Eυγενής

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

          It was a clear night, and stars shone through the layer of clouds. The moon, however, was nowhere to be found. Johnny trudged down the brick path, and stepped into the train station. He looked at the time signboard, and continued on his silent walk.
          The next train would be due in two minutes, just enough time for Johnny to reach the platform. As the train rumbled deeply into the station, he sleepily yawned and entered the carriage. A gust of cool air hit him as he held on to a handrail.
          Just then, two foreign men hurriedly entered the carriage, and upon seeing two empty seats in front of Johnny, quickly plonked themselves on them. Well, there was still one empty seat next to them, but this was a reserved seat, and Johnny obviously would not sit there.
          As the train rumbled on, the men began to converse. They were speaking in some foreign language, which  sounded strangely familiar to Johnny. He did not have to strain his ears, though, because their volume seemed to uncontrollably be turned up to max. "You can't consider it eavesdropping," thought Johnny, "if they are speaking so loud for you to hear, right?"
          At that moment, they appeared to turn to him and the taller one said, "Asseyez-vous, petit garçon, s'il vous plaît!" and they burst out into peals of laughter. "Venez, il y a un place ici!" the shorter one continued.
          Johnny was not the slightest bit amused, but he kept this to himself. He proceeded to turn away from them and concentrate on the view outside. The stars had illuminated the roads and the buildings, and the pseudo-mysterious atmosphere was appealing. The obnoxious foreign men, however, were reluctant to give up their persuading and kept on mocking Johnny.
          As it neared his stop, Johnny happily stepped over to the door, ready to be free from their nonsense. As they laughed away, however, a fat woman situated herself right on the reserved seat, looking at the men, and sensuously said, "Hello." The men suddenly fell quiet.
          The doors suddenly slid open. Johnny stepped out, but turned back his head and said, "Non, merci. Bonne nuit!" Oh, it was a clear night indeed.

9:18 AM

Σύν-αἴσθησις

Thursday, June 24, 2010

          He walked coolly down the street, his arms cradled around a young child. He peeked out from under his jonquil cap. The street signs blared at him, fighting to outdo each other. He finally reached his destination, and stepped into Springfield Medical Research Institute, smiling fondly at its familiar and yet awkward pink and blue signboard.
          No, they said, many years ago. He didn’t have a medical problem. It was just a trait, like those people who could roll their tongues or had green eyes. He wasn’t abnormal, he was unique. When he asked why the letter ‘V’ was yellow-ochre, they couldn’t answer him. They didn’t have an answer.
          They found out back when he was only five. One of them, Igor, was sitting in for one of the kindergarten’s lessons, to examine how their teacher connected psychologically with her students. They were revising the alphabet when he raised his hand cautiously.
          “Miss Simpson, this is so amazing! I can turn a ‘P’ into an ‘R’ by adding a stroke! A red letter can be changed just like that to a blue one!”
          She stared at him quizzically, pondering on what he had just said. Slowly, he repeated what he had just said. “See, like this, a red letter became a blue letter!”
          Igor raised an eyebrow in curiosity. He listened to the young boy patiently reiterating his words for her, and decided that it would be good to talk to him during their break time.
          As the recess bell rang and the toddlers scrambled to their seats for a snack, Igor stepped over to him, and holding up a table of alphanumeric symbols, requested for him to name the colour for each grapheme. He carefully chose each colour from a separate chart, containing (nearly) every possible non-compound colour word, from alizarin to ecru and verdigris to zinnwaldite.
          As he pointed innocently to a colour and symbol in turn, Igor jotted down his responses immaculately on his fallow notebook. Miss Simpson had, once or twice, given him an odd stare, but he swatted them away with a quick flick of his hand. At last a full list was compiled, and before the bell had rung too; Igor magically produced a bag of sweets for him to share with his classmates. Satisfied, Igor turned and left the classroom discreetly.
          Igor met up with his parents. They knew about his strange perception of colour in letters, and were worried if it was a neurological problem or something of sorts. Igor assured them that he was alright; he was just a synaesthete. Reading their blank faces, Igor explained that synaesthesia was the condition in which the stimulation of one of the five senses or brain activity leads to a reaction in another. The specific one he had was grapheme  colour synaesthesia, in which the recognition of an alphanumeric symbol would trigger a reaction in which he would perceive a colour.
          They seemed concerned, but Igor was calm, and asked if they would permit him to take part in a psychological research programme conducted by the SMRI. They were hesitant, but finally agreed, hoping that it would make significant contributions to science. All they wanted was for him to be happy.
          Every weekend, Igor would bring him down the street to the Institute for a group of neurologists and psychologists to conduct tests or ask questions. It was merely a short half-hour period, and the friendly scientists would always give him a small bag of sweets to enjoy. He was naïve but content, and soon grew to look forward to this weekly trip. He would shout excitedly whenever he saw the jasper ‘I’s and the cerulean ‘E’s of their signboard.
          He mentioned once that the “vowels always jump out at [him], but the consonants would sit there quietly, just like [himself].” His parents could only smile and say “Good boy,” but they never really understood what that sentence meant. Only Igor did.
          Soon, the Institute became a second home to him. Apart from school and home, this became his third arena of learning. Igor was as much a guide to him as any of his school teachers, and almost as much as his parents. They were not so much mentor and mentee, but more like best pals—they could identify with each other.
          As he grew up, he began to understand himself. Synaesthesia no longer seemed like a far-off concept, but a tangible reality. He appreciated his uniqueness. When he was twenty, he signed up on a research internship with the Institute in which he used to be examined. Igor served as his helper and coach, teaching him the tools of the trade. They grew closer and eventually became inseparable.
          One day, as he stepped into the Institute, Igor called him aside. Quietly, Igor said, “I…I have decided to tell you something. I…I am also a synaesthete.”
He stared at Igor in partial shock. So that was why they were able to understand each other so well! He embraced his teacher in a loving hug, and playfully demanded more of his background.
          Igor was also a young kid living in the neighbourhood. Igor used to be that young boy called from the kindergarten room by a big, mysterious guy. Igor took a good look at him, and laughed. “You know, you remind me of when I was young. I was just like you—spunky, innovative and daring. A bundle of trouble.” They both burst out laughing. “You will always be my boy,” added Igor.
          As the days whizzed by, he matured into a fine young man, full of potential for goodness. But on the other hand, Igor was getting old. It was not long before Igor hit retirement, and settled down into a small mansion at the edge of town. He visited Igor as much as he could, and they were just like father and son. Their relationship was priceless.
          Morning broke when he received their call. He rushed over, but it was too late. Igor had passed peacefully in his sleep, and was discovered this morning by the maid. He fell to the ground, crushed.
          But “No,” he thought, “Igor would not want to see me in this state.” He picked himself up, and dried his eyes. The SMRI offered him one week of paid leave just to tame his emotions, but he said that he was fine, and did not just want to be given free money anyway.
          He worked harder than ever before, digging up old cases and dusty files in the hopes of compiling a comprehensive resource on the condition. But there was one thing he lacked: someone else to share his joys.
          Due to his hard work, he was assigned a post of Investigative Researcher, and, like Igor, went around schools in search of potential psychological enquiry subjects.
          A gloomy day, he stepped into his old kindergarten. His gaze immediately turned to a small child, raising his hands to ask a question. “Miss Green, look at this! My name perfectly fits a rainbow!”
          His eyes brightened. This had to be another one. This was his boy.

12:10 PM

war//concept.graph

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

refer to here for my concept graph on the similarities about war through a few films, novels and memoirs.
sorry for the poor resolution but i'm having some problem with bubbl.us. i can show you a clearer one direct from my account if you want :D.

10:21 PM

merchant.of.venice//plot.map

Sunday, June 20, 2010

5:12 PM

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i'm alvin.
i come from hwa chong institution in singapore.
i'm in class 2i2. yes, i'm a sparkie.
i'm 14+ years old; celebrated my bdae on feb 12.
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