish in his mask?) schools of barracuda and other fish. I have to admit, ever since coming back from Dayang, I've been thinking of diving all week. I really can't wait to go do my advanced. Thinking of doing it in a couple of weeks, hopefully I'll be able to! I'll post a group shot in the next post.

Never Let Me Go 

Never Let Me Go

I finished Kazuo Ishiguro's new book last weekend, but haven't had time to sit down and pen down my thoughts properly in a post. so here it is.

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

"My name is Kathy H. I'm thirty one years old, and I've been a carer now for over eleven years."

The opening sentence of Ishiguro's latest work sets the enigmatic tone that characterizes much of the novel which keeps readers guessing at the mystery behind an old English boarding school and the children who grow up there. Yet the novel is least of all a mystery novel. Who is Kathy H.? What is a carer? While questions like these hover at the back of our minds as we dive into Ishiguro's fantastic fictional imagination, the answers merely serve to set the scene for what turns out instead to be a haunting elegy to memory and loss, and most of all, an exploration of what makes all of us tick as human beings. The novel is framed within the reminscing narration of Kathy H--from start until the end, we float from one memory to the next in a patchwork of anecdotes from first Kathy's childhood and then her adult years. Ishiguro's words refuse to let you anchor yourself to any firm grasp of reality as we know it, but instead passes you from one uncertain moment to another, each moment pregnant only with the particular emotional significance as Kathy remembers it. What actually happened in each instance becomes secondary to what the memory of each moment signifies for Kathy in the present. As a consequence, the novel is a dreamworld of emotions stemmed in pieces of memory, which we as readers soon discover to be the root of everything important.

The novel centers itself around the relationship between Kathy, her best friend Ruth and Ruth's boyfriend Tommy. The three grow up in a special boarding school, Hailsham, and then leave together after graduation into their mysterious careers as carers and donors. I won't give away anything in this review, but it suffices to say that their lives as they know it is precarious at best and the story follows the three young friends as the fragility of life itself confronts them face-on when they come to terms with love and loss. The tale told is extremely moving at its climax but the most remarkable achievement here is when we identify with the characters through their seeming soap opera antics--childish disputes, jealous fall-outs, teenage insecurities--for their very real sense of humanity. The irony then of the surprise ending (again, I won't reveal anything) is therefore even more powerful by virtue of this understanding.

The house of cards that is Kathy, Ruth and Tommy's individual identities which Ishiguro carefully constructs using memory as his primary device in the entire novel is a clever play on our interpretation of human nature. Is memory all that makes us who we are? Ishiguro poses this daunting question before pulling the carpet below us right off our feet. The novel, in the end, leaves us with no definite answers, but like any good armchair book for a contemplative evening, sets our cell matter to hard but worthwhile work. In dealing with ideas of memory, Ishiguro ventures into the intimidating and, as some say, fluffy sphere of postmodern thought, but I highly recommend Never Let Me Go for anyone who appreciates good serious fiction.

Pre-diving

its two hours before I head to Dayang for my first proper diving trip. how exciting. the entire week's theory and pool sessions have been building up to this. mmmm white sands. mmmm fish and coral. mmmm bikini chicks. I wonder if that seeming stewardess in those ultra trendy cute bikinis from the pool sessions is going to dayang tonight as well?? heh. okay viewing pleasures aside, this week's venture into diving has been nothing short of rewarding. Stanley from Big Bubble's scary as hell but I like him. He's spent a good part of his life pursuing his passion, travelling all over the world to dive and I'm pretty sure he doesn't regret a single bit of it. I'm dead envious. I want to look back someday and be able to say the same for myself. For a start, I'm glad I'm finally working down my Post-It list from two years ago. I drew it up when I first came back from college in 2003. This is what it looks like:

TO DO IN SINGAPORE:
Fishing Trip
Learn how to ride motorcycle
Scuba Cert
Rock Climbing Gym
Biking Trails/ Night Cycling
WRITE WRITE WRITE

heh. let's see, we did that fishing trip to the kelong end of last year so the first one's done. SAF bike course covers the second one, so now I can ride illegally without a license when I visit dodgy Third World countries. Will be halfway through the third after this weekend (I think I'll consider myself completely done only after getting Advanced Open Water). Still struggling with my inner demons for the fourth--should I go it alone once more or wait til I find kakis before I confront the daunting climbing walls again?? Checked out some biking trails last year but have yet to embark on the mother of them all--Bukit Timah, I'm sure I'll do it sometime soon though. As for the last (all in caps, mind you), this blog accounts for that, I suppose. yippee. I think I'll draw up a new list. Here's a prelim draft:

TO DO:
Master windsurfing with hard sails and funboards
Go to Vietnam Full Moon Beach!
Run at least twice a week
Climbing (argh!!!)
Go to Krabi
Conquer Kinabalu
Play tennis regularly
Another fishing trip (deepsea on a boat this time!)
Dive at Sipadan and/or Manado
READ READ READ
WRITE WRITE WRITE!
* Find a girlfriend who looks fabulous in a bikini

This new draft list looks pretty daunting. I think it looks good, it should keep me busy for the next three years (until I get posted overseas). I put the last one in asterisks because it borders on fantasy. The key word is 'borders'. hoo-ah.

The Memory of Running 

The Memory of Running

Hey ho. I finished Ron McLarty's The Memory of Running this morning. In the good vein of most blogs in the world of blog, I'm gonna try and do a little book review for this post. so here it goes:

The Memory of Running by Ron McLarty
Good ol' Smithy Ide the protagonist of this debut novel by Ron McLarty is the prototypical American suburban loser. He's in his forties, fat (actually, he's obscenely fat. man tits and enormous ass, he's got da works.) and drunk half the time. He has a day job at a suburban toy factory, making sure that the arms and legs of SEAL Sam go to their right places on Sam's torso. In his free time, he sits in front of his TV munching on pretzels and chugging beer. The book begins with a freak highway accident which claims the lives of both his parents, and the discovery of his long lost sister's death in faraway LA county (Smithy lives in Providence, Rhode Island). The sudden loss jolts Smithy off his couchbound ass into a journey across the vast country on a rusty old bicycle in a quest of sorts to reclaim his sister's remains. At its heart, The Memory of Running is Forrest Gump on a Beatnik Kerouac adventure. Smithy is absolutely endearing as that guy nobody really bothered about. The honest portrayal of his high-school insecurities are at once familiar and funny--scoring a date with one of the pretty girls for junior prom, only to find himself abandoned on prom night itself; trying to impress his sister's gorgeous psychiatrist with self-fashioned war stories (he got a Purple Heart because he was shot while peeing)--Smithy fumbles through his early life with a complete lack of finesse but with absolute self-awareness. As he gets older and slides into slobdom, his degeneration earns our heartfelt sympathy. The key to Smithy's salvation (as well as the book's affective-ness) is his unwavering loyalty and love for his psychologically unstable sister. In spite of her repeatedly vicious betrayals (though unintended), he never fails to manage their sibling relationship with surprising strength and patience. The weak link in the book (debut novels simply seem to always falter in some way or another) has to be the feeble love affair between Smithy and his crippled neighbor and childhood friend Norma. Norma's inclusion in the novel just pushes the novel across the line from subtly affecting personal redemption story into afternoon soap opera. If you can disregard all the chapters which wander into the Norma subplot, however, Smithy's bicycle ride from East to West and all the strange but funny and believable crazies with their own stories to tell that he meets along the way makes for an enjoyable lazy afternoon read. No brain teaser here, but this one will definitely make you laugh and even tug at your heartstrings while at it.