Reminiscences of HTYC choir

Occasionally I remember the choir back in HTYC. And I Am His Child – Moses Hogan is one of the songs I didn’t sing, but the seniors did. Now that it’s almost a decade since I’ve entered HTYC, my memory gets a bit fuzzy, and I’m not even sure whether I did sing this inspirational song, or whether I heard it sung by another school at one of those inter-school choir competitions. The point is, without my choir, I wouldn’t have come across this song.

I’m thinking of Dorothy, who by one little grade in her HKDSE this year lost her chance to university – she may be Catholic, but that doesn’t affect her standing with God as mischievously as the religious institution and its traditions have been.

My philosophy of sadness

Life is meant to be sad, and the pursuit of happiness is futile. You try to be nice to people; people treat you unkindly. You try to be polite; people are rude, foul and pushy. You try to be considerate; people don’t “care a fig” about your good intentions. So there’s no reason to expect goodness in humanity, is there? Nobody’s going to give you a bed of roses – unless the petals are all plucked off. And seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses is but self-deception – you will still be pushed around and made to look down anyway.

I don’t feel like standing straight; not that I don’t know the vices of slouching, but I have no reason compelling enough to justify deceiving myself and being forbidden to feel full force the consequences of being treated like dirt, instead being made to slip my fingers away on first contact with it. Such suppression impedes healing, I was taught, but to ask me whether my teacher was right makes me feel uneasy.

Perhaps I got up on the wrong side of the bed when I was to return to Hong Kong. But, seriously, have you really left Hong Kong? Have you? Or have you been in a coma and thought you’ve been to some Lala-land and back? But if so, why would those ghastly figures and that infernal reception of the world around you impress upon your mind so vividly and horrifically? I conclude that I have had a seriously bipolar nightmare, and insanely enough, I am regrettably not open to fanning the ashes, or arranging them in a Fleur-de-lis and gold-plating them with sound advice.

Because I don’t want to be more like S.

My brother is a born writer.

My mum said Middle Eastern people wave their food up and down as they bless it.

Ben, in his usual sarcasm, said that his sister could waste food in a totally new way.

How?

Wave the food up and down, and then let go of the porcelain plate.

Clank-crank-de-la-plank.

Incompetence disgusts me.” – Benjamin Lee Yen, on a date forgotten