It might be a dream come true, but lately at night, Singapore seems to take on the cool air of a Brisbane autumn. And it is exactly in this lovely weather that me and some pals were seated around the coffeeshop table talking about life again.

One of the Coffee Table Dudes have just lost his job, the layoff being on the wall for awhile, and the execution hastened when the company found an excuse vis-a-vis the economic situation now.

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From this article :

Marijuana has been used for over 5,000 years.
No one has ever overdosed on marijuana.
Aspirin has been used for 108 years.
Approximately 500 people die every year by taking aspirin

see? even suits smoke it.

Ah, fond memories of my weed-smoking days: joints, bongs, subs, cookies even. And now everything is justified – it was a terribly painful period of my life (uni studies), and I needed the painkiller.

Okay, I’m treating Vox like a memory dump now, as a backup of some sorts in case all my digital data gets wiped out.

Putting up favorite photos that I have shot over the years. Still have many on traditional film that carried over when I was shooting in the late 90s with an Nikon F3HP (note to self: re-stock silica, and digitize soon!)

So there ya go! There’s alot more photos which I consider to be aesthetically pleasing, or nice. However, over the years, I found myself wanting to take photos that tell a story. With the digital explosion, the availability of good lenses (Nikon trinity set and Canon L lenses), the accessibilty to photographic techniques and knowledge on the internet, pretty much anybody can take good looking-pics. Photography used to be bluddy expensive (I cringed everytime I shot over 10 rolls on the F3 for a single event). Now? it’s sooo cheep.

What matters, is that the pictures have a story to tell. And those are the pictures I truly enjoy.

Been browsing through my old photos while I was transferring them to another computer. So nostalgic…

Aahh memories. As we grew older, our lives become more sedated, more run-of-the-mill. Work, live, survive. What I would give to have those days back.

I sat at the coffeeshop today after work, soaking in the cool evening air listening to music and reflecting upon the day’s events. Out of the blue, an Indian man stood in front of me, his hands holding assorted items of socks, belts and underwear, indicating if I would like to purchase any.

My pre-conditioned social response kicked-in – I smiled at him politely, and shook my head insistently. For a whole of 15 seconds, I looked at him, yet did not look at him really, all the while displaying the body language of the equivalent of chasing him away.

He lumbered over to another table, with the same response by the man sitting there. And as he proceeded to the third table, the occupants of that table continued their talk, and as he stood there for close to 30 seconds, always patiently holding out his wares, they continued as though he was invisible…

It was as he moved away, and I gazed into his gaunt retreating back, hands holding the promises of food for the day, and a backpack in which are the means he eked out an honest living. It was that moment, that I felt the unbearable sadness of being… of being in a world where poverty exists.

I cursed myself. The very least I could do was to purchase a pair of socks from him – I needed socks anyway. It was just a pair of socks, but to him, it could meant dinner for his family that day. To him, it could meant some money to buy stationery for his schooling kids. To him, it could be a small bit of precious hope amongst a flood of despair.

When Barack Obama quoted the term “spread the wealth around” to Joe the Plumber, John McCain’s campaign latched on to it like a leech – they said this reinforced the notion that Barack Obama was a socialist, someone who wanted to start ‘class warfare’ – someone who was out to grab from the people who are successful by their own means to give to the people who did not deserve anything.

During my younger days, adults always tell me that these people are useless, that if you help them, they will just squander whatever you have for them on their vices such as drugs. What if, just what if, all these adults were wrong? What if they were just honest people who could not fit into the system society imposed upon them? What if they had encountered some truly terrible misfortunes not of their doings? Why do we always take the negative view of things towards these people? Why did my brain refused to register his presence when I first saw him, as if I did not want to acknowledge such people are around?

As I gathered my things hastily and ran in the direction of where I last saw the man, what Obama said was on my thoughts : Spread the wealth around. Just that it was not exactly that. What went on in my mind was that if I could bring a little bit of happiness to someone’s life, a little bit of food to his dinner table, a little bit of joy to his kids as they get that new pen they needed so much, i would gladly do it.

It is a sequence of images that is forever etched in my mind – a man with deep sadness in his eyes, dressed in a cheap red-purple checkered shirt tucked into a faded pair of black pants, and well-worn shoes on his feet. Clutching his wares as though it meant everything to him, he was surprised as I ran up to him and told him I wanted to buy a pair of socks.

For a while, thinking I might be confronting him about something, his face was a mix of confusion and fear. I smiled, and pointed to one of the socks he was holding, and again indicated that I would like to buy it.

Like the dawn of the sun breaking on the horizon, a smile slowly emerged across his face. It was the genuine smile of a man who tried his best to eke out an honest living, and the lovely smile of a man who suddenly saw hope in a world of despair. It was the glorious smile of a man who suddenly found conviction that there is a chance he could stand tall once again.

As he gave me the pair of socks, I took out a ten-dollar note, and pressed it into his hands. I refused the change, and said softly to him, “Keep on fighting, don’t give up.”, and waved goodbye.

As I walked away, I clutched the pair of socks tightly in my hand. To others, it is just a pair of socks, but I know it meant much more… so much more.