No, this is not a hostile takeover, and I'm sure my bruddah dearest will
return with a vengeance soon, with prose to move mountains and shake
martinis with, in all probability with some degree of allusion to my
sexuality but, well. For now, I speak once more, and on an entirely
different note from previous flippancy and frivilousities. Verbosity,
however, is rather too deeply ingrained to shrug off at will, and apologies
are made well in advance. On the metaphorical other, it quite has its place
in this piece, which is meant to be a humble tribute of sorts to someone I
consider an amazing person who has since tragically passed on, and to which
words are, as so painfully is usually the case, all I have to give.
It doesn't take much time with me to infer the degree of cynicism that has
slowly, over years of nurturing, taken root in this one particular
uneducated barbarian. Basically, it takes quite a bit to intrigue or impress
me, but when it happens, I often give over to it unconditionally. Being born
and bred in Singapore has contributed a fair bit towards this unsavoury
characteristic, I fear, for as a whole, Singaporeans are just so stupid,
uninspired, rude and general jackasses that when someone comes along that
speaks well, has depth of thought beyond -Sian today go where aiyoh I need
money to buy ting wah that girl so chio-, and is actually funny, I tend to
get all classically head over heels.
I read a fair bit. Less, and more genre-restrictively than I would like, but
I do nonetheless. Elucidating the process of a literary diet, and to detail
mine would be another entry altogether - suffice, for the purposes of this
exposition, that I say I rarely, if ever, read anything indigenous to
Singapore. Admittedly, I haven't done any degree of research into available
local literature that can begin to be called extensive, but take a look on
the local shelves at the bookstore.
Ghost stories. That about sums it up. True Singapore Ghost Stories, volumes
1 through 3275, and this one I saw imaginatively titled "Tunnels of Blood".
Some collection of maritial scandals written by private investigators, and minor
other assortments of refreshing poetry and other odds/ends. I
was, and mostly remain, unmoved by the -creative- efforts of my...fellow
men. It in fact takes an expatriate, Neil Humphrey, to whip something up
that piqued me sufficiently to make the purchase. Lamentable, but
unsurprising. The fact, that is. Not the book. The 'Notes' series by Neil
Humphrey is rather excellent light reading. I refuse to disclose how much he
paid me.
Can one be blamed, then, for judging a book by its cover? 'Excuse Me, Are
You a Model?', by Bonny Hicks, was just another title dismissed...almost
disdained by your dear barbarian. Recently however, having entertained
illusions of grandeur about writing a book, I determined it would first be
prudent to see what actually got published locally. Still shunning the critical
acclaim of True Singapore Ghosties (Russell can kiss my...), I eventually
gravitated to the aforementioned, together with her only other work,
'Discuss Disgust', and, swallowing apprehension, pride and other
misgivings, picked them both up.
Allow me mild digression here. I used to be a huge advocate of the whole
-Looks are a facade, inner beauty is da bomb- shitznat, but scattered,
pointed comments by meh bruddah dearestest had led to a reassessment.
Looks do matter.
If Bonny was a Pamela Tang (I hope to various omniscient deities she never
reads this.), besides the point that the book would never have happened,
much less a modelling career, I may have been less intrigued. Yes, -may-.
She did happen, however, to be just mildy short of gorgeous, with those
cliched eyes that spoke of a thousand stories to tell. As I slowly ingested
the book 'Excuse Me... ' , I could help myself not, but to stare at the many
pictures of herself in the book an keep asking myself - She looks this good,
she writes this well, and she's born-bred local? It was objective aesthetic
appreciation, mind. If she was alive today she'd be old enough to be my mother.
CONTRARY TO WHATEVER THE GUYS MAY TELL YOU, I DO
NOT HAVE A FASCINATION WITH MOTHERS.
There is power in the sweet, simple, and succinct. Having Googled her name,
I stumbled upon an entry in this Singaporean dude's blog, who interestingly
enough had a vocabulary remarkable even by my pompous standards, but a sense
of grammar bad enough to cause me mild migraines and develop a nervous
twitch in my eye from all that wincing. To the chase - He says Bonny Hicks
wrote a bestseller by stringing simple sentences together, which is amazing, and
that while one can develop a vocabulary, one cannot be taught the ability to write.
I'd have asked him to take his own advice but hey, we're all critics. His
observation was, however, most astute. You'd seldom find a word of more
than three syllables in "Excuse Me...", and perish the thought of combing it for
hidden social criticisms and analogies. It's simply to be taken at face value -
an in-your-face, talk-over-coffee kind of sincerity and the telling of a story
unembellished yet breathtaking in its natural complexity. Few people will ever
live the kind of life that, for its own sake, makes for the telling of a good story.
I know I wish I do. A story of my life, however, would be along the lines of a
one paragraph entry, with the subsequent pages being "Refer - Page one." .
The life of the late Bonny Hicks made for bestseller material, and her
powerfully personal tone is something I wish I could adopt in its cutting
simplicity.
Having modelled for three years, she found herself financially independent,
and henceforth moved to Indonesia to take up with a publishing company,
of which the details I am uncertain. As some of you might know,
she subsequently perished in a plane crash on the way back to
Singapore, with her body never being found. That was in 1997, and she
was, I believe, in her late twenties then.
Looking back at what I've written, here and otherwise, I cannot help but
feel a sense of inadequacy. I come nowhere near to expressing the
myriad of emotion that coursed, unaccustomed and the more intense
for it, through me as I read the story of her life. The superficial intrigue
at a pretty face. The deepening of interest as I realized that she had
something to say, and was saying it all too well. The peculiar blend
of envy and camaraderie - The former of her having truly lived life, where
I do but lose myself in speculation, and the latter in that, like myself, she
was somewhat of an anomaly in the family; the one outstanding link
in a morass of otherwise unimpressive mundanity. The peaks and
trenches of sentiment, carelessly but not callously manipulated at will by a
will unwillingly willed out of existence. And the regret - the at-once sour,
bitter and empty feeling of yearning to have somehow corresponded with
her. Of the two of us, though I arrogantly claim similarity, she was the one
who made it. Not to mention the better looking one.
I leave you then, fellow consciousnesses, with a chillingly nostradamic
quip from one too-early gone.
"The heavens can wait, but I cannot. Time is not on my side." .
Simple. Cutting. Deeper than she ever would know.
"Too early seen unknown and known too late." Farewell then,
Bonny Hicks. Too late, and yet far, far
too early.
-Drake
