The TV Show
Have you ever realized that everything in front of you might be nothing but a TV show? Have you ever realized the fact that you are sitting in front of a TV screen with an endless movie viewing session, your eyes and ears totally glued to what is in front of you, totally being immersed in the plotted storyline and that you lose track of which is real and which is not? Of course, you would remember that realization. Who would ever forget that feeling? But, that will not be the focus here. What I want you to remember is that split-second moment of noting that this ‘life’ you are watching… or rather, living in, if in the case where you are that immersed, is not real and that as soon as you come up to this, you realized that you had the remote control to the television screen all along. As soon as you press the “switch off” button, what would you remember from the show you were watching until awhile ago? How did you like them? What was your favorite scene? And, of course, turning off the show halfway through, what do you think would be the best music to accompany the ending credit roll? I do remember myself in this situation. And as this is my moment to be among all of you, allow me to share how this moment is like for myself; what did I saw on the TV screen? What did I remember? What was everything like? How was everything like?
Sweetness, it means everything. Like chocolate-fudges that have warm chocolate cream oozing out when you cut out a bit of it with a small fork. And when you do that in a really freezing room, you can see the chocolate cream streaming slowly out with a puff of sweet smelling warm steam. The sensation of wanting, feeling that overwhelming taste of sweetness and wanting that sweet, sweet indulgence in your mouth – that feeling is everything. It is everything that you would ever want. Yes, sweetness – it is everything. You were young. That was when you learned that too much of sweetness can cause die-bitties, small little things that grows in you that bites you until you die when you eat too much sweets. I used to think so that way. Sweetness can kill. Sweetness killed grandpa. I remembered grandpa Tok Wan. He was a happy, old man and he loved riding his motor scooter with me, clutched in the front seat in between his large, knees. He loved to tell funny stories which made us laugh during breakfast and dinner time. Those stories made us not realize how little the food on the dinner table for us to share was. They were hardly any – let alone chocolate fudges. But his funny stories made the bad feelings go away. We did not realize how little the food were, we finished it up while we were listening to his stories. By the end of them, we finished the food and we were full. His stories are always short and funny. His stories are always short, funny, and sweet. Like chocolate fudges we never had. Oh, and I remembered how I asked grandpa on how did he ever managed to get so plump. He said that he loved laughing but for most of the time, he had to hold back some so he did not annoy grandma. All those laughter he held made him swell up like a balloon. That story itself was a genius. It made me laugh. The story was a masterpiece. I loved laughing with old, happy, grandpa. I love laughing to all sweet memories of old, happy, sweet grandpa. So when he died, the laughter ended. Of course, I learned that he died out of too much sugar in his blood. And yes, I learned that the sweetness in those days died with him too. And like, chocolate fudges, sweetness is everything. Having it too much kills. Not being able to have it kills you twice.
Being killed twice – how did that felt like?
Perfection. Death and reborn. The restart button. When imperfection is crossed out and everything is remade, once again, perfected. The feeling of re-freedom, the sense of re-knowing, and the thoughts of finally re-accepting that things cannot ever be perfect, but yet so sure that things will not ever be perfect; the feeling of sheer re-perfection. It is like the feeling of raindrops on your skin – not one single stimulation on your receptory senses is the same to the other – such perfection in an imperfect, unsymmetrical rhapsody of touch and delight. You stood in the middle of the rain, soaked, with your eyes closed. You feel the touches. You accept them with open arms. Joy? Happiness? Yes to some. No to the other. Some of them hated the rain. Some of them hated the rain for making them feel imperfect. Every splatter of raindrops made them think that they are like bronze statues in the middle of a rainy, misty, moist garden. Each drop reminded them that they are corroding away, going from good to rust and rusty to gone. And also, the constant reminding that things, dear things, will never last, fast corroding before you can maintain and cherish them – not to mention, reminding them of the total needlessness for any of those dear things to be treasured. The fact that each drop of clean, clear rain splatters to thousands of glittery small molecules of water is, to them, much like a finely crafted glass goblet dropping on a concrete floor. To witness that is horrifying indefinitely - the few heart beats skipped as you catch the last glimpse of that fine crafted masterpiece before it is gone forever, the irrationally large hope placed on the item regardless of knowing so well of its end a second after, and the split-second space where choice should be made on whether to launch themselves forward in hope of saving that piece of a lost cause, or to get some distance and ears firmly clasped with their palms – which in my opinion, the latter is the way wiser choice to be made. Everything is as good as gone. Everything is just as good as being washed away by the rain. In fact, the rain reminds them that they are not perfect and also, nothing else are. But to know how to embrace such quantum of imperfection is to accept those raindrops – and perhaps everything else – can never be perfect. Is that not perfection; to acknowledge things are imperfect? Like how each drop of rain is different than another. Like how each splatters of water is distinctively different to the other. Like how each shattered memories is in its own unique from one to the other. Like pieces of what you remember is different from another way of remembering them.
Like chocolate fudges and sweet memories, there are specifically ways on how to remember things fondly. I once lived in Sydney and I loved the city. The best part of visiting the city is to go to the Opera House. That is how everyone normally remembers of the city. Nevertheless, if I am to think about visiting the city, I will first remember the train ride to the city. I loved the build up to the excitement of being in the city than being in the city itself. It is just like how I think that the best part of music is the solo strumming of the guitar before the rock band plays, or the drum-rolls before the orchestra begins. So, in this case, I remember visiting the city by being on the train tracks to it. I would take the bottom seating in the last car and to follow the train staff announcing all the stops from the first to the destination. And I’ll be poetic about it. I’ll write songs about those stops. I’ll write lyrics about the people in the train. I’ll write about the people outside the train. I’ll write about how the train ride begins and I’ll write how everything ends when the train stops. I wrote songs and lyrics heaps but there is one that I remember rather fondly, like “Taking the Train to Reality”. I wrote about the time when I passed St Leonards and how I thought about how train-tracked life is. Life is so predictable that it hurts and how we always know the joy of loving amiss. I wrote about passing by the station of Epping and telling myself that everything is okay. But I do remember the lady next to me was crying and how the sky outside was shallow and gray. “Let’s both of us be lost”, I remembered telling the lady, that “it’ll be fine if there’s just the world and you and me”. But I also remembered writing about returning back to reality, exactly when the train reaches its stop and we parted ways in Sydney. I remembered the excitement about being in the city, the excitement of going to be in the city, and the excitement of believing that we will never reach the city. I remember it all and I remember it all fondly.
“How well do you remember it all?” he asked. I shrugged. I hate interruptions. I hate being interrupted and I am sure you would hate it too. He interrupted me from telling you my story. How, how rude! I shrugged again. “What other fond memories do you have?” he asked once again, remaining persistent regardless of my exhibition of very minimal interest to him. Now, my friends, I believe he would want to be friends with me just like how you all are? Shall we accept him to the group? Shall we accept this persistent, rude man to our group’s share-a-tale session? I hope you will not mind for this man’s persistency knows not the underlying meaning of one remaining oblivious to his questions. Mayhaps, we should include him in our group of storytelling. Why not? How much harm can he do to our friendship? This man, now, is looking at me through his half-rim glasses, eyes eager as puppies’ to know my story. I took a quick glance at him, from top to toe. He is wearing a white laboratory coat, his nametag hanging out of his left chest-pocket with a picture of his younger self which seems to appear much less stress-looking than how he looks now. He also wears a necktie of a very nonsensical pattern display. Only a child would pick that kind of tie off the shelves. Only a fool would wear it to work. A fool or a birthday dad, that is. I wished him “Happy birthday”. He did surprised but not too surprised. He just smiled and replied with a bitter thanks. No, he is not surprised. Must have been all those years and years back when I wished him everytime. He knows how I got the date correct every year. I do not have any calendar with me in here but I know it had been a year every time just by looking at this man. I know him so well. I know him well enough to know that his grandchild gave him that necktie. I know him well enough to tell that his grandchild passed away. I know him so well to tell how sad this poor old man is. I know it will not be long before he, too, will start watching his own TV shows. So I began telling him my memories. The same ones I have told all of you just out of sympathy, and as a birthday gift.
Soon after, he thanked me and left, leaving me alone once again within these four walls, all by myself. Now we are all alone again. Where was I? When did I stop? I could not so well remember, neither do I care. It is not at all important as thinking about chocolate fudges, sweet memories, rebirth and raindrops, and trainride and reality. I looked at one of the cushioned white wall where my TV screen used to be. I remembered those joyous times when I used to spend hours and hours, days and days, years and years of my own favorite TV show. I have decided to stop now. Too much TV kills. But story-telling does not. After all, they strapped my hands in this straining jacket, not my mouth. So, my dear friends, let me tell you what I remember. Let me tell you of all the different shows I have watched. Let me tell you what I think about all those shows. We have all the time to spare for ourselves. After all, I am in this TV show of yours and you are watching me. So let’s get back to the program, shall we?
