Diary: A Singapore Kiss

Did he envision me naked, handcuffed to one of the trees outside the house with the key in a chain around my neck, surrounded by laughing party guests, begging for someone to set me free?

After the U.S., the U.K., and Canada, the largest visitor group this blog has comes from Singapore. This probably has several reasons; I gather that blogging is very big there, most Singaporeans are fluent in English, and La Mason has been nice enough to link to me, bringing in a number of people. (I'm not sure what people coming to me from his 'Casanova For Hire!' site think of my blog, though; his link to me currently sits between 'The Sexual Awakening of a 30-something Wife' and 'Tomorrow Singapore', and most of his link space seems to be filled by a selection of sex/erotica writers - but hey, all my visitors are welcome, and I aim to please too in my own little way. If any of you think I should shut up and flash my tits instead of writing another long post, just give me a shout in the comments; it wouldn't be the first time in my life, and a surprise bit of friendly animalism usually cheers me up.)

Getting visitors from Singapore is extra nice, since the thought of Singapore always evokes pleasant memories. It also evokes a little bit of shame, because although I have been there several times with both family and friends (I forget how many - they seem to blend into one another), I feel I don't really know anything about the country. Singapore has always been the last stop on my Asian trips, to relax in after taxing places like Hong Kong, Shanghai, Bangkok or Hanoi, and it has been just as pleasant in exactly the same way each time. The climate is usually lovely (although Singaporeans seem to complain more about it than any other people in South East Asia), and making friends is quite easy - I eventually realized. Lowering my voice and restricting my body language when meeting new people in Singapore was no problem to learn, but I used to believe that once we got to know each other, voice volumes would rise and gestures would be used more freely. So far, I have never experienced such a moment. Nowadays I rather tend to believe that the safest sign that you are getting close with a Singaporean is when he or she starts criticizing your behavior (still in the same hushed voice). Teaching you what kiasu really means or how to say 'red-haired monkey' in Mandarin, 'goose people' in Cantonese and other names for Caucasians are pretty promising signs too.

So socializing ain't that difficult - unless you introduce two of your friends from different circles to each other, in which case a long social ballet follows until everyone can relax again (but that might be the same everywhere; it's just more boring when you don't understand the movements involved). Deciding what to do with your new friends isn't hard either; ever since I came to Singapore for the first time at age twelve I have gotten the same suggestion every single time from every single new acquaintance: Shopping.

This means we spend the days with frequent beverage and snack stops going in to lovely Orchard Road boutiques or interesting Sim Lim Tower gadget stores and feeling like we get punched in the stomach every time we go out to the street again, since the store temperatures are air-conditioned down to 17 centigrade (63F). In the evenings we go clubbing or have Black Pepper Crab in one of the restaurants at the UDMC and drinks in the Westin Hotel sky bar. It's gorgeous, wonderful, and around the fifth or sixth morning in Singapore, when I have made a visit to the beach too and maybe even persuaded someone to join me for a countryside hike, and the usual peacock hollers wake me up, I am invariably calm, at ease, and bored out of my skull.

Is this fair? Probably not. Have I seen the real Singapore? Probably not. But why am I only offered this generic pleasantness, where people seem genuinely happy when I tell them I found something nice to buy at a good price, or compliment the low transport fares? (Cabs are scarce but cheap compared to a place like Hong Kong.) Why do the Singaporeans seem content with providing this veiled comfort, which I can relax in and fill with whatever my heart's own desire is, without ever having to really deal with the person providing it? (Apart from the routine haggling in the stores of course, with motions you learn how to go through pretty quickly.) I am looking for more - we all thrive on grand emotions in magnificent settings at a comfortable distance from our sorry selves. At first, I thought I just happened to meet unusually repressed or rather shallow people (and there might be some truth in that), then I thought they assumed that I was rather shallow (and there might be even more truth in that), but nowadays I believe that I recognize something in the behavior of my Singaporean friends from a certain kind of people in other parts of the world.

Ever since Thomas Stamford Raffles had a British fortification built on the island in 1819, Singapore has been about free trade. After the Japanese invasion in the 1940's and terrorism in the 1950's, Lee Kuan Yew led the new, independent country with its mixed population from 1959 to 1990 with a firm, paternal hand, squashing every undesirable behavior from littering to corruption and tackling the withdrawal of the British (who had provided one quarter of the gross national product) by industrial expansion and foreign capital attraction. Singapore was a successful economy long before any of its neighbors, and when Goh Chok Tong replaced Lee as prime minister, he started to gradually increase the Singaporeans' personal freedom somewhat, a process which the new prime minister Lee Hsien Loong (son of Kuan Yew, who I believe still has a mentor position in the government) basically has continued.

So when Singaporeans ambitiously engage in a somewhat exaggerated consumerism, I guess it's a bit like the trailer park kid who made it to university against all odds, and now bores the whole company somewhat by giving a slightly too long lecture with slightly too big words on some remote topic. Those of us fortunate enough to take language and education for granted might pick up on something a little strained in the monologue, but the former trailer park kid has paid dearly for every bit of his current position, and carefully fills it to the best of his ability. Shopping Singaporeans, with all their different languages, backgrounds, and cultures, simply behave, and anyone consciously behaving, like a man who have learnt proper table manners late in life or a woman doing her first striptease, can appear a bit over-the-top.

***
I know - I behaved last night. I was at a Swedish herring party wearing a beautiful white dress on a beautiful summer evening in a beautiful suburbian villa by a beautiful forest patch. There were lots of different kinds of herring; in fact the whole evening was a long, fat, watery herring to chew through. I wouldn't say the herring tasted like garbage - that is entirely subjective.

Most of the guests were Swedish, but there were a few other Americans there; as always easy to pick out by how little alcohol most of them can stomach compared to the Scandinavians, even before they hear my accent and approach me with an 'oh-I- believe-we-are-the-bestest-of-buddies-with-a-million-things-in-common-in-this-strange- world-full-of-incomprehensible-cultures' smile. (Sorry, compatriots - vodka and other mean spirits sometimes just make me mean-spirited.) After dinner, the conversation among the small group around the expensive-looking sofa I sat in turned to American politics, and quoting a book from memory I made a few observations of a kind that aren't very remarkable in Europe, where every perspective from communist to fascist are represented in many of the parliaments, but probably sounded outrageous to American ears, accustomed to a two-party system where most of the controversial differences between the two parties appear miniscule to the rest of the world. This made a thin, not too bad looking man in his forties wrestle his way through the people by the sofa, and sit down in the empty seat next to mine. As always, he just had to lean a little towards me and draw his breath to claim temporary ownership of me to the others, and they turned away from us to continue their conversation without me before he uttered his first word.

He was Ken from Wisconsin, and he had found what I said very interesting. 'Of course' he added quickly before I had a chance to respond and maybe elaborate further, 'you can't even begin to call yourself well-read until you have read A Voyage to Arcturus by David Lindsay.' I opened my mouth to announce that I had no intention to begin to call myself well-read any time soon, but that I would love to hear how this book related to the discussion we'd been having. However, before I could start to establish any of this he continued with glowing eyes 'You will love it and re-read it over and over, and always think it is the most profound and fun book you have ever read.' Guessing that this was my cue to ask what it was about, I opened my mouth again, but closed it, starting to feel very much like a herring in an aquarium myself, as he continued 'I didn't really prepare this' (at this point he looked a little reproachful for a moment since I apparently hadn't given him the opportunity to prepare his recommendations) 'but of course the movie based on Gurdjieff's Meetings With Remarkable Men too, and Brazil by that Monty Python guy...Michael Palin. Definitely Brazil.' As Ken spoke, he repeatedly looked me over from head to toes, maybe avoiding long eye contact to not get interrupted, or maybe imagining my coming reactions to the earth-shattering experiences he so generously bestowed upon me.

Well, if Ken looked for youthful enthusiasm, I thought I could muster a bit of that, as a bright spot in this sophisticated environment. That was probably what I was invited for anyway - we all thrive on grand emotions in magnificent settings at a comfortable distance from our sorry selves, and it wasn't like I had anyone else in particular to talk to anymore. Besides, I had seen Brazil twice and thought it was pretty good - one of Terry Gilliam's better films. 'Oh yes' I said as Ken paused for a moment, searching his memory for more entries from his Catalog of Wisdom, 'Brazil is good.' I got a surprised look from Ken in return. 'It's great' I tried. Would I have to clap my hands and bounce up and down on the seat cushion? In an attempt to get him back up on the road, I continued by saying 'Some of the credit should probably go to Tom Stoppard, who co-wrote it with...' I swallowed the rest of the sentence. Was I too close-minded, just reacting to the stuff I already knew? 'Thanks for the other tips too' I said, and shot him a look as I delivered one of my killer lines, apt to set an iceberg on fire and get any old wreck moving on its own out of the junkyard: 'I love being taught new things.'

Uh-uh, that was too much - way too much. He moved closer and seemed about to put his hand on my bare knee as he exclaimed 'Interstellar Space by John Coltrane!' On a roll again, he continued 'And the Indian violinist, Shankar, who John McLaughlin introduced to the American audience in the band Shakti...he did the soundtrack for The Last Temptation of Christ by Martin Scorsese...you must see that too!' This was thin ice - I couldn't think of anything positive to say about The Last Temptation of Christ except maybe that it was nice to see the Biblical mass scenes set in somewhat authentic Middle East environments for once. I just nodded and smiled expectantly in anticipation of seeing this wonderful film, and fortunately Ken got another flash of inspiration. 'There's Jon Hassel, playing...' (here he paused dramatically before naming the fascinating instrument) '...synthetic trumpet! And this other Indian guy, who plays wood flute - Hariprasad Chaurasia.' (Ken pronounced this name as 'Harry Pressed Chorizo'.) 'He has made about five hundred albums, and they're probably all great.' Suddenly anxious, Ken looked up and met my eyes. 'Don't go for the live performances though - he has to keep stopping and waiting while the audience claps.' I thought I safely could promise to not go for the live performances by Hariprasad Chaurasia, and prepared to get up and mingle, when Ken's voice suddenly took on a tormented quality. 'Are you really just eighteen?' he muttered, and I realized that when he almost had grabbed me before he had needed something to hold on to, dizzy from glimpsing his own enormous history, as everyone can get sometimes.

***
'You seem so clearly defined for an eighteen year old' Ken continued, half to himself. 'My oldest niece is sixteen...' His voice trailed off for a moment as he got lost in some deep, secret thoughts. Then he looked at me again with a smile that was charming, ironic, and very, very tired, but when he spoke his voice was clear, as if he delivered a prepared statement. 'My brothers and sisters are all married and successful. I am single, and was trying to be a drug addict jazz musician genius for too much of my life to become much of anything. I am in a picking up the pieces and putting myself back together mode right now...but I have a lot of anger. I am very active in political newsgroups - I'll write down some of the names I use for you. But if I only had known when I was eighteen what I know now...' I guessed that one of the facts Ken felt he had learned too late was something that I had begun to suspect when I hit my teens: Contrary to what most people think, no one will ever really make an effort to stop you from being stupid, so what seems cool, expressive, and individual may in fact be the world's easiest ride to nowhere. But I remained silent, and checking himself, Ken added 'Actually, I have managed to slip in a Bachelor's degree in Computer Science somewhere there too.'

Now Ken looked intensely at me, or rather through me, as if he was fixating some mental image. Did he envision me naked, handcuffed to one of the trees outside the house with the key in a chain around my neck, surrounded by laughing party guests, begging for someone to set me free? No, that would be too much like his own situation - we would just remain chained in our respective places, shouting at each other. He was probably just searching for an image of himself on a white leather couch by the fireplace in a Swedish mansion, sharing some of his life experience with a young pretty girl, but he didn't seem to be quite able to find it.

Feeling some foothold for a while in the Computer Science topic, Ken started to tell me a long story about how he had spent weeks downloading a 60MB file with his 56K dialup modem, supposed to contain a video of John McLaughlin and Miles Davis playing together (yeah right), and how it had messed up his computer, so that's why he had stopped doing peer-to-peer file sharing. Meanwhile, I tried to think of something to do for him. Looking through the window, I saw a garden shed outside the villa. Since Ken hadn't even found himself in the living room yet, it would perhaps be too much to invite him to follow me out there. Still, I could probably sneak out there on my own for a moment while Ken identified some new pieces of himself to discover through me. With all these trees around the house, there had to be a chainsaw in the shed.

I glanced at his thin arms. Dismembering him should be fairly quick. In my mind, I tried to figure out whether abstracting his clinging limbs from him finally should lend them a purpose as separate pieces of art, but all I could see was his body bleeding aimlessly all over the carpet. And it was a very nice carpet. The screen in front of the fireplace was supported by sharp, vertical iron bars, and his head could very well go on one of them. But as i imagined this headpiece, it still had large, querying eyes, wondering whether it wasn't supposed to be impaled on one of the other iron bars instead. Besides, even though most murderers will tell you differently, it is the killer, not the victim, who is the one needing a setting and a context to keep from getting extinguished. Without that need, executions are difficult. Suddenly the head on the fire screen bar spoke to me, squirting out even more blood through the mouth. 'So what do you do during the days?' Ken asked. Trying to throw a lifeline to get him out of his own mess for just a little while, I replied 'Blowjob tricks, mainly.' In the silence following, I mumbled 'I think I found one here tonight.'

'Now...' Ken finally said, 'now...let me try to explain...there is such a thing as asking for trouble. If guys approach you wanting that, just tell them to fuck off, and don't do anything vindictive like getting them arrested...there is already enough evil in the world without you adding to it. Do you know what I mean? For instance, did you know that in Samoa, it is considered normal for grandparents to educate their grandchildren by having sex with them? Now...personally I don't think there's anything wrong with that...if you are a Samoan...but it probably wouldn't work in the Western culture...because of the indoctrination. We should of course be more open regarding sex...have less repression...I salute you for growing up in such a different way than I did.' By now, his headpiece mouth was so filled with blood it was almost impossible to make out the words it formed, but just before the tongue was completely drowned, I managed to catch 'If you think a man in his forties is too old for a cute eighteen year old, then let's just mention that.'

I gently put two of my fingers on my own lips, and then on his, before I got up and left. It was a veiled, consciously behaving Singapore kiss for him to fill with whatever his heart's own desire was, as he bounced off in new directions between the walls, still covering the elegant carpet with blood. At least I hope that's what he did. We all thrive on grand emotions in magnificent settings at a comfortable distance from our sorry selves. Or as Frank O'Hara put it in one of my favorite poems:

Poem

Lana Turner has collapsed!

I was trotting along and suddenly

it started raining and snowing

and you said it was hailing

but hailing hits you on the head

hard so it was really snowing and

raining and I was in such a hurry

to meet you but the traffic

was acting exactly like the sky

and suddenly I see a headline

LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!

there is no snow in Hollywood

there is no rain in California

I have been to lots of parties

and acted perfectly disgraceful

but I never actually collapsed

oh Lana Turner we love you get up

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