A brief wander in the vicinity ushered a surprise in the form of Libris Books, Singapore’s finest little bookshop, and as close to “independent” as they come in these parts. Squeezed into a corner and measuring barely 20 square meters, it is strategically located opposite the once domineering Border’s. [EDIT: Alas: Libris is no more]

The lack of fluff on its dozen shelves – not to mention the absence of weekend crowds and wailing children; magazine hoarders – makes Libris the chain’s diametrical opposite in a number of significant ways. The most significant way: this appears to be a bookshop not driven by the profit motif, owned by individuals who care deeply and with a higher cause. How else to explain the stacks of hardbacks at such prices? How else to explain Hegel’s Political Writings, Richard Trexler’s Journey of the Magi, and other esoterica. Make your way there and introduce yourself to the ever-whispering Thea, who runs the show with consumate ease.

The Singapore-Jakarta run, by contrast, is everything that Berlin-Frankfurt isn’t; Changi Airport, that consumer mall that masquerades as the region’s busiest air traffic hub, is a model of efficiency, busyness and business. It is an airport as you would expect in EveryMan’s nightmare. Take-off carries you over the eastern corner of the island nation and briskly over the straits of Singapore – there is no monumental architecture, no life; this is confirmed during the descent on the return trip. There is a feeling of returning familiarity, but only the kind of familiarity that welcomes a return to an unhappy home.

It is as if there is purpose for this particular route, in this haste: as if you are prevented from acquainting yourself with the sameness of the public tower blocks that houses the majority of its populace. Much as you wish for novelty and fascination, once, one day, someday, for one moment to be marked by wonder, you are slapped down in disappointment. This is true of every sighting of the island, and of every day in Singapore.

further reading:

Jakarta to
Aceh

That most personal, yet at once eternal, moment took place as if an ethereal, passing intangible took form. This fleetingness that materialized as the doors of the elevator opened into the rabid workaday morning decided to cling on to my company, much as a hungry kitten would. I immediately recognized this creature, of course, for who it was: that half of me that longed to rid itself of this island nation’s hold.

Long confined in expectancy, it, too, at last has a birth-time and date: Friday, 16th December, 2005, close to a quarter to 8. I wonder if the birthing of this originary instant, full of wishes and claims, would be better imprinted according to where longs for; in that case, and to be precise, it properly occurred late one Thursday afternoon (Pacific Time).

So now I scheme for my other half’s well-being: that it will survive its non-descript birth to become the person that I had hoped to fashion of myself, much as any well-intentioned paternal being aims at perfecting the specimen. Much as how popular Darwinism understands itself.

This island has been a home of sorts for four adult years, a relationship longer than any other I’ve developed with any random stack of bricks, in any town, country, region or continent; we have endured each other as would co-workers in a firm – professionally, which is hardly the basis for a symbiotic relationship at the heart of a home, or of any “belonging”. It is (far too readily) possible and necessary to write venomously of this place; to dispense all pretense of balance or fairness, and instead write in beautifully sadistic tones, with full sincerity, of soul-numbing barrenness.

Until 8 white elephants were discovered in the heart of this concrete cage.

Punggol South residents have tried again to get Buangkok MRT Station opened — in not so many words, but the message was just as clear.

Eight white elephants were erected at the station to indicate just what they thought the MRT station is now. (CNA)

Forget the politics of this particular case for a moment. The piercing mockery of such a gesture – the 2 fingered salute against authority – will outlast many a dispiriting workaday day. Indeed, as the politics of this government is not conducive to direct debate, such a statement mobilises public opinion and deflates the seriousness of serious politics. Well done!

This event was trumped by an enthusiastic blogosphere response. Double Yellow, Omeka Na Huria
and Singapore Ink have added humour and smiles to an already gray urbanscape.

We were prevented by the Anal Manager from taking photos of a poster as it violated copyright law. And he warned us against taking a picture of the building (!!) as that would infringe copyright as well.

It was as if one was drawn into an episode of “Twilight Zone”. So does that mean we are infringing copyright when we see the movie? They might
as well ban us from watching the film – in case we verbally reproduced the storyline to our friends.

An anonymous blogger summed it such: Singapore is “not a real city; it is a lie”. That captures much of what this city-state is about.

Regretfully, one was unable to enjoy the eulogies for the out-going Senior Minister over the National Day weekend. Luckily we have not seen the last of him. A new imprimatur rises from the ashes, more senior than “Senior Minister”: he remains as “Minister Mentor“, the final battle against senescence.