just like a graham greene novel
All this hate and love; it's soft, it's hooey.
I’m not sure why this is always such a chore. Sitting outside, sweating buckets in the heat, looking at people light up and smoke underneath the sun. Most of the time these people are small, fine-boned, thin. The cigarette twirls in their fingers and there is a languid air around. Pretty as the picture sounds, you only have to look to know; things are never what they seem. The weather is unforgiving and harsh, and you have to squint to look at the sun. Halfway across the sky the clouds threaten to spill over, not quite deciding whether to pour or not. They’re grey and ominous but the rest of the sky is clear and blue, just like summer should be. Not like it isn’t, always. It’s always summer around here, and rain is a poor approximation for what cold weather should be like.
We’re always discontented. Even though spring is turning into hot days across the planet, Australia starts to shiver. Everyone wishes for times when summer dresses and flip flops come out, when you don’t have to wear layer upon layer anymore; for lack of a better word: free. No more encumbrances, or maybe just less. No more hiding behind a thick wool hat and a jacket pretending your body doesn’t exist. It’s there now. It must be shown. There’s no way out of it; you can’t walk around in leggings and boots forever as armour against the cold. You’re out there. It’s out there. The weather-it’s summer-is calling you.
But here, things never change. The sun always shines, it’s always a perfect day to go to the beach, and the worst the weather gets is when it rains and the reservoirs flood and the roads are jammed for a few hours. These things are so out of the ordinary one is always lulled into passivity. Then it seems important when the island is so small that east to west takes less than an hour, so a flood (God forbid) is such a momentous event. One day the water level in a Starbucks downtown reaches knee level and everyone is horrified: what happens to the coffee? And then: when the worst of the rainstorms come, the nurseries near the reservoir are completely flooded just before the New Year: what happens to the flowers? You see, we have our priorities right. Everyone is concerned about saving money. It’s the same reason why people are now hoarding rice when there’s no need to and the prices seem to have doubled over two weeks while people whisper uncomprehendingly at the inflation, and feel horrified that the government isn’t doing anything. Here, everyone knows the kiasu aunties rule the world.
In a world that never changes, people cling to differences. Uniquely Singapore, the tourist signboards scream, while foreigners mill about the shopping areas and feel suitably impressed at our cleanliness. Singaporeans then huddle about in their leggings and skinny jeans, laughing silently at tourists (like locals do, everywhere else in the world) in their emo glasses and fedora hats. I’m different, they say. I’m young. And they float about being all boisterous and happy and swimming in their pool of youth and differences. Then they go home and blog about what a great day they had even though they hurt so much inside and the world hated them.
A pretty sight, isn’t it? It's the same the world over, even as we try to define ourselves. Nothing changes; feelings are universal, and so is the weather. Thunder or snow, floods, love at first sight or a broken heart; it's all catastrophic so long as it happens rarely enough.
I’m not sure why this is always such a chore. Sitting outside, sweating buckets in the heat, looking at people light up and smoke underneath the sun. Most of the time these people are small, fine-boned, thin. The cigarette twirls in their fingers and there is a languid air around. Pretty as the picture sounds, you only have to look to know; things are never what they seem. The weather is unforgiving and harsh, and you have to squint to look at the sun. Halfway across the sky the clouds threaten to spill over, not quite deciding whether to pour or not. They’re grey and ominous but the rest of the sky is clear and blue, just like summer should be. Not like it isn’t, always. It’s always summer around here, and rain is a poor approximation for what cold weather should be like.
We’re always discontented. Even though spring is turning into hot days across the planet, Australia starts to shiver. Everyone wishes for times when summer dresses and flip flops come out, when you don’t have to wear layer upon layer anymore; for lack of a better word: free. No more encumbrances, or maybe just less. No more hiding behind a thick wool hat and a jacket pretending your body doesn’t exist. It’s there now. It must be shown. There’s no way out of it; you can’t walk around in leggings and boots forever as armour against the cold. You’re out there. It’s out there. The weather-it’s summer-is calling you.
But here, things never change. The sun always shines, it’s always a perfect day to go to the beach, and the worst the weather gets is when it rains and the reservoirs flood and the roads are jammed for a few hours. These things are so out of the ordinary one is always lulled into passivity. Then it seems important when the island is so small that east to west takes less than an hour, so a flood (God forbid) is such a momentous event. One day the water level in a Starbucks downtown reaches knee level and everyone is horrified: what happens to the coffee? And then: when the worst of the rainstorms come, the nurseries near the reservoir are completely flooded just before the New Year: what happens to the flowers? You see, we have our priorities right. Everyone is concerned about saving money. It’s the same reason why people are now hoarding rice when there’s no need to and the prices seem to have doubled over two weeks while people whisper uncomprehendingly at the inflation, and feel horrified that the government isn’t doing anything. Here, everyone knows the kiasu aunties rule the world.
In a world that never changes, people cling to differences. Uniquely Singapore, the tourist signboards scream, while foreigners mill about the shopping areas and feel suitably impressed at our cleanliness. Singaporeans then huddle about in their leggings and skinny jeans, laughing silently at tourists (like locals do, everywhere else in the world) in their emo glasses and fedora hats. I’m different, they say. I’m young. And they float about being all boisterous and happy and swimming in their pool of youth and differences. Then they go home and blog about what a great day they had even though they hurt so much inside and the world hated them.
A pretty sight, isn’t it? It's the same the world over, even as we try to define ourselves. Nothing changes; feelings are universal, and so is the weather. Thunder or snow, floods, love at first sight or a broken heart; it's all catastrophic so long as it happens rarely enough.