Author Archives: Donn

Regrets at not living a fuller life

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Imagine you’re 80-years-old, on your rocking chair, looking at your grandchildren running along in the large garden of your beautiful house, acquired almost 40 years ago. At that time, the house cost you a “small fortune” and (at least according to the stories you’d tell anyone who’d cared to listen), though you’re able to afford multiples of them now, it’d then took you “years of blood and sweat to have had been able to afford it”.

Just this afternoon you’d welcomed a blogger who wrote for an online magazine focused on “success and what it takes to achieve it”. Most of her questions were the standard fare, things like asking about what sort of qualities you thought were necessary to succeed in today’s world (“hardwork and luck”); what qualities you thought you possessed when you achieved the success you did in your yesteryears (“luck and lots of love”); and what lessons you thought you could share to help others achieve the sort of success you achieved (“wear sunscreen”).

But there was one question that hit a raw nerve: that of whether you had any regrets in living the life you’d live, and if so, what they were and how others might learn from that. It hit a raw nerve because try as you might, you never could forget the many trips overseas you’d forgone for the sake of career success in your younger days. Trips, which due to a horrific leg injury sustained in your later life, had to be “put on hold indefinitely”. Sure, overseas trips for you were common now after retirement, but they’d never have been the same than if you’d be been, in your words, “fully functional.”

You’d always felt that you could probably have toned down your emphasis on career success and “lived a little more. I’d probably have made it, and just as well.”

But you shouldn’t be too upset with yourself, especially if, financially and career-wise, you feel you’ve “got it made.” The thing about looking back and regretting decisions is that in your imagination, the alternative course of action (as opposed to the course of action you took in reality) is always going to be better. The “trip” you imagined yourself taking wouldn’t have included the little inconvenience of travel: airport delays; items missed during packing; the sprained foot occurred while overextending during a hike, in which the manly guide you felt your wife kept eyeing laughed his laugh while carrying you over his shoulder and trudging on.

There is a saying that you’ll always more likely to regret the things you didn’t do than the things you did. I don’t disagree with it, because I’ve often been victim to such feelings of regret. But I do think that when it happens, we’re doing ourselves a great disservice if we just let it at that. We should always remember that when we regret the things we didn’t do, comparing it to the things we did, we are pitting imagination versus reality, and in most cases, imagination’s going to come out on top.

What is more, I try not to believe that anything is better than anything else. I always try to frame it in terms of “different to”, as opposed to “better than”. Sure, he may have a gazillion dollars,  a trophy wife, and is well-loved by his community, but he’ll never know what it’s like to be poor , have a skank for a wife, and disliked by everyone and the kitchen sink.

And that’s his loss.

How to write shorter, better e-mails

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Each time I complete writing a lengthy e-mail, I save it in my drafts and let it sit there for a while (sometimes, just a minute or two would do). Then, returning to it, I look at it through the eyes of my recipient, and imagine how I’d read it if I had only ten seconds to do so, and had plenty of other work commitments on my mind.

Almost always, I’d find that e-mail unclear, unpersuasive, and unreasonably long, leading to a rewrite that’s clearer, more persuasive, and shorter by 50% to boot.

This change of perspective, though simple, can provide you with a dramatically better e-mail.

The Unconsoled (A review): Just like Monkey Island

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I recently completed the book The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro. The book was borrowed from the library, and was quite a serendipitous find — I had, in fact, wanted to borrow the book Never Let Me Go by the same author, but it was already on loan.

After reading the first ten pages, I knew this book was special because, honestly, I disliked what I’d read thus far. To ascertain if this was due to “reader issues” or if it was down to just being a bad book, I looked to Google and Amazon.com, where I found that I wasn’t alone. Many reviews for the book were downright negative, and comments along the lines of “wasted time”, “unreadable”, and “rubbish” were not uncommon.

What was more worrying, however, was that though there were plenty of positive comments as well, they seemed to be written by readers of the book suffering from cognitive dissonance, people far more interested in opposing the naysayers than reviewing the book critically because, I suppose, after going through 500 pages of literary purgatory, you really don’t want to believe that you’d put yourself through all that for naught. (You’d feel better about yourself if it was, after all, a good book.)

But every time I thought about putting the book down, I’d think about my great enjoyment of The Remains of the Day (a splendid book by the author I had read earlier), and the fact that on the cover of this book was a blurb proclaiming this book a prize-winner (ah, marketing). So what’d happen is that I’d give the book the benefit of a few more pages, by which time there’d be a story arc or two that made me go, “I wonder what happens next,” and I’d tell myself, “after this I’ll stop.”

But I never did stop.

After about a hundred pages on, I knew I was hooked. The style of writing, though unsettling at first, slowly caught on. Especially amusing was the fact that the style of the story reminded of — and of all things — the game Monkey Island! The protagonists of each reminded of the other (full of dry humour, wry remarks, and very human flaws); and while just like how Monkey Island was filled with surrealism and fantasy, The Unconsoled was just that as well (just without the voodoo).

All in all, I have no idea whether or not to recommend the book, but all I can say is that I thoroughly enjoyed it, and my guess is that if you enjoyed Monkey Island, you’d enjoy this book as well.

Let me leave you with a video of some great Monkey Island scenes:

A Little Less Timid

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From The Unconsoled, by Kazuo Ishiguro:

[E]very now and then, he looks back over this life he’s led and wonders if he didn’t perhaps let certain things slip by. He wonders how things might have been if he’d been, well, a little less timid. A little less timid and a little more passionate.

Nostalgia

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I was hit by nostalgia today. And as I thought back about my past, I realised how different my life would be today if I’d made a decision or two just a tad differently from what I’d actually made.

I’m not saying that life would’ve been better. All I know for certain is that it’d be different, and being the curious sort I couldn’t help entertaining fantasies of what life would be like now, if only I had done or said such-and-such back when it mattered.

“What do you mean, ‘No’?” I should have said.

“I’m sorry, I don’t take ‘No’.”

On the need to write, to write.

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Words excite me. Really, they do.

The prospect of writing something good tantalises me like the prospect of having good sex. My pupils enlarge; my breathing gets shallower; my hands get all balmy.

But as much as I love to write, I haven’t been writing lately. Probably because I’ve been finding that there’s hardly anything to write about. I’m a strong believer in the saying “if you’ve got nothing to say, don’t.” And if you’re got nothing to write about…

The thing is, not writing tends to become quite a bit of a habit. The less you write, the less you’ll feel like writing; and the more you write, the more you’ll feel like writing.

It’s a little bit of a catch-22: though I want to avoid bad writing as much as possible (and having nothing to write almost definitely leads to bad writing if it is forced), it has been said that bad writing inevitably precedes good writing.

I suppose that’s the reason why I wrote my last post about the Bon Iver music video and my wanting to go Iceland one day, even though It wasn’t something I particularly felt I had to write or share about.

I just knew I had to write something. And whatdya know, one thing led to another, and here I am again.

I’m so going to Iceland

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I remember when I was younger watching a Bjork music video, in which I vaguely recall images of, among other things, volcanoes, large barren landscapes, as well as lots of snow and ice. I remember thinking how beautiful it all was, and how surreal. And I remember thinking, I wish I was there. It was a little later that I found out from my sister that the “there” I had wished to be was Iceland.

Fast forward a decade and a half or so, and here I am. Up until recently I’d all but forgotten about that video, and about Iceland.

That is, until I came across Bon Iver’s music video for his song, Holocene, and fell in love with Iceland once again.

Running at the Institute of Mental Health (IMH)

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I was standing at the traffic junction, waiting for the green man to appear — halfway through my hour run, planning to head to Punggol Park, do a loop or two, and head home — when I glanced across to my left the entrance of Buangkok Medical Centre. And decided to go in.

Buangkok Medical Centre holds what used to be called “Woodbridge Hospital” (I believe now renamed to “IMH” or Institute of Mental Health), and in general it’s not a place one would think about when deciding on where to go for a run. But it seems that someone wanted to make the place more welcoming.

Outside the medical centre were some friendly-looking signs and banners welcoming visitors, from which I learned that there was a 7-Eleven, a restaurant, and a host of other useful ammenities.

And, unbelievably, there was a banner welcoming runners! I can’t remember specifically if it was targetting runners or joggers or the general working-out public, but there it was. 

Punggol Park could wait. I had some exploring to do.

The first thing I noticed as I ran in was that there weren’t any signs directing possible runners/joggers/worker-outers. I’d no idea where I was supposed to go, so I just ran on the road and pretended I was a car, following wherever the road led to.

The great thing was that I didn’t have to worry about getting knocked down, a rarity in busy-busy Singapore. The roads and carparks were largely empty (maybe because it was past visiting hours?), and the whole time I was there I think I saw only a couple of cars and taxis (not counting those parked, of course).

I followed the road for a while, running past the main lobby, an A&E (accident and emergency) area, and several sites still under construction. I ran past some people too, for whom I imagined little stories about why they were there (honest-to-goodness truth, some stories I made up were so sad I almost cried). I didn’t see any 7-Eleven or restaurants though, but I suppose they’d have been within the buildings themselves, which I didn’t enter.

Just as I was about to exit the medical centre, thinking what a let down this running experience was, I noticed another runner running down a dark path along the perimeter of the the place, which led deep into IMH. I hadn’t initially thought about going there as I wasn’t sure if it was open to the public or not. So I trailed him a bit, just letting it all sink in and getting my bearings right. Only when I had it confirmed that no wardens were chasing me (and asking me to get out) did I speed up to overtake and head out on my own.

The path was largely unlit, with most of what you’re able to see courtesy of light leaking out from elsewhere. On my left was a steep grass slope down, at the bottom of which was a canal. Beyond the canal was a grass bank with a steep incline, at the top of which was covered with trees; because it was dark and because of the dense foliage, it looked like the trees went on forever, like a forest, though I knew it lasted no more than 50 or 100 metres. I thought about the Shawshank Redemption and other prison movies I’d watched, and I imagined myself having to escape, when I realised how hard it’d be and that any attempt would probably prove futile. I don’t know why, bit I inadvertently fell into a mild depressive state at these thoughts, almost as if I was truly an inmate contemplating escape. Might this be a sign I’d be heading here in the near future? I pray not.

On my right was where the IMH residents were housed. The place was quiet. Eerily quiet. Perhaps I was too far away, or perhaps the rooms were well insulated, I don’t know, but I’d expected to hear some sound — groans, screams, talking.

I continued my run for what seemed like forever (you ever hear of this saying that when you run in an unfamliar place you tend to overestimate the distance?), then made a turn back after I started developing a tummy ache (don’t ask).

On my way back, the eerie silence was suddenly punctured by screams coming from one of the rooms, and pretty far away too (which gives you some clue as to how loud it was). I seriously felt like I was watching a movie. No, I felt like I was in a movie. I had a real fear that someone would come from behind, knock me out, put me in a room and label me mad. The rest of the way I kept playing the scene out in my head, wondering how best to prove my sanity.

“I’m sane! I’m not mad!” I’d say to them. And they’d nod in agreement (“that’s what they all say” they’d tell each other) as they placed me back in my room.

Looking out into the block of HDB flats a distance away, I thought about the lives of those people living there, looking down into the thinking about the crazies; and I also wondered how I’d take being committed to a place like this, looking out and imagining what being out’d be like.

I wondered about sanity, what it was and wasn’t, and whether I was sane or just faking it.

I’m still not sure.

What is edonn.com really about?

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Sometimes I wonder what edonn.com’s really all about.

On the one hand I’m always longing for greater readership, hoping that perhaps one day there’ll be so many people coming to this website that I’ll be famous and, banking on that fame become really wealthy.

On the other hand, edonn.com’s such a personal space that if anything DOES make me famous it’s probably not going to be anything good.

I suppose if I’m going to go the fame and wealth way I could transform edonn.com into something actually USEFUL for people. But I’m going to keep it semi-personal though. I love the fact that though there really aren’t that many people who visit my site, there are enough to think that some people I care about do visit it (there’s a chance; a small chance, but a chance nonetheless).

I often write things I wouldn’t quite know how to express in person. Things like love-related poems or prose, too mushy and tinge-worthy for real life, work especially well in bits and bytes. Or work-related frustrations that could be too raw for Facebook, but be perfectly ambivalent enough for a blog, by virtue of it’s being less personal.

One of the great things about writing in a place like edonn.com is that I don’t get so many visitors that I’d be wary to post anything too controversial (like how if I wrote erm, “vote for the Worker’s Party in Singapore as it’s the best party there is, really happenin’ and groovin’” I wouldn’t get labeled a political blog and get shut down), but enough that if I wrote “I really appreciate all of you who came to our wedding” I could feel good in the fact that there’s a possibility that someone who came to my wedding would actually read it.

And yes, thank you.