Widow's Song

Never has loneliness been more keenly felt.
Lost in a monochrome sea of strangers, the colours of my moribund existence
Faces that profess sympathy but understand nothing of my grief.
Of how it grips like a vice and rips away even the ability to cry out in anguish.
Leaving only sanity as refuge which I cling to as sanctuary against the madness that assails.

Spare me your whispered condolences,
your clumsy fumbling embraces of solidarity.
Save your feckless masks of sympathy,
your superficial utterances of commiseration.

For your pity crushes me
and the solace I seek is not one you can give.
Solace I have sought in solitude
but solace in solitude is a fallacy.

For while Misery loves company,
Sorrow remains personal and unfathomable. Sorrow is a just tyrant, impartial in her brutal castigation of her subjects, king and pauper alike. The strong are brought to their knees, their strength fails them. The wise become blathering idiots, reason no shield against their grief.

And I remain alone in my grief, with only sorrow for company.

Personal Torture (Training)

"Yo Bro! Long time no see! How have you been man? Following the exercise plan I gave you?" my PT (Personal Torturer Trainer) exclaimed, heartily slapping me on my shoulder as he did so after a long, relaxing hiatus due to reservist.

Whereupon I somewhat sheepishly informed him that no, not once had I referred to the comprehensive three week program he'd given me prior to Reservist. A program I had explicitly requested for. In fact, I hadn't stepped into the gym since I left for reservist in the start of May, only managing to haul my lazy ass off to the gym last Sunday for a 45 min jog on the treadmill that left me positively winded. It's amazing what one month of inactivity (exercise wise) does to your physique in general and fitness level in particular. Nothing pleasant for sure.

And unlike the truly dedicated or passionate, the rest of us mere mortals are usually afflicted by a crippling inertia to start working out proper once we've been lulled into a period of blissful languidness, of sweatless slacktitude. Inertia that is only broken by overwhelming exigencies that shatter that stupefying reverie which for some might be the constant, insistent cajoling of health freak friends or for others the desire to feel that endorphin, exercise induced rush.

For me, it's that mortifying thought that everything would literally head down hill and congeal comfortably around the fatal midriff region. That and the equally horrifying notion of eventually looking like certain individuals in the office. At any rate, thoughts sufficient to break through that sluggish inertia andcompel me to arrange for today's PT session.

"Wah! 4 weeks never exercise! Brudda, you damn jialat. Never mind! Today we start slow, get you back into shape." My PT said chirpily. I was comforted, being under the impression that it'd be a slow yet competitive work out that'd ease me back on my abruptly (albeit a little pleasantly) interrupted journey to a hard six pac and a mean toned bod. (Ah, we can dream can we not?) I was so wrong. I should have realised that Mr PT had said that in the same tone in which I inform my clients that while your initial deposit is XXX, rest be assured that if there is any left over after your case concludes, we'll refund you the balance.

The work out started out fairly well. The first couple of sets went well and I was actually starting to think that 4 weeks of inactivity hadn't done that much damage when Mr PT went ahead and burst my bubble with "Ok. Those sets were really easy. Baby also can do. They were just to get you used to the feeling of weights again. Now we start the serious one." And it all went downhill from there.

A couple of sets into the 'serious' workout, I was beginning to get winded and the muscles which I was once aware of started protesting stridently. "Wa. Can't even press this amount? Sure or not! Your 4 weeks in Army so relax ah?" Mr PT baited, punching me lightly on the chest while I was faltering at the shoulder press. Any harder and I'd have dropped the weights.

If there's one thing I'm glad for (I guess) it's the fact that Mr PT is so terribly unattractive, which is good because I can focus on the work out and not Mr PT. Which is not something I can say for some of the other PTs at the gym. A couple of whom are incredibly attractive and I am absolutely certain that if either of them were my PT, PT sessions would take on a whole new allure but might not be very effective. After all PTs need to assist with certain exercises or weights, some of which may involve the PT being in very close physical proximity with you and certainly some physical contact. And if you're doing weights, focusing on the touch of a person rather than the weights you're supposed to be lifting is ..erm.. not going to be productive to say the least.

Though like I was telling Yisa, you don't go to the gym to pick guys up (though it can't be helped if guys pick you up haha) and attempting to hit it off with your PT (even if possible) is not financially feasible. After all that's what special friends are for right? haha. So thank goodness for fugly Mr PT. Bless his perverse heart.

By the end of the session, after more baiting, cajoling and admonishments to 'push yourself all the way, all the way, this was nothing 4 weeks ago!!', I was positively winded, a little light headed and my legs were starting to cramp. In that moment, I almost (and I say almost) felt a spark of sympathy for the colleague who joins us for our basketball games, collapses like clockwork after a couple of games, hands clutched at his chest/belly, legs kicking in the air, while he grunts and curses long unadulterated strings of vulgarity in hokkien. Much as I dispassionately observed (after laughing my head off ) to the Gang, like woman in labour, position, screams and all. Alright, maybe a very vulgar, balding woman in labour.

"See you Thursday Bro! Don't die on me ah!" Another hearty slap on my back as I was trying to catch my breath and he went off. I suspect that was his way of getting back at me for not showing up for 4 weeks. Even though my reservist was only for 3.

They said that there's no gain without pain. That's true. At least for exercising and getting back into shape is concerned. Though it doesn't make that truism any more comforting. The things we do for vanity fitness.

Destination: Hell.

Oh it's something I've never really given much thought to. Where I'll end up after this life as I know it ends. Where certainty ends and the great unknown begins. Which is ironic given my Christian background and the environment I grew up in, where hellfire and eternal damnation for sinners formed a significant bulk of the perfunctory Sunday sermons. Mind boggling in their sweeping dismissal of the world and the unworthy sinners that populate it.

Sinners go to Hell. Such a facile, careless phrase isn't it? Sinners like cheats, liars, fornicators, homosexuals, pagans, heretics, unbelievers, blasphemers, hoarders, murderers, the list goes on. All consigned to the eternal rubbish dump of humanity otherwise known as Hell. Rejects who failed to repent and turn from their wicked ways. I always find it such delicious irony that the religion I know, or at least the one I grew up knowing, should be so inclusive yet so exclusive in almost every other aspect.

Exclusive in the sense that there is but one way to God and one way to Heaven. Exclusive in the sense that really the said religion is the only way to God and Heaven, pagans be damned. Well, of course they can't say that publicly but that is in essence one of the fundamental tenets of Christianity. Exclusive because 'we (believers) are in this world but we are not of this world'.

Inclusive in its feckless, all encompassing classification of sin and the myriad forms of behaviour that would earn the said participants or sinners a one way ticket to eternal damnation and suffering. Those who fail to repent of course. I have always wondered what the world would be like if the said religion could have expanded half of the vigour that it displays in branding numerous forms of conduct as 'sinful', on being inclusive and tolerant of others different from themselves instead. But such puerile thinking militates against the very core tenet of the religion. In essence perhaps the layman's phrase, 'My Way or the Highway', best describes the religion's approach. In this case, highway meaning the expressway to Hell.

Undoubtedly, there are some forms of behaviour that are universally unacceptable or at least detrimental to society in general. So say for example, murder, rape and theft is detrimental to the society and the actors 'deserve' to be punished if not in this life then in whatever awaits after this life. But it gets ridiculous when sin or the proverbial ticket to hell encompasses stuff like 'deviant' sexuality and desires or even watching various shows or sitcom such as 'Desperate Housewives' which purportedly corrupt and degenerate minds and morals.

When what is different is literally demonised by virtue of being different and the prospect of eternal damnation awaits the unrepentant actor who refuses to conform by repenting. As I have said and I will say again, a religion that condemns me solely on the basis of my sexuality and who I am as a person, that I am a sinner for the simple reason that I do not love women, is not a religion I can countenance and/or accept. Naturally, there are millions who disagree as well as many gay Christians who can seemingly compartmentalise the fact that they are gay along with their lifestyle and the religion they practice which no matter how I look at it appears to be fundamentally incompatible with our 'sinful' lifestyle.

It was not an easy decision to make but one I made once I decided to embrace the fact that I was gay and live the life more than 12 years ago. That coming from a devout pre-pubescent boy who attended cell group regularly but suffered the occasional stab of confusion and guilt every time I attempted the futile exercise of explaining away my attraction towards other guys. But of course, everyone is entitled to their own opinion and their freedom to believe whatever they want to believe. I do not intend to persuade or coerce anyone to adhere to my point of view. Indeed, those who believe would never be persuaded otherwise anymore than I would be persuaded to subscribe to a religion I have chosen to reject for the aforesaid reasons.

But I digress. Most of you I believe have heard of, if not read Dante's Inferno, the first (and probably most memorable) part of the Divine Comedy. An allegory narrative written by the Italian, Dante Alighieri, in the thirteenth century that portrays the medieval concept of Hell and the different levels of Hell reserved for various forms of sin and the said sinners. Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle wrote Inferno in 1976 depicting a science fiction writer's journey through hell with Benito Mussolini as his guide, updating Hell with a variety of modern day 'sins' and injecting some black humour into an entertaining and fast-moving novel.



It became a classic and 33 years after Inferno was released, its sequel Escape from Hell was released in February this year. I'm still on it. A highly entertaining read, I'd recommend the two books. Though I find it amusing albeit morbidly so, how lawyers always have a special place in Hell or places rather. According to Dante and further elaborated upon by Niven and Pournelle, Lawyers, legalists, unbelievers and the 'lukewarm' are found in the Vestibule of Hell, confined for all eternity to little brass flasks with neither senses nor company.

Lawyers who sow discord such as those who talked people into divorces they didn't want and lawsuits they didn't need get a special place in the eight circle of Hell where they get hacked apart by a sword wielding demon only to heal again and get hacked apart, repeatedly. Gays get consigned to the seventh circle of Hell where they roam a burning desert of flaming sand and get cooked by fiery flakes which rain down from the sky. And you wonder why I don't give the idea of life (assuming there is life) after death much thought.

So after this life has passed, even if I were wrong, that there is but one way to Heaven and I'm on the shinkansen to Hell, I'd still have three places in Hell to choose from. I'd probably opt for the place with fellow gays. Better to be tormented with other guys I can appreciate and commiserate with rather than being locked up in a metallic vessel or get chopped up without decent company.

And if anything, I'd take immense comfort from the fact that Heaven would be a very dreary and boring place indeed without any gay men or women for that matter. I mean how can Heaven be Heaven without other gay men to appreciate, flirt and/or sleep around with?? Otello's Iago puts it succinctly. Credo in un Dio crudel. I believe in a cruel God. How apt.

Masquerade

You rant about emotions like anger and anguish as if they were the bedrock of your existence.

You brandish words to wound or heal as you deem fit.

You expect others to conform to certain norms or ideals despite your professed utterances to the contrary.

But I am not so privileged to partake in this mutual masquerade.

For all I perceive are the bones beneath the schemes you bedeck with precious import

And the world you weave with every step you take.

Strange Comfort

It is oft said, is it not? That sometimes we find comfort in the strangest places, in the most unlikely circumstances, when we least expect to. In the rhythmn of an incomprehensible song, the gesture of a relative stranger or the impact of some memorable scene.

Rarely in the arms of a stranger, for the comfort found usually confused with the need for succor, be it release or sympathy. And the comfort obtained is as fleeting and ephemeral as a passing breeze.

This month has been a month of extremes. Of back breaking long nights to clear work and wild, hard partying. Of mind boggling hateful bigotry and redemptive affirmative rejection of the said bigotry. Of articulate verbosity and the utter lack of desire to blog. Of resigned indifference and the rapid rounds of meet ups.

To find comfort where least expected, the reassuring squeeze from a new found friend, the carefree banter with a long lost friend, the uplifting inspiration from an unknown song and the quiet confidence that religious militancy and bigoted hate mongering is universally unacceptable.