Kungfu monk

Sometimes, this city really can be quite amazing.

I stepped outside my dorm for a moment yesterday, and saw a monk pass by. Not just any monk, but one of those kungfu types from the kitschy martial arts novels. He was wearing the conical straw hat, saffron robes gathered at the elbows and knees to allow for maximum range and comfort of movement, straw sandals. Oh, oh, he was also carrying that bowl thing you always see them carry in the kungfu movies, a big, metal bowl that, I'm guessing, is supposed to be used to beg for alms, but always ends up being a weapon, thrown in a whirling arc to whomp someone on the head, or simply as a replacement for brass knuckles. And who on earth wears straw sandals these days? Don't they wear out really quickly?

Anyway, so this kungfu monk was strolling down a street in Paris, right next to a hundred other pedestrians, in one of the few ultramodern scenes in the city, a road under construction. Quite remarkable. I stood there for a while, staring at his back.

Then I finally went to my first real warehouse party last night. All the previous versions somehow paled next to this. Stuffed with gypsies, cheap beer, an incredible amount of marijuana smoke in the air, a hippy band, and all in a totally abandoned warehouse, as in the roof was in pieces, the place was filthy, you had to hop over a gigantic puddle to get to the door, a dog was hanging out at the bar, some weird art thingy projected on the wall on the ground floor. Atmosphere, the crucial ingredient to making something cool. I think that's what Singapore really lacks. You can't really create an atmosphere unless it springs up on its own. It really wasn't my sort of scene, but I was still sucked in by the concept and execution of it.

Ok, I'm totally not flowing today. Been attacking my paper for days now, and it's just not giving in. Never written so slowly in my life.