Building

Sometimes I wish I was a tree - I mean, growing a metre higher or so every year, at least eventually I’ll be able to peak over the other buildings next to me, or maybe get a little more recognised.

Lets just say they call me “outdated”, “broken down”, “old” and “disgusting”. I don’t deny those things, people lose interest in things and the interest they had in me had peaked and dried over.

I once was the tallest building in Southeast Asia in 1854, 20 Storeys high and 87 metres tall. “One of the earliest skyscrapers in Singapore”, they said. I was a symbol and a significant phase. Oh, how I did my country proud. Those were the days I stood tall and proud.

I wonder if they remember.

Sometimes I don’t think they do. All these young slender blue glassed buildings, suddenly sprouting up and all around, so young yet so tall, I wish I was built with them too, maybe I’ll earn myself a little more style and glass. People seem to like them now adays. I’m a little proud actually, seeing more of my kind slowly taking shape, but it is a little hard to imagine being once one of the few here.

I get feelings that I’m dated sometimes. Those little vibes from the city, they come sporadically. They may be small but even the smallest feelings can hurt, like the chippings of stone of my walls or the change of my name. Sometimes these things do get to you because it always reminded you of when people actually knew you, but as time goes by, somehow you get lost in the talk of new developments and more.

Developments - A word I heard from the other buildings in the street. The other oldies tell me I’m a lucky one actually. Everyone knows what happened to ol’ Cathy. They ripped her apart from inside out, with only her face left, she’s all “Business and Retail” now. Pretty much everyone says she lost her soul, took away her voice, she doesn’t say much now.

Just a pretty face, that’s all.

I' guess I’m lucky because some people do remember me. A small name change isn’t as bad, considering I’m still pretty much whole - I’m thankful for that. Being known as a high end hotel in exchange for keeping whole, well I can live with it. Anything to survive in this new world. I’m definitely no sell out but it’s hard to be remembered if you’re gone - no?

It’s a strange warm feeling though, when people remember you. Stranger still, that it’s no the people here who do. There was this conversation I heard from my lines that day, American accented giving directions to the local accented, it went like this;

”That old historical art-deco building, down the corner of … let’s see … Finlayson Green”

”What building is that? I’m not too familiar with the older buildings around this street.”

I told Miles about this a few days ago. He was being cynical about it and said American accent probably knew more about me because the computer told him, one of those human marketing ploys and such.

Well, he might be right. But at least someone read about it - me.”

"Old brings in the gold” he says. “These days those people want things that look like they have had some sort of old life and story behind it. Doesn’t matter what kind of story, as long as it’s old and contains a certain kind of nostalgia, or whatever. That’s what I’m aiming for! At least, I’ll be saved by then.”

But then again, it’s Miles. Miles has so many issues. Like legitimate issues of falling apart; leaking and infestation. Worse still, heard that even the people who lived in him didn’t want him anymore. These kind of things get you noticed but not in a good way. He thinks he’s taking a tile out of those old shophouse’s roof. Looking all aged and nostalgic. Peeling paint and chipped faces, showing a little bit of skin - structure, beams, pipes and bam - suddenly you’re the hottest place to nest in town because someone’s converted you into a cafe and you look like a scene from the time when my first stone was set.

I guess it is a funny way to survive, to be there than than turned into an unrecognizable glass block, like what i always say “it’s hard to be remembered if you’re gone.” But of course in this case, there is a difference in context of what you are and what you were.

The problem is, there is a difference between shophouses and buildings although Miles still believes he’d make a great nostalgic shopping centre, but the thing about buildings like him is that people like them to be them (glances over at Marina Bay Sands)

Well.

There’s really nothing wrong with them, I guess, if you think of it at surface value. But somehow there is something a little unsettling. Something you can’t put your finger on. There are days when the beautiful sunrise comes around and I find myself thinking, “Hey that is pretty amazing how far we’ve come, come to think about it.” but when the cinematic colours clear and when the landscape in the distance comes into focus, all I see is a colossal figure, three of them, like an odd bump in the fabric.

We, oldies always play this game When will it happen?, in other words, “when will we be deconstructed, forgotten and finally not exist?”

It is a dark though that all of us will somehow be gone one day and be replaced by the shiny quiet ones. I like them, though they don’t see to say much at all and the city gets a little, too perfect?

I hope the humans will not forget us.

Because right now, I feel like a stranger here.

Person

Calling Singapore a city has always been a curious conundrum to me. On one hand, there is Singapore The City, the one often established with the iconic skyline gracing feature articles on the “Top 5 South East Asian destinations”, something a tourist might see on the in flight magazine midway the impatient wait for the plane to leave the runway.

And then for me, there is Singapore and the city, the city being the casually nicknamed stretch of Orchard Road to Dhoby Ghaut, maybe sometimes the business district itself, or until where any recognizable fashion brand names start to fade into forgettable shopfronts and unrecognizable streets. They city, the place where my tween years have taught me that it’s the best hangout to be in, . But frankly, I was never really comfortable with the noise or the people. But it was bare necessity to keep up with the in-crowd.

When I was a kid, I once had this impression that the famous Singapore skyline was where Orchard was, or rather where “shopping” was. It was a only much later time when i thought about this impression again that I realised how mistaken I was. A lot of this city isn’t very certain to me actually, for years as a kid, I always thought it would make sense to match up something as iconic as the skyline to something many would consider a hobby here - shopping.

As I got older, I found myself having more questions than answers about the city, It had become a place that was unfamiliar, a place where I felt a great disconnect. Part of it was due to the realisation that I didn’t really know much about this city at all. To me, it had become a collection of malls, noise blaring and lights all over, with the constantly increasing built up space in and around the city.

Like a flood spanning over the land, covering the old to accommodate the new ideals and never ending waves of crowds which spill out on the sidewalk. As the place became larger than life, the void of disconnect got bigger.

The architecture was eye catching and the shops were tempting, and there was nothing wrong with that. What was concerning was rather the lack of connection of the people with the city beyond the culture of consumption and even the stories on the fringes of the city itself.

When I was younger, I felt a much greater connection to the city. Much of what I had learnt about the history of this place over the years of school was just enough to grant me a good grade. It was not enough, however, to spur on a sense of curiosity of this place. Perhaps, it was the politically rigit manner in which our culture shared; taught in textbooks through lessons of race and hard-earned peace. It feels much like asking for the identification and blood type of newfound friend before even finding out about the kind of person he is; perhaps the best way to start a relationship of disconnect.

If I could, I would ask the stuff which captured our imagination! I would tell as mnay random stories over lunch of conversations on slow days - maybe whimsical folk tales of our heritage, urban legends to be shared, stories to be told, because nothing builds a bond like a distinctive memory arising to curiosity to learn morel the exact thing we have lost to a world where is knowledge is instant in our hands - or as long as our battery life holds and as long as we know what we are looking for.

There are times when I wished we had more trees. More genuine trees that is, the ones to climb or sit on; instead of the perfectly manicured, chosen and fenced species which line the streets and frame the road ahead. All looking, no touching. Once in a while, I feel they would give a better view of the world than all the windows of any building would.

Maybe I could live like Cosimo Piovasco di Rondò, in Calvino’s Baron in the Trees.

Perhaps this is what having connection to the city would be like. Rather than having a perfect city where we are props, what we really need is for the city to become something personal. Like an old friend you grew up with, sharing personalities and quirks of the people within it. Rich in culture and a history that carries down with each transformation.

Right now, change rushes in so fast that we are left grabbing for what we barely know. Like how we change our city, the city changes us, and the more we let go, the more we become strangers to ourselves in the city.