April 12, 2009
Might of the night
By Lee Siew Hua
I found myself staying up to read and write till 3 or 4am, when I took a glorious year off to study.
Living alone in the United States at that time, it was fun to find new rhythms for my life.
Soon I turned into a nocturnal creature much of the week, a choice made simpler since studying is a solitary pursuit anyway.
Some lectures could end at 6 or 8pm. I'd take a zippy nine-minute subway ride home, then relax over dinner.
I'd tune in to the very entertaining Food TV channel, organise my days a little more.
Then I'd stay up in the stillness of the night to read, think, decipher graphs and all that.
It felt creative and productive to do that at night with zero distractions.
But, reading esoteric texts on the Japanese revulsion to stupidity or writing about the Singapore element in complexity theory are not things that are greatly connected to our daily life.
So I often felt I was floating inside a bubble of intensified solitude, a feeling deepened by the magic intimacy of the night hours I kept.
Yet it was also a life of abundance that I missed.
I wonder what it would be like if more of us kept unconventional hours.
Social entrepreneur Jack Sim corres-ponded with me recently, after I'd written about Singapore's night buzz and evening economy.
He has this idea that Singapore can be a Timeless Zone. This may well be the 'ultimate competitive edge' for us, he believes, and it is a green concept to boot.
A couple of examples from his bag of ideas:
If Singapore goes 24/7-365, one building in our land-deprived island can do the job of three.
Timelessness is also tourist-friendly.
Remember the times we've been jet-lagged travellers, like Scarlett Johansson and Bill Murray in Lost In Translation? Tourists would love stretching their holiday with options aplenty any time of the day or night.
Sleepless niches in cities, like London's West End or Seoul's Daehongno University Street, are vivid and profitable.
Well, I've since returned to a sedate rhythm of life.
But it's fine. Conversely, I also like waking up very early. But it has to be once in a while, then it's special.
It's a titanic struggle to get out of bed super-early to catch a plane, jog or run an errand that cannot wait.
But when I do get out of the door, I love the dewy newness of the world and its tender colours.
My last morning in Washington 18 months ago happened to be a bright and early one.
Or rather, it was still dark when my friend Gaby picked me up for breakfast - coffee and bagels done in a homely East- European style.
We also drove through the streets of Washington, a city I'd known for 10 years. Yet it appeared different for I'd rarely observed the superpower capital stirring to purposeful life so early in the day.
More recently, I was a little jet-lagged during a two-week trip to the Middle East.
The first morning, I must have woken up before 4am. The next few days, my eyes opened between 5 and 6am.
To me, the silence and deep darkness in the unfamiliar Gulf was soothing and a little mysterious.
I was suspended in time and place, and that's part of the essence of travel.
While I fixed myself a cup of tea, I'd start planning the day's work.
I had a glimpse of a city like Doha at sunrise, with the sky a pearly pink and blue, and the Arabian Gulf still cool.
There was also enough time for a bit of reflection and a good breakfast - a vital start to each day.
Waking up in the pre-dawn hours, I had a whole day ahead instead of feeling that time was flying too quickly.
Of course, I'd also fade by 10pm.
There have been other times when I found myself buying a latte before 7am, or driving a family member to a 7.30am hospital appointment.
At such moments, I'm like a trespasser in somebody else's time zone just because I'm not a morning person.
But at whatever end of the day, life can be lived as vigorously or as languorously as we wish.
Each hour has its wonder.
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