As Terrence turned the corner from IFC into the overhead that led to Worldwide Centre, a middle-aged man with a green tie and parted hair brushed by his side. Terrence remembered that he wore a red tie yesterday, but had little recollection of the history of his dress code beyond that.
Then at the bridge several metres past Exchange Square heading towards Prince's Building there was the small Asian woman with red-rimmed glasses who's looks probably deceived her age. The European man with short curly hair and Armani glasses passed by near Chater House; the tall hawkish lady who fitted white trainers with her business attire at the HSBC Building...
It was a 10 minute walk from Terrence's bus terminal to his work place, and having sported this routine for over 3 months now, he found that it wasn't only the walkways that he became more familiar with, but also the faces of the people who wandered in a brownian-like motion across the Central district at 8:45am every morning. The precision of the timing was impeccable, and Terrence could almost predict the exact moments at which he would cross paths with the corresponding individuals each day.
There was a sense of bonding too, amongst this select crowd of white collared workers. There were no exchanges of names nor titles, greetings nor glances, but a subtle acknowledgement of each other's existence sufficed to demostrate a mutual understanding of their respective destinations and purposes. The middle-aged man would proceed to open a store in Worldwide Centre, the small Asian woman would continue in an opposite direction to Terrence towards IFC, the European man would take the elevator up to the office complexes at Chater House and the tall lady would disappear behind the front doors of the HSBC headquarters.
The anonymity was comforting, and it gave Terrence a chance to feel welcomed into the environment without having to reveal any secrets about his identity beyond that of a surface outlook.
But today, as he went down the escalators into the Standard Chartered building, he noticed that the other side of the escalator was empty. The American woman with short blond hair and large brown eyes wasn't there.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Chapter Eleven
Hazel barked at the approaching woman. She was carrying two schoolbags, and two primal-looking children who corresponded to each of those schoolbags orbitted around her like the toxic gaseous bodies that surrounded Saturn. But she wasn't the one drawing them in - they were the ones pulling her apart.
As the trio came closer to Terrence, he noticed that the woman was no more so than a girl. Her wrinkled face and calloused hands had made her seem aged in appearance, but when Terrence looked into her eyes he was able to detect an undeniable presence of youth behind her worn exterior. But the look on her eyes wasn't one of hopes and dreams, nor was it one of dalliance and flirtation. No. The look on her eyes was one of anguish and despair, an expression of solitude and hopelessness that transcended colour or creed, wealth or status.
The sadness was not the result of a singular incident, rather, it was caused by a slow and painful acceptance of the banality of life. The earth on the fields which had once embraced her feet as she frolicked in the poverty of the third world have now been replaced by emotionless stone monuments and skyscrapers that looked down on her with patronizing stares. What was once her innocence and aspirations were now found only in the offspring of her wealthy patrons, and even that small privilege of nurturing an infant into an adult would be brutally stripped from her in due time, and she would once again find herself pierced by the bleakness of life, with no preoccupation or destination, an adopted family from which her services have been discharged and a blood family that recognizes not her face but only the monthly alimony that she sends home.
She would then find solace in the only way she can, by reapplying for domestic employment through local agencies that charged outsized commissions, to work for miserly yet demanding households who could afford her no room nor bed, with ailing seniors, or rascal children who would seem to have an unyielding determination to make life even harder for her than it already was.
Terrence had seen such episodes many times in the short while that he had been back in Hong Kong. That is to say, it wasn't the length of time there that gave rise to the exposure, but merely the startling frequency with which it occured. A society that had given capitalism its highest praise had now successfully undermined the self-evident truths, and the unalienable rights of mankind. Religions that touted the sanctity of life now sported members who excercised condescension and even abuse towards their domestic helpers, as if they themselves were somehow transcendant, or "more equal" than their comparable counterparts from the Philippines.
Terrence felt his heart cringe. She looked at him again with another fleeting glance, as if in search of a glimpse of hope, a floating device to desparately cling onto in the midst of crashing waves.
When they finally crossed paths, Terrence let her pet his dog.
As the trio came closer to Terrence, he noticed that the woman was no more so than a girl. Her wrinkled face and calloused hands had made her seem aged in appearance, but when Terrence looked into her eyes he was able to detect an undeniable presence of youth behind her worn exterior. But the look on her eyes wasn't one of hopes and dreams, nor was it one of dalliance and flirtation. No. The look on her eyes was one of anguish and despair, an expression of solitude and hopelessness that transcended colour or creed, wealth or status.
The sadness was not the result of a singular incident, rather, it was caused by a slow and painful acceptance of the banality of life. The earth on the fields which had once embraced her feet as she frolicked in the poverty of the third world have now been replaced by emotionless stone monuments and skyscrapers that looked down on her with patronizing stares. What was once her innocence and aspirations were now found only in the offspring of her wealthy patrons, and even that small privilege of nurturing an infant into an adult would be brutally stripped from her in due time, and she would once again find herself pierced by the bleakness of life, with no preoccupation or destination, an adopted family from which her services have been discharged and a blood family that recognizes not her face but only the monthly alimony that she sends home.
She would then find solace in the only way she can, by reapplying for domestic employment through local agencies that charged outsized commissions, to work for miserly yet demanding households who could afford her no room nor bed, with ailing seniors, or rascal children who would seem to have an unyielding determination to make life even harder for her than it already was.
Terrence had seen such episodes many times in the short while that he had been back in Hong Kong. That is to say, it wasn't the length of time there that gave rise to the exposure, but merely the startling frequency with which it occured. A society that had given capitalism its highest praise had now successfully undermined the self-evident truths, and the unalienable rights of mankind. Religions that touted the sanctity of life now sported members who excercised condescension and even abuse towards their domestic helpers, as if they themselves were somehow transcendant, or "more equal" than their comparable counterparts from the Philippines.
Terrence felt his heart cringe. She looked at him again with another fleeting glance, as if in search of a glimpse of hope, a floating device to desparately cling onto in the midst of crashing waves.
When they finally crossed paths, Terrence let her pet his dog.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Chapter Ten
The audacity of hope is only a cruel foreword to the futility of process. And yet while there was little doubt in Terrence's mind as to the inexorable truth of those words, he remained confident that it was the fundamental desire of the male species to seek and pursue, and that it was the effort, not the result, that brought about gross satisfaction. Terrence was, of course, a happy man by any measurable means - he had a caring family, meaningful academic recognitions, a well-salaried employment, common friendships...
But so peculiar is the human mind, so strong its drive to seek non-platonic affections, that he had recently begun to experience an intolerable irritation of desolation and loneliness, one that seemed to exponentially multiply as time was spent in the office like yeast in an incubator.
Terrence enjoyed being around people. The dynamics of social gatherings was like a magnetic pole that harnessed invisible energy and redistributed it in predictable manners across its field of reach, displaying comprehensible contours that guided each of its members towards an ambition. Of such importance is its function, that the lack of its existence in Terrence's current routines had caused him to feel nauseated and lost, like a displaced electron which continues to seek a hospitable structure to stabilize.
But hope does have a way of reaping rewards for those stubborn enough to persist. Terrence had a scheduled lunch with Vincent, a recent acquaintance, on Thursday. And another one with Crystal on Friday. These were not the prospective meetings that Terrence had originally summoned up the audacity to contemplate, but as far as he could comprehend there was no better way to subdue his frustration than such casual social interactions. At the very least, the prospect of meeting someone his own age gave him motivation to continue his pursuit of the greater endeavour of finding a meaningful companion such is a partner. He understood that it was inevitable for there to be a journey, and that the destination would not be reached until the journey was taken.
So with little else to anticipate, he looked forward to his meetings on Thursday and Friday.
Today was a Tuesday.
But so peculiar is the human mind, so strong its drive to seek non-platonic affections, that he had recently begun to experience an intolerable irritation of desolation and loneliness, one that seemed to exponentially multiply as time was spent in the office like yeast in an incubator.
Terrence enjoyed being around people. The dynamics of social gatherings was like a magnetic pole that harnessed invisible energy and redistributed it in predictable manners across its field of reach, displaying comprehensible contours that guided each of its members towards an ambition. Of such importance is its function, that the lack of its existence in Terrence's current routines had caused him to feel nauseated and lost, like a displaced electron which continues to seek a hospitable structure to stabilize.
But hope does have a way of reaping rewards for those stubborn enough to persist. Terrence had a scheduled lunch with Vincent, a recent acquaintance, on Thursday. And another one with Crystal on Friday. These were not the prospective meetings that Terrence had originally summoned up the audacity to contemplate, but as far as he could comprehend there was no better way to subdue his frustration than such casual social interactions. At the very least, the prospect of meeting someone his own age gave him motivation to continue his pursuit of the greater endeavour of finding a meaningful companion such is a partner. He understood that it was inevitable for there to be a journey, and that the destination would not be reached until the journey was taken.
So with little else to anticipate, he looked forward to his meetings on Thursday and Friday.
Today was a Tuesday.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Chapter Nine (2)
"...that in the absence of compelling friendships and brotherly companionships, a prolonged foriegn academic exchange would surely have lacked adventure, involvement and purpose. I have been fortunate to be a part of this vibrant and elite congress, without which would surely have subject me to these unflattering human emotions.
No other destination has so consistently been a source of joy and excitement for me, that without detracting from my grateful and sincere thanks to each and every individual of its composition, I would like to acknowledge this very special and dynamic social hub that I have come to call home with my final words in Canada:
Live Long and Prosper (and do not get foreclosed).
Yours Always."
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Chapter Nine (1)
Terrence was about to leave Canada. Five years of memories would soon become neatly archived in the shelves of memories behind his actively acquired educational knowledge in mathematics and finance. The process of extradition is typically a very heart-gripping one, and this one was no exception. He would soon be breathing his last breath of fresh winter air, shooting his last glances at the wild squirrels darting between trees, walking his last steps on this home and native land...
Of course, there were inconveniences in his daily routines that he would be happy to leave behind, like chores and other administrative responsibilities resulting from being the sole resident of a household, but at the same time he realized that it was precisely these occupations that had helped him develop into a stronger person. Would it be that his return to a sheltered family environment cause his years of independent livelihood to degenerate back into a state of decadence? Would his lack of intellectual companionship in Hong Kong initiate a steady decline of the healthy mental activity that had been so strongly promoted in his academic education? Terrence was determined not to let that be the case, but he was still worried. Change is usually a cause of anxiety for the human mind, and Terrence was obviously human.
Before his departure however, there was still one duty that Terrence felt obligated to perform. That is, write a letter of gratitude to his closest friends in Canada - the house of 309 Karen. This was a house that had protected him from adversities in numerous occasions; be it a desire for suitable clothes for an occasion or an outright basic need for shelter, 309 Karen had been a hospitable host that managed to address all such concerns. Terrence had already finished packing all his luggage, so it took him a few minutes to rummage through his bags to retrieve an ink pen and a decent piece of paper to start writing.
Of course, there were inconveniences in his daily routines that he would be happy to leave behind, like chores and other administrative responsibilities resulting from being the sole resident of a household, but at the same time he realized that it was precisely these occupations that had helped him develop into a stronger person. Would it be that his return to a sheltered family environment cause his years of independent livelihood to degenerate back into a state of decadence? Would his lack of intellectual companionship in Hong Kong initiate a steady decline of the healthy mental activity that had been so strongly promoted in his academic education? Terrence was determined not to let that be the case, but he was still worried. Change is usually a cause of anxiety for the human mind, and Terrence was obviously human.
Before his departure however, there was still one duty that Terrence felt obligated to perform. That is, write a letter of gratitude to his closest friends in Canada - the house of 309 Karen. This was a house that had protected him from adversities in numerous occasions; be it a desire for suitable clothes for an occasion or an outright basic need for shelter, 309 Karen had been a hospitable host that managed to address all such concerns. Terrence had already finished packing all his luggage, so it took him a few minutes to rummage through his bags to retrieve an ink pen and a decent piece of paper to start writing.
"Dear 309 Karen,
So strong is the propensity of the human mind to experience emotions of isolation and desolation...
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Chapter Eight
Terrence was checking his email, and after having sifted through a series messages from his family and friends, the daily news updates and the word of the day from dictionary.com, he was surprised to find a remaining unread message from someone by the name of Amy Chu. Terrence did not know anyone called Amy Chu.
Thank you for your job application for the position of Advisor – Global Wealth Management.
After reviewing your resume and cover letter, your educational background and working experience are fulfilled to our requirement. Therefore, we would like to invite you for a phone interview....Regards,
Amy Chu
Terrence, having completed his last semester of undergraduate studies less than a month ago, had since become a statistic in the Canadian labour unemployment numbers, so this was a timely email which presented the opportunity for him to claw his way back into the respected ranks of society. Terrence had undergone several full-time job interviews before, so he wasn't particularly shocked or astonished at a third party's recognition of his credentials. What had most caught his mind about the email was the way that it was written. It somehow seemed very awkward, he thought.
He read the email again.
"After reviewing your resume and cover letter, your educational background and working experience are fulfilled to our requirement."
Did that mean that prior to them reviewing his resume and cover letter, his education and employment experience did not fulfill their requirement? Did the act of them conducting such a review somehow add or detract from his qualifications? Did they only have one requirement?
None of these were questions that Terrence had any answers to, so he thought it was perhaps best that he accepted the interview opportunity graciously and cast aside his doubts on corporate communications language for another day, a far and distant day when he would actually have a job and these confusing recruitment processes would be behind him.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Chapter Seven
Terrence opened his "My Music" Folder. He had a lot of good music, or so he felt, ranging from Ghostface Killah to Dizzy Gillespie, Rachmaninoff to Nicholas Tse. But the problem with music, or indeed any other sensory material, is that the longer you are exposed to them the less stimulating to the mind they become, and Terrence had slowly become apathetic and disinterested towards his current music collection. He shuffled through an assortment of folders and files for a few minutes, and upon failing to find a track that would enhance his current sentiments, he took upon an unorthodox operation to remedy the situation - if he wasn't able to find suitable music, he would create his own instead. Terrence had long had an interest in music production and composition, and with such experience and the necessary tools of digital media, he was able to go right about doing so.
He opened Fruity Loops 7 and started playing with the instrumental effects. He wanted a lush, sweeping sound of melancholy with a hint of optimism, and settled for a string ensemble with a simple minor scale played in syncopation to the repeated drum loop in the background. He added an orchestral harmony to strengthen the presence of the melody, and then some broken chords on a clavinova for added mystique. A flute solo, some sound effects, a sampled Winston Churchill speech...
It was easy to create simple looped patterns on instruments, but it was much harder to string them together into a proper song, together with intro and outro and all. It took Terrence the better part of a day to complete the song, and by the time he was done it was perhaps no longer an accurate reflection of his current mood anymore. Nevertheless, he was fairly proud of what he had accomplished and exported the finished song into mp3 format and played it out loud on his M-Audio desktop audio monitors.
The panning on the ambience in the intro was a little messed up.
The timing on the drum fill-ins were not rhythmically precise.
The flute solo was too soft, and faded out too quickly.
The song needed rap lyrics.
Terrence felt that all those issues were minor enough to be ignored, except for the problem with the lack of lyrics. The track was good, but it would be too boring without lyrics, he thought. He had never written lyrics before, but he was determined to try. For the first 5 minutes he looked around his room, desparately trying to draw some sort of lyrical inspiration from his Obama posters and patterned curtains, but it didn't really work, so he gave that up. He had several business textbooks on his desk too, but those didn't really help either.
Terrence let out a long sigh, lit up a cigarette and let the smoke surround him. Drawing from the nicotine stimulation, he started scribbling words down onto a piece of lined paper.
He opened Fruity Loops 7 and started playing with the instrumental effects. He wanted a lush, sweeping sound of melancholy with a hint of optimism, and settled for a string ensemble with a simple minor scale played in syncopation to the repeated drum loop in the background. He added an orchestral harmony to strengthen the presence of the melody, and then some broken chords on a clavinova for added mystique. A flute solo, some sound effects, a sampled Winston Churchill speech...
It was easy to create simple looped patterns on instruments, but it was much harder to string them together into a proper song, together with intro and outro and all. It took Terrence the better part of a day to complete the song, and by the time he was done it was perhaps no longer an accurate reflection of his current mood anymore. Nevertheless, he was fairly proud of what he had accomplished and exported the finished song into mp3 format and played it out loud on his M-Audio desktop audio monitors.
The panning on the ambience in the intro was a little messed up.
The timing on the drum fill-ins were not rhythmically precise.
The flute solo was too soft, and faded out too quickly.
The song needed rap lyrics.
Terrence felt that all those issues were minor enough to be ignored, except for the problem with the lack of lyrics. The track was good, but it would be too boring without lyrics, he thought. He had never written lyrics before, but he was determined to try. For the first 5 minutes he looked around his room, desparately trying to draw some sort of lyrical inspiration from his Obama posters and patterned curtains, but it didn't really work, so he gave that up. He had several business textbooks on his desk too, but those didn't really help either.
Terrence let out a long sigh, lit up a cigarette and let the smoke surround him. Drawing from the nicotine stimulation, he started scribbling words down onto a piece of lined paper.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Chapter Six
The computers were lined up, the mice were clicking, the fingers were tapping. Eyes were glued to monitors the way children were mesmerized the first time they saw fireworks. The room was otherwise silent. There was a heavy intensity in the air - not the type of intensity that you felt when you watched a horror movie, it was the type of intensity that you felt when you were observing a game of chess between two masters. But then Terrence screamed and broke the silence.
"MotherFUCKER, get that fatass fucking Reaver out of my FUCKING base please!"
"MotherFUCKER, get that fatass fucking Reaver out of my FUCKING base please!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was a unique gathering for the Karen house, being that few previous social activities of theirs have demanded such focus of its members. But for some reason or another, their entire house - Sam, Mike, Gorav and Mubi - had decided to start playing the decade old computer game of Starcraft several days ago, and Terrence, being close to all the house members, was sucked into the fad.
Terrence had been a competitive player in real time strategy games before, and was thus a little unnerved by the low standards of his friends' playing. "Nubs", he would call them. But Terrence also realized that the intrigue of LAN parties wasn't necessarily the competitive aspect of the game, rather, it was the anticipation of the twisted reactions on other players' faces when you pulled off sneaky tactical moves on them. So with that understanding in mind, Terrence correctly predicted Mike's second Reaver drop and promptly killed off that fat slug before it could do any more damage to his base.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Chapter Five
It was Cassian's birthday today, and Gabriel's two days ago.
Terrence had not forgotten about his brothers' anniversary celebrations, he had simply been too absorbed in his own daily dealings to have found time to properly compile a meaningful gift for either of them. Until today. He already had in mind what he was going to buy for them, so the trip to the mall was quick and efficient, like a mouse who had already memorized the route through the maze to get to the cheese. A light green jacket for Gabriel, a belt and some boxers for Cassian - he felt confident that these would be to their liking.
But the presents were the easy part. The hard part was that he had to attach his birthday wishes to these presents. He had wanted to make it meaningful, and it was in his own experience that anything meaningful takes at least 2 hours to write. He had also neglected to buy a birthday card at the mall, and thus had to make do with a piece of lined paper. He spent the next half hour thinking up excuses to justify the scrappy presentation.
Terrence had not forgotten about his brothers' anniversary celebrations, he had simply been too absorbed in his own daily dealings to have found time to properly compile a meaningful gift for either of them. Until today. He already had in mind what he was going to buy for them, so the trip to the mall was quick and efficient, like a mouse who had already memorized the route through the maze to get to the cheese. A light green jacket for Gabriel, a belt and some boxers for Cassian - he felt confident that these would be to their liking.
But the presents were the easy part. The hard part was that he had to attach his birthday wishes to these presents. He had wanted to make it meaningful, and it was in his own experience that anything meaningful takes at least 2 hours to write. He had also neglected to buy a birthday card at the mall, and thus had to make do with a piece of lined paper. He spent the next half hour thinking up excuses to justify the scrappy presentation.
Dear Gabriel and Cassian,
Happy Birthday! I apologize for the meagre substitute that I have used in place of an actual birthday card, but environmental conservation has become such a prominent public issue now that I felt compelled to participate towards a solution. Besides, all the packing for my anticipated move back to Hong Kong has left me accessible to few useful instruments of writing, of which fortunately included a black pen and a piece of lined paper. However, history is full of examples of greater writings being documented on lesser parchments, Fermat's Last Theorem for instance, so I feel that this marginal arrangement should not detract from the sincerity with which I bid the best of wishes to both of you for your 18th and 21st birthdays. Both of these ages represent a legal transition into adulthood (depending on the jurisdiction, of course) and I hope that it will bring about increased opportunities and liberties for you...
The letter then proceeded to address Gabriel and Cassian individually on some more private matters, and concluded with a final reiteration of the birthday wishes. The letter took longer to write than Terrence had anticipated, and by the time he had finished the post office had already closed for the day.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Chapter Four
Starting...5...4...3..2...1
He moved his drones to the minerals mine and started evolving his larvae into more drones. He sent his overlord to the opposite corner of the map to scout the opponent. After the 9th drone came out he built a spawning pool and started pumping out some zerglings. He built a second hatchery near a second mineral source for faster unit production, and built an extractor to mine vespene gas. He sent his zerglings to harass the enemy base, but then his overlord scouted the marines and bunkers and he decided that he had better not be too impulsive with his offence.
All this happened in about one minute. He knew he had to be fast.
Terrence, aka. mis.click, knew it was a futile game - he was playing against his friend Dong, aka. Rori313, who had participated in amateur Starcraft gaming leagues before. But still, he had to at least try.
He evolved his hatchery into a lair and instantly started constructing tier 2 buildings. His plan was to mass mutalisks and zerglings and hope that through some miracle law of large numbers (he had been taught this in Statistics 371 not long ago) his swarm would be able to defeat the Terran army.
It worked for a while, and the mutalisks were able to take out a few SCVs, but then the missile defence towers started picking them off one by one and they were forced to retreat temporarily. He had not realized that during this time, Rori313 had already started building his third expansion in a hidden corner of the map, and was well ahead in technology as well as resources. As the game went on mis.click upgraded his buildings to produce stronger units, and then Rori313 countered him with even stronger ones, until each of their armies became a bastard mix of vultures and tanks and goliaths and hydralisks and ultralisks and defilers. But while all this was happening, Rori313 had sneaked units onto the inaccessible hill adjacent to mis.click's expansion and had erected an extensive horizon of missile defense towers along the edges, wiping out an entire section of his Zerg base. He had no more resources and his army had been outclassed.
That's game, he thought, and typed GG.
He moved his drones to the minerals mine and started evolving his larvae into more drones. He sent his overlord to the opposite corner of the map to scout the opponent. After the 9th drone came out he built a spawning pool and started pumping out some zerglings. He built a second hatchery near a second mineral source for faster unit production, and built an extractor to mine vespene gas. He sent his zerglings to harass the enemy base, but then his overlord scouted the marines and bunkers and he decided that he had better not be too impulsive with his offence.
All this happened in about one minute. He knew he had to be fast.
Terrence, aka. mis.click, knew it was a futile game - he was playing against his friend Dong, aka. Rori313, who had participated in amateur Starcraft gaming leagues before. But still, he had to at least try.
He evolved his hatchery into a lair and instantly started constructing tier 2 buildings. His plan was to mass mutalisks and zerglings and hope that through some miracle law of large numbers (he had been taught this in Statistics 371 not long ago) his swarm would be able to defeat the Terran army.
It worked for a while, and the mutalisks were able to take out a few SCVs, but then the missile defence towers started picking them off one by one and they were forced to retreat temporarily. He had not realized that during this time, Rori313 had already started building his third expansion in a hidden corner of the map, and was well ahead in technology as well as resources. As the game went on mis.click upgraded his buildings to produce stronger units, and then Rori313 countered him with even stronger ones, until each of their armies became a bastard mix of vultures and tanks and goliaths and hydralisks and ultralisks and defilers. But while all this was happening, Rori313 had sneaked units onto the inaccessible hill adjacent to mis.click's expansion and had erected an extensive horizon of missile defense towers along the edges, wiping out an entire section of his Zerg base. He had no more resources and his army had been outclassed.
That's game, he thought, and typed GG.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Chapter Three (2)
Lana was here. Why was Lana here? Terrence had played in several UW Orchestra concerts now and he had never remembered seeing Lana at any of them. Who invited her? Who was she here to see? Was she here to see him? Probably not.
There was a white guy sitting with her. Was he her date? He had a pasty white face, round glasses, well-trimmed hair - he was not particularly attractive, but he had a composed and sensible look that gave Terrence the impression that he was a calm and knowledgable man who appreciated the finer aspects of life. But then he didn't, because after a few minutes he started looking impatient and ill-at-ease, and when he started reading the concert programme it reminded Terrence of a 10 year old boy who was left outside the casino by his father and was struggling to pass time by reading an incomprehensible instruction pamphlet on the rules of Blackjack.
Terrence focused on his music instead. The concert was going very well. The audience looked engaged and no-one was about to doze off any time soon, possibly due to the sheer volume and intensity of Rimsky-Korsakov's Russian Easter Overture. Some of the previous concerts had been tedious, and the music had moved so grudgingly that it seemed to needlessly prolong the night into eternity. But this one was spectacular - Erna waved her baton more vigorously than he had ever seen, the strings bowed the full length of their bows, the brass fanfared and the timpanis rumbled with the adrenaline of a wardrum. The mesmerizing sounds rang through the hall, and when the orchestra struck the final A major triad that spanned three octaves with synthesized conviction and precision, the crowds involuntarily stood up and thundered their applause. Bravo, Bravo!
Terrence felt very good and went back to the dressing room in high spirits. The celebrations continued well into the night, and the noise of spirited chatter was matched perhaps only by the clatter of brass in Tschaikowsky's Capriccio Italien earlier in the evening.
Terrence had wanted to talk to Lana. It had been a while since they last talked, and he was genuinely curious as to how she had been since then. But she had been sitting in the middle of the escalated section just below the balcony, and Terrence lost sight of her as the crowds began shuffling out of the hall. He decided to message her instead.
SMS: So, what's up?
SMS: Great performance.
SMS: Haha thanks yah this time was really good. Good that you came and nice of you to come.
It was sort of an awkward message. Terrence wanted to thank her for coming, but deep inside he had the feeling that it was more her privilege to have been there. He didn't receive a response after the last message, and wondered whether he will ever see Lana again in his life.
There was a white guy sitting with her. Was he her date? He had a pasty white face, round glasses, well-trimmed hair - he was not particularly attractive, but he had a composed and sensible look that gave Terrence the impression that he was a calm and knowledgable man who appreciated the finer aspects of life. But then he didn't, because after a few minutes he started looking impatient and ill-at-ease, and when he started reading the concert programme it reminded Terrence of a 10 year old boy who was left outside the casino by his father and was struggling to pass time by reading an incomprehensible instruction pamphlet on the rules of Blackjack.
Terrence focused on his music instead. The concert was going very well. The audience looked engaged and no-one was about to doze off any time soon, possibly due to the sheer volume and intensity of Rimsky-Korsakov's Russian Easter Overture. Some of the previous concerts had been tedious, and the music had moved so grudgingly that it seemed to needlessly prolong the night into eternity. But this one was spectacular - Erna waved her baton more vigorously than he had ever seen, the strings bowed the full length of their bows, the brass fanfared and the timpanis rumbled with the adrenaline of a wardrum. The mesmerizing sounds rang through the hall, and when the orchestra struck the final A major triad that spanned three octaves with synthesized conviction and precision, the crowds involuntarily stood up and thundered their applause. Bravo, Bravo!
Terrence felt very good and went back to the dressing room in high spirits. The celebrations continued well into the night, and the noise of spirited chatter was matched perhaps only by the clatter of brass in Tschaikowsky's Capriccio Italien earlier in the evening.
Terrence had wanted to talk to Lana. It had been a while since they last talked, and he was genuinely curious as to how she had been since then. But she had been sitting in the middle of the escalated section just below the balcony, and Terrence lost sight of her as the crowds began shuffling out of the hall. He decided to message her instead.
SMS: So, what's up?
SMS: Great performance.
SMS: Haha thanks yah this time was really good. Good that you came and nice of you to come.
It was sort of an awkward message. Terrence wanted to thank her for coming, but deep inside he had the feeling that it was more her privilege to have been there. He didn't receive a response after the last message, and wondered whether he will ever see Lana again in his life.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Chapter Three (1)
Terrence had arrived early.
Hagey Hall was University of Waterloo's only theatre performance venue, and being one of the oldest buildings on campus, it had developed an aged charm that had only grown through the years of Terrence's undergraduate life. It had brick walls varnished in a passionate red, and a majestic flight of stairs that ascended to its entrance, and sturdy wooden doors that required the force of both hands to open.
Terrence found Mitchell in the dressing room.
"You're early."
"Yeh man I needed to practice, I haven't looked at the music in like a week! There's like dust on my violin! Have you practiced the Mendelssohn Scottish Symphony? Oh and hey man, did you bring a stand? We have no stand again!"
"Yeh I brought a stand!"
Terrence held up the music stand with one hand like an Olympic athlete posing with a trophy.
Terrence and Mitchell were an odd selection to pair as stand partners. Terrence kept to himself during rehearsals, and in fact, largely kept his eyes to the music save for when the conductor shot glances at him as an indication for him to look up for directions. Mitchell, on the other hand, could never seem to fight back the urge to make crass remarks at any and every comment that was voiced during the course of practice. This obnoxious behaviour sometimes irritated Terrence, but all-in-all he liked the guy. And really, he needed him too. Mitchell was organized - he kept all the scores well marked and notated, counted the bars and rests, turned the pages, played loudly during the hard passages - and on a more personal assessment, Mitchell's claim to lack of practice had always made Terrence feel a little less self-conscious about his own irresponsibility.
Having completed his typical pre-performance rituals, Terrence moved into his seat in the second desk of the first violins and looked back behind him. There was Wallace and Anthony, Bill and Nancy, Edwin and Joanna...all of them characteristic and a little eccentric in the ways that violin players usually were. Wallace just got a haircut, he noticed, and it was most likely a preparation done just for the concert, which seemed to confirm that he was indeed the most committed player in the orchestra. Anthony played Warcraft and had recently been busted by the cops for making too much noise at his house party. Bill had a nerdy affection for pure mathematics. Nancy played all the notes with passionate dynamics and technical ease, which made it obvious she practiced a lot at home. Edwin was a graduate a few years ago, and now worked as a computer science programmer in town. Joanna was in first year and had a twin sister.
Maybe pairing him and Mitchell together wasn't so odd afterall, he thought. And then the concert began and he was starkly reminded that the seating arrangements were, above all else, based on playing ability.
Hagey Hall was University of Waterloo's only theatre performance venue, and being one of the oldest buildings on campus, it had developed an aged charm that had only grown through the years of Terrence's undergraduate life. It had brick walls varnished in a passionate red, and a majestic flight of stairs that ascended to its entrance, and sturdy wooden doors that required the force of both hands to open.
Terrence found Mitchell in the dressing room.
"You're early."
"Yeh man I needed to practice, I haven't looked at the music in like a week! There's like dust on my violin! Have you practiced the Mendelssohn Scottish Symphony? Oh and hey man, did you bring a stand? We have no stand again!"
"Yeh I brought a stand!"
Terrence held up the music stand with one hand like an Olympic athlete posing with a trophy.
Terrence and Mitchell were an odd selection to pair as stand partners. Terrence kept to himself during rehearsals, and in fact, largely kept his eyes to the music save for when the conductor shot glances at him as an indication for him to look up for directions. Mitchell, on the other hand, could never seem to fight back the urge to make crass remarks at any and every comment that was voiced during the course of practice. This obnoxious behaviour sometimes irritated Terrence, but all-in-all he liked the guy. And really, he needed him too. Mitchell was organized - he kept all the scores well marked and notated, counted the bars and rests, turned the pages, played loudly during the hard passages - and on a more personal assessment, Mitchell's claim to lack of practice had always made Terrence feel a little less self-conscious about his own irresponsibility.
Having completed his typical pre-performance rituals, Terrence moved into his seat in the second desk of the first violins and looked back behind him. There was Wallace and Anthony, Bill and Nancy, Edwin and Joanna...all of them characteristic and a little eccentric in the ways that violin players usually were. Wallace just got a haircut, he noticed, and it was most likely a preparation done just for the concert, which seemed to confirm that he was indeed the most committed player in the orchestra. Anthony played Warcraft and had recently been busted by the cops for making too much noise at his house party. Bill had a nerdy affection for pure mathematics. Nancy played all the notes with passionate dynamics and technical ease, which made it obvious she practiced a lot at home. Edwin was a graduate a few years ago, and now worked as a computer science programmer in town. Joanna was in first year and had a twin sister.
Maybe pairing him and Mitchell together wasn't so odd afterall, he thought. And then the concert began and he was starkly reminded that the seating arrangements were, above all else, based on playing ability.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Chapter Two
Terrence picked out his suit from the closet. It was covered in lint and hair, black and white, which was undoubtedly a result of having picked up Hazel in a celebratory manner after a previous adventure with the suit. Goddammit. His phone rang and he ran to pick it up before it catalyzed another one of Hazel's barking fits.
"Yo T! You coming to the lecture?"
"Yah sure, last one today."
"Nice."
"Yeh."
And then Terrence realized that Sam wasn't really calling for the benefit of himself, rather, it was somehow an indirect attempt to help him. Then another thought struck him that maybe it was never Sam's intention to be so considerate. But in any case, each time he received a call from Sam it could not have been more relieving at a more appropriate time. During his warcraft addiction Sam had called to ask him to play a game of squash. During his job searches Sam had called him to discuss the consequences of an economic crisis on the RIM stock.
"Oh yah, hey, um...can I get a ride to the lecture?"
"Yah I can do that. Come over in half an hour."
Sam to the rescue, and the first problem of the day was solved.
"Oh shit, fuck, do you have a spare pair of black shoes? I think I left my only pair in Hong Kong and I have orchestra performance tonight...fuck, do you?"
"Haha...! Yah, I should do, lemme check. Yah, I do."
"Nice. Thanks so much man, oh hey and one more thing. Do you have any empty boxes lying around that I could use to ship some stuff back to Hong Kong? Need to start packing."
"Probably, check in the garage when you come over, I should have some."
"Thanks...thanks man."
The conversation left Terrence with a good sense of accomplishment for the afternoon, and he went to the living room to clean up his suit. In a mindless dream, he wondered if the rest of his day would also be so smooth and favourable.
"Yo T! You coming to the lecture?"
"Yah sure, last one today."
"Nice."
"Yeh."
And then Terrence realized that Sam wasn't really calling for the benefit of himself, rather, it was somehow an indirect attempt to help him. Then another thought struck him that maybe it was never Sam's intention to be so considerate. But in any case, each time he received a call from Sam it could not have been more relieving at a more appropriate time. During his warcraft addiction Sam had called to ask him to play a game of squash. During his job searches Sam had called him to discuss the consequences of an economic crisis on the RIM stock.
"Oh yah, hey, um...can I get a ride to the lecture?"
"Yah I can do that. Come over in half an hour."
Sam to the rescue, and the first problem of the day was solved.
"Oh shit, fuck, do you have a spare pair of black shoes? I think I left my only pair in Hong Kong and I have orchestra performance tonight...fuck, do you?"
"Haha...! Yah, I should do, lemme check. Yah, I do."
"Nice. Thanks so much man, oh hey and one more thing. Do you have any empty boxes lying around that I could use to ship some stuff back to Hong Kong? Need to start packing."
"Probably, check in the garage when you come over, I should have some."
"Thanks...thanks man."
The conversation left Terrence with a good sense of accomplishment for the afternoon, and he went to the living room to clean up his suit. In a mindless dream, he wondered if the rest of his day would also be so smooth and favourable.
Chapter One
It was 1:25pm, and Terrence was still lying unconscious on his bed.
He did not have a particularly long night, nor was he feeling any symptoms of sickness or bodily disorder. It had happened gradually over the months - one late night here for studying, one late night there for playing computer games - he had inadvertently reversed the biological clock in his body, and the glaring streak of sunlight that shone through his balcony window evidently did not prove to be sufficient encouragement for him to awake to the bustling world outside.
On most other days this reckless habit would have been fairly harmless, but today was an important day, insofar as he actually had events listed on his schedule besides that of feeding and other basic human life sustenance activities. He had set his alarm to 1:30pm the previous night (or perhaps it was better described as "earlier today"), and at precisely that moment a series of noises cracked through Terrence's ears and thus rendered further sleep as no longer a viable option. The hooting of his alarm, the bleeping of a truck outside, a roommate cooking lunch with an obnoxiously tinny frying pan, and above all that there was also Hazel's disgruntled barking. She could have been barking at the unpleasant noises that had seemed to occur all at once, or it was entirely possible that she was barking simply because she needed Terrence to wake up to take her for a walk.
Terrence was a tolerant man. Or at the very least he was tolerant to noise - he had fallen asleep to a pumped up recording of Slayer: Angel of Death before, or indeed, Nightwish: Romanticide. So it couldn't have been the growing pandemonium that accounted for his decision to wake up. No. His decision stemmed from a strained anticipation of the day's events to come. It was the anticipation of completing the things that had to be done, menial tasks, like waking up to attend to the house cleaners, or doing the weekly laundry, or taking out the garbage. Although today, it was none of those things.
Today was an important day, and he could not afford to lose any more time.
He did not have a particularly long night, nor was he feeling any symptoms of sickness or bodily disorder. It had happened gradually over the months - one late night here for studying, one late night there for playing computer games - he had inadvertently reversed the biological clock in his body, and the glaring streak of sunlight that shone through his balcony window evidently did not prove to be sufficient encouragement for him to awake to the bustling world outside.
On most other days this reckless habit would have been fairly harmless, but today was an important day, insofar as he actually had events listed on his schedule besides that of feeding and other basic human life sustenance activities. He had set his alarm to 1:30pm the previous night (or perhaps it was better described as "earlier today"), and at precisely that moment a series of noises cracked through Terrence's ears and thus rendered further sleep as no longer a viable option. The hooting of his alarm, the bleeping of a truck outside, a roommate cooking lunch with an obnoxiously tinny frying pan, and above all that there was also Hazel's disgruntled barking. She could have been barking at the unpleasant noises that had seemed to occur all at once, or it was entirely possible that she was barking simply because she needed Terrence to wake up to take her for a walk.
Terrence was a tolerant man. Or at the very least he was tolerant to noise - he had fallen asleep to a pumped up recording of Slayer: Angel of Death before, or indeed, Nightwish: Romanticide. So it couldn't have been the growing pandemonium that accounted for his decision to wake up. No. His decision stemmed from a strained anticipation of the day's events to come. It was the anticipation of completing the things that had to be done, menial tasks, like waking up to attend to the house cleaners, or doing the weekly laundry, or taking out the garbage. Although today, it was none of those things.
Today was an important day, and he could not afford to lose any more time.
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