The New Silent Generation (or "What I hate myself for")

Two things turned me inside out today while I was out taking a walk in the city. The first was my response to a comment I heard that fumed me, and the other was a display of apathy including my own; both belonged in their own ways to a disability to speak up caused by what I believe to be a derailed sense of morality that is weaving through the fibre of society.

When I boarded a tram a lady in the tram who was trying to get off after the other alighting passengers were gone said to her companion referring to the boarding passengers, "How rude these people are," and then raised her voice saying, "excuse us! We're trying to get off!" Then and there, my ears turned fuming hot and I so wanted to give the lady an earful about how it was her who dilly-dallyed when other passengers were alighting before her. How dare she blame others for her own indecision!

Another frustrating incident also happened to have taken place in a tram! - does public transport bring out the worst in people? A half-drunk youth was harassing two ladies seated next to him and for minutes after insufferable minutes, the women were left to their own limited resort to ward off the slurring nuisance and nobody went to their rescue!

The bottom line is, men from my generation (myself very much included) are incapacitated from acting as men when it counts. We are more than glad to stand by and watch others suffer than jump into the hot seat to relieve others. We haven't been taught how to stand up for the needy, but how could we? Men my age were raised by men and women born in the Silent Generation. As the Time magazine described our parents in 1951:

Youth today is waiting for the hand of fate to fall on its shoulders, meanwhile working fairly hard and saying almost nothing. The most startling fact about the younger generation is its silence. With some rare exceptions, youth is nowhere near the rostrum. By comparison with the Flaming Youth of their fathers & mothers, today's younger generation is a still, small flame. It does not issue manifestoes, make speeches or carry posters...

...so their children naturally follow in their footsteps.

I'm not asking my generation to issue manifestoes, carry posters or burn books. These things have been and should continually be debated for their validity. I don't even have the right to ask anything of others until I do something about it myself; as Chesterton was rumoured to have supplied the two-word answer to the question what's wrong with the world, "I am." All I can do is to refrain from inaction in the future when action is needed on the side of good. No more silence when speaking out could save. There would be no more fear of declaring the truth if the fear of God triumphs.

People suffer when we fall by the wayside. What are we going to do?

Words, words, words

We take chances hoping the universe would somehow realign itself to advance our good fortune. And nine times out of ten that doesn't happen. But is words all that lovers have for each other? You could string together the sweetest-sounding words and still lose everything the next moment.

But to the right person it does matter. To the person the right words are meant for, those words aren't just words.

They are an acknowledgment of our lifelong search. I don't like to boil something down to its essence when the flowers are to be found in its elaboration. But to a woman the soul of the right words pronounces in effect a man's converging attention; to a man it extends a woman's exclusive invitation.

But words you can never take back. Then again you wouldn't have known. There are words that felt so right the first time you might never say them again because they had already been said... only to the wrong person. Of course it always seems a waste thereafter. But would you have withheld yourself and left those words unsaid?

If there are things to be said, say it loud and say it well. Leave heartache for the morning. It always comes whether or not you plan for it.

Are you a philosopher?

I met a Frenchman today and expressed to him my fascination with Paris. He encouraged me to visit his country with the following reason.

According to him, in France an average man gets to have seven women, and often five of them are knockouts and the other two are plain ugly.

He then wittily offered to confer two of his ugly ones to me out of goodwill. I told him if that was the case I believe I might just find the ugly ones beautiful by my standards (like there is such a thing as ugly Frenchwomen). The man expressed his touché by raising his hands and eyebrows as only the French could do, and said, "Are you a philosopher?"

Oui monsieur, comme vous, je pense à de belles femmes toujours.

Love gets old

Good thing about eating in public is you can listen in on some of the most interesting conversations.

This afternoon I was sitting next to two chatty young girls munching my Filet-o-fish burger and leaving the earphones of my iPod on in pause mode to obscure the fact that I was blatantly eavesdropping (though the volume at which they conversed did save me the trouble of straining my ears). And boy! the things they talked about could shame a grown man into shrink-wrapping his high school yearbook.

When I was making acidic comments in my mind on each silly thing I heard, I knew my transformation into an old fart has come full circle. I no longer root for Andrew the ex, who thinks Matt is no good for the girl. I don't trust Matt either, who shared dessert on a first date that wasn't an official date anyway. And when Matt still attends his ex's family reunion, I wondered why people don't turn into old farts any sooner.

Looks like the dating scene still hasn't changed since my time. The young are the easiest to fall in love. Just as easily as they fall out of it. What remains is the reminiscent old fart who wonders about possibilities. I think it would be wrong to say that he wishes to relive the past differently. The old fart is someone who's pretty comfortable soaking in the bittersweetness of life, being well aware that whatever choices he could have made, he's bound to live with regrets either way. Rather than sulking over what befalls, he's the happiest when he realize he's actually enjoying the torture of not knowing it both ways. C'est le mystère de la vie.

That face

Allow me to exercise my chauvinistic criticism as I recount an observation made of the opposite sex. I've seen enough women to have yet met before today an equal in both beauty and grace. Almost all young women in Melbourne have a composure and manner of speech that could use some—some a lot more—ripening. It might be the water they drink from the community well, but you could recognize most Melburnian girls by their signature high-pitched tones and the word "like" littered all over their short and trawling sentences.

But finally a woman befitting the title! The woman in the suit store (let's call her Stella) was relatively formal under the circumstances and yet the soft texture of her voice immediately distinguished her in a crowd. Stella's face was a warm rendition of Athena's sculpture inevitably caught in the epitome of feminine allure. It was as if time had stopped on her face since eternal past, while the radiance of her smile confirmed the rumors of angelic visitation. If I had the courage I would have brought to her attention the fact that she has a face that inspires songs.

She didn't know, but Stella brought songs into my head and birds and bees to boost.

A musing on St. Valentine's Day

This is a day in the year that is suffered either in silence or months in advance and, if the night pays off, days after. People who have a conscious cause for Valentine's, usually in the form of someone special, often see themselves planning and preparing for the execution weeks or months ahead (depending on the extent of the person's affection and, in this commercial day and age, budget). This is the kind of people, specifically men, who resolve to condense in one day what they should have been expected to perform the whole year through but couldn't find it in their genes to do: getting her flowers, opening door to restaurant and car, staring across the table with an undivided attention. It's become a day when the guys would say, "Here's what you've been pestering me to do all year... lucky I only have to do it once!" The fact that we need to declare a romantic day to commemorate a history of none of these is ironic and a telling indication of our (specifically the ladies') lowered expectations.

It might seem unfair to the blokes to dispense such a criticism, as if the sole obligation of the day and, in fact, of the whole relationship, lies with us. But since when hasn't that been so down through history from as early as, or maybe even before, the Middle Ages? The warring brutes back then couldn't pick up a fork in the court and the educated scribes would rather spoon their eyeballs than face the battlefields. But it was a special class of men - the literal knights - who were expected to do both with equal courage and grace. Contrary to what we believe, the term "knight in shining armour" is not used loosely nowadays, nor should it be referred to as just a metaphor. The reason why most men today can only put on real acts of chivalry one day in a year (though not a complete act at that, since it often only display the "meek in halls" quality but seldom the "fierce in battles" trait) is because they've mistaken it as a silly idea that only the ladies fancy. We think it's fake because it's unnatural. But as Lewis puts it, "The man who combines both characters - the knight - is a work not of nature but of art; of that art which has human beings, instead of canvas or marble, for its medium." And as Lewis knows best, any true art needs to be attained and strived for.

Confessions of a masculine heart

It is only obvious on a clear day. But I forgot that what I need from a woman is not what I often think I need: praises, admirations, such things that all men seem wanting of.

I need a woman who in spite of her lack of praise, could look me in the eyes and tell me the deepest truths about myself that she sees and I don't.

I need a woman who in spite of her blatant disapproval of my certain mannerisms, could still hope for the nobler things she knows I am capable of but never demonstrate.

I need a woman who in spite of her deep love for me, does not show it in a subordinate way, as if she's delighting in Michangelo or mesmerized by Shakespeare.

I need a woman who in spite of the world around her, finds joy in little things like children and the sunset.

I need a woman who could do all these as effortlessly and carelessly as stretching her own bones on a lazy afternoon. I need an equal on my best days, a superior the rest of the days.

I need a woman who got lost in the making. And I end up needing God.