Float

Float

Tuesday, 31 October 2017

Who's not here

I think about this a lot. About ‘who’s not here’. And maybe I am overthinking it. But I’ve always found it unequal that loud people don’t suffer from quiet people, only the reverse. And in abstract, this is an extrovert’s world, understandably so. I find it odd that quiet people try to sleep, but don’t really, because of loud people in the next room. I don’t know if this is only because I’ve tried to sleep, without success while loud people were in the next room, while my mom was shouting at my younger brother, or while people partied in the room over. I’ve thought about what is fair - that quiet people are naturally quiet, but also loud people are naturally loud, as I am. Probably, it is just a tragedy of contact, an impasse of genetics and environment. And yet Rhiannon walking out of her room, annoyed at Kathryn’s phone ringing all the time, is indicative of the fact that yes, people do ‘tank’, they ‘tahan’, they take it in their stride for other people’s convenience. And that is in a way a choice too. But it is, a tad unfair. Yet it is also true people aren’t born to cater to anyone’s needs, so maybe this consideration was taken into account when making that choice - I want to sleep early, but I understand if others don’t and this is also their house. And I think this is about the number and normality - who is being the odd one in need of accommodation? It is the introverts, mostly, who cater.

Rights and Charity

What is white saviour-ism? This was the discussion I had with two friends on the program at the bus stop and bus on the way home. None of us had a proper answer, although I thought about it a little more on the way home, which is why I wanted to type out my thoughts on the subject. Although I still have no formal conclusions on it (or any other social concept really), I thought things I had not thought of before. One is the disconnect between calling things like education and clean water ‘rights’ when the donor funding for it is called ‘charity’. This I feel, is one of the sources of white saviour-ism (of which I am also guilty of). For me, there is no ‘charity’ when it involves money flowing from white, western countries, to formerly colonized states. It’s returning money and resources and culture and dignity, all of which were siphoned away by force. A force that was in a sense, arbitrarily given and bestowed by great thinkers in the right places with flooded coal mines. In other words, in our contemporary sense, ‘illegitimate’. Of course, you can disagree on that front, and I think yes, society in general does somehow give all these concepts of ‘social justice’ weight and relevance. Without a collective agreement on what is right and wrong, who is to say what is right or wrong?

Back to it, if I were to join an NGO working to ‘rebuild’ or ‘uplift’ communities ravaged by poverty, disease, mismanagement and going further back, colonialism, I must believe myself to be the shameful one. The shameful one because I grew up easy and because we have to reverse/restore the power dynamic between the foreigner and local in such places. We must be convicted to our contemporary sense of social justice of restoring a wrong, and not ‘I do this because it is the right thing to do’ - somehow conveniently forgetting or ignoring ‘how we got here in the first place.’ Obviously, so many factors play into the ‘global’ problems of today, including by ‘locals themselves’. But many, or a significant amount that has not been corrected, can be traced to colonialism. What are we hoping for in the end? A restoration of positive liberty - the ability for an individual to, through his or her own agency, change his socio-economic position in life. It doesn’t matter if there are laws protecting free speech if psychologically or financially, communities are undermined in using those rights.


It’s not charity, it’s returning what we (or our ancestors/nations/peoples) stole - what our birth-right lottery dispositions give us are all built in some way on that exploitation and have nothing to do with the people today, except by its effects. Although we cannot (and should not) correct inequality in general, I feel that we must restore the basic rights that people would have if not for war, genocide and unchecked, mercantilist exploitation. These are all fancy and lofty words and ideals of course, but I think we must hold them in mind when doing so-called ‘charity’, so that we never misplace our sense of righteousness. It’s not just about ‘being born lucky, with all these opportunities given to me’, it’s about recognizing that those opportunities came at a cost - to others, probably. And if we are not ready to deal with that as individuals - because after all, even people born with privilege didn’t technically choose to be born with it - then so be it, but we should acknowledge that they (the opportunities we were granted) are there for arbitrary historical reasons, and that not correcting them even though we know this, is kind of selfish. Perhaps even, ‘donors’ should be called ‘people who are returning resources that would not have been theirs if not for racism mixed with cannon fire and chattel slavery’. [I wrote this a while back and can’t remember if I had more to say or was just rambling, either way wanted to get this on before I forget]

Monday, 23 October 2017

Move along

[As in a day ago] Just had a mini-scare with my computer as I was going to type out this post - windows explorer (i.e. basic windows 32-bit stuff) crashed and upon restarting the computer couldn’t find the boot drive. I thought it could either be overheating, hardware-dislodge, a virus, or me just straight up killing the program. It turns out it was the latter, and there was a fail-safe feature where win32 restarts itself after a while (as does many important computer functions, thankfully) Still, did not stop me from letting Sunday know immediately and make an appointment with Kathryn to go to Mumujyi. I should try and find a laptop case.

A Rwandan was singing Let It Be (Beatles) on TV to an audience of what looked like students in some kind of (religious) forum? And so I’m listening to it now too. I told my host-dad my real dad really liked this song, and I remembered it was made after MLK was shot? But then I could totally be wrong and I had no internet to lawyer myself. Regardless, it’s a beautiful song. I just thought it sentimental hearing it on a Friday evening in a place I did not expect.

I just went through my system’s event log because Sunday texted me to say if I couldn’t fix it I should let him know so I was curious to see if the system could tell me when it revived it’s on boot drive. Couldn’t exactly find it, but whatever, it’s running, and I’ve backed my boot onto my hard-disk.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Just went through my system event log again to see what happened to my trackpad not working. Discovered that the computer shut down around 4pm while I was gone and the kids were using it. I asked them about it and they were being furtive while mumbling about the computer crashing so I suspect they just let it overheat/did not check to see if the power was working - both resulting in a crash and damaging my computer more. I am actually so annoyed but this was a risk I took with the computer and plainly they had no idea what they were doing so what am I to do really.

In fact I was trying to write about my 4-hour bizarre adventure on no-coffee day. It starts off with my host father asking me out of the blue if I was free to accompany him to visit an uncle. I was technically free (but not for 4 hours I should think) and tried to ask him if we would be back in time to take a photo before the sun set and he gave me an affirmative reply after I asked him several times. Typically, he didn’t actually understand what I was saying and I was to return well after sunset. Again, kind of knew it would happen but also didn’t want to be a dick with my fast-paced lifestyle. We set-off and first thing he tells me to do is to take an SIT-forbidden mode of transport (moto), classic start to adventures of course. We then end up in a church session, sit down in the crowd for about 5 minutes, only for him to take a call and take me out of the church? What was the point you ask? No idea, something about the uncle wanting to meet there so let’s just casually sit in on church. We then get into his (admittedly expensive-looking, but I didn’t pay attention at the time) car and wade out of a packed to the brim carpark (as in, church-goers straight up parking in the lane) only to literally just cross the street to park at a pub and wait for my host dad’s uncle’s technician who apparently was going to fix his lights. Why didn’t we just let his car sit in the church carpark? Not really sure, but I guess it made going out later faster. We wait about 40 minutes just drinking beers (while his uncle was noticeably drinking wine). His light-fixing ‘technician’ arrives, and then we drive off to Bugesera, which was a familiar name to me and, in typical no-coffee day ashion, I realized it was outside Kigali, so a long drive we go! I of course, was still under the impression that we were just going to the uncle’s house and giving the guy a lift to fix his lights.'

I fall asleep from the beer and smooth ride out of time while trying to stay awake, so kind of hazily if you know what I mean. We near the place and drive through typical houses one finds in the country-side and then enter the gates into a really nice looking house (i.e. much more expensive than its surroundings). I step inside to realize by ‘light fixing’ my dad actually meant ‘setting-up the light fixtures’ because this house was brand new and under furbishing and looked like one of those ‘model showroom apartments’ with contractors about fixing up the lights and finishing touches. In fact, as we stepped out, it dawned on me that the gated plot of land had 3 (and a half, for the workers) houses and a sizeable garden/porch. My host father, seeing my expression goes ‘he is a rich man’. No kidding. ‘He is the owner of the petrol station.’ Wait, just the one? ‘The one outside our house…not Engen, SP’. Holy crap, this guy literally owns the Rwandan gas station company and this is probably his very expensive retirement home.

So as it turns out, my host family has low-key (very) rich relatives (well, I guess I only saw one). It was then, sitting on the steps to the house and watching the sun slowly set over my plans to take a photo of my host family, that I felt a very strange sense of ‘epilogue’, the same kind you see in books, movies, video games, any story really. It was, after all, the last Sunday I would be staying with my host family, and I was, admittedly, killing the 2 and a half hour on those steps contemplating melodramatically and thinking about this post. I saw traces of that alpine glow on the hills and farmlands just outside Kigali as the breeze gently blew and the soft chatter of arguing over lights went on in the background. It was cinematic, it was sombre, it was a really epilogue feeling. What you have to go through before it ends, so that your longing turns to gladness that it happened. I thought of the many times I had the same feeling, somewhat in this order: when Neo and Trinity fly over the clouds in The Matrix, when Samurai Jack returns to the past, loses Ashi, but finds the ladybug and hope, sitting with Chris in the large playground in downtown Chicago, the epilogue of Witcher 1, Odysseus nearing the end of his journey (well, odyssey) staying on that perfect life island for many years. All this time too, I was thinking about how I used to imagine myself being some random olive farmer on the hills of Greece, cut off from the world but serene and happy. But I couldn’t do it then and I couldn’t do it now, I’m too restless, and there are things to be done still. It’s exactly what it is with epilogues too - the credits roll, but the characters always move on, they always do something after glimpsing the sun (as in the Matrix), the things that need to be done to keep building a ‘better future’. Some kind of obligation keeps them tethered, but that image of ‘heaven’, of some ‘lovely retirement home in the countryside’ - as this rich guy’s house was - keeps them working till that goal, maybe for their children or people. In fact this bizarre adventure even felt a little religious, as if falling asleep hazily on that car ride was like entering into a dream, and this was a glimpse of a peaceful old life that I would never obtain, at least not now. It was a glimpse of what ‘heaven’(?) looks like but I feel too obligated on earth (i.e. thinking about all the work I should be doing instead of watching the sunset for 2 and a half hours in the country side). The fact that the house wasn’t finished too, in fact added to that perfect epilogue feeling, where people are still building their dream, but there is peace after a conflict - Rwanda’s story itself.

I don’t know if the rest of the journey needs to be said, nor whether this absurdly long narrative/melodrama was necessary. But it was said, and it seems my study abroad, despite being a month from finishing, is reaching its epilogue chapter after a jam-packed, heavy course on Genocide history. Pretty tired trying to speak French and dispelling myths about Asia/Singapore too.


Sunday, 8 October 2017

A post from Uganda

(Actually two weeks ago) Today (yesterday, since I don’t have wi-fi at home) I cooked laksa fried rice and chicken rice for my host family and showed them pictures of Singapore. They liked it, which was great because I low-key messed up the texture of the rice using unfamiliar equipment, and with my host mother letting all the steam out for the laksa fried rice (which I should have used more water anyway) They retired soon after…which led me to another episode of aching nostalgia. It’s as if I have a secret life in me that I have not returned to, a place I’m supposed and do call home. It’s as if I will go back, and see all my friends and family again as if nothing’s changed even though that isn’t true. It’s as if I’ve been wandering for so long I miss the cheesy Changi Airport signs that welcome all traveling, admittedly also upper-middle class, Singaporeans, receive. Or maybe it was just the memories that each photo held, some kind of mysterious but familiar memory of just me and Daphne which tears at me, especially those city-lights on the riverfront. Maybe it’s being tired for the first time of the bigger world out there, with all its glories and failures at the same time. I know that Singapore is not ‘clean’ despite what the stereotypes and the government promise. But it’s still home. This has always kept me tethered, however arbitrary it is. That picture of Ying Yue at the Singapore Art Museum makes me want to read her blog and reconnect, even though I’ve tried it before but I guess my comment was lost. I know too, that I can get that same feeling of personal nostalgia, and I have, walking anywhere alone with my camera. But maybe it’s because those old photos of Singapore were my best of my oldest, they have that defining feature of ‘being there for me’; and I know that nobody else would have taken some of those very specific shots. Maybe because at my core is this melodramatic, pretentious melancholy that I know, when it came down to it, would let me walk out of a party/club if I wasn’t feeling it, by myself (or with Chris), down an empty, incandescent-lit street. I am bummed, although not surprised that the only person who connected with me over ‘the moon and the sun’ by ANECHOIS was Karen. I hope she’s doing well. I think I’m going to try and give Steele a copy of the EP/album since Yggdrasil is literally his door image. Maybe it’s just because it’s no coffee day.

^Wrote that a while ago but never remembered to post it while I had wifi, so I'm at a café now in Northern Uganda to post it. I've had a lot to say since, but as I'm tight on the wi-fi, I decided to just go with it.

Started this draft like 2 weeks ago

Sieving through pictures of Singapore to show my host family was perhaps the most powerful feeling I got to date since leaving my home … a deep and mysterious melancholy so indescribable (not in magnitude, just the fact that I can’t describe it) they must have invented the word ‘nostalgia’ and missing home just for it. To me, even though my family isn’t tight-knit and close, it is still special and maybe it’s the Chinese culture still in me, but I owe a great debt and will always try and be there for my parents when they are old. I say that, not knowing what kind of scenario that may be tested; after all, I am abroad while my dad is at home recovering from cancer.

Thinking about ‘why now’, and maybe it’s knowing that my friends and family back home are living their lives out and sharing and creating memories without me, and that the longer I’m away, the more I fade into their memories…except there’s Whatsapp and all is fine and dandy to a degree/till I get a degree haha geddit? I also miss Chris a lot (duh), I think mostly when I read her blog or feel cuddly. Rwandans are a warm bunch though and hugs are often and soon. My host mother is very sweet and has a hearty laugh whenever I imitate my host sister.

We did a 'processing session' last Friday; it's like a 'do whatever you want summer camp style' time allocated at the end of each week for students to lead some activity, be it etching out tensions (like last week) or building human pyramids. Last week we did a 'toilet paper pass' where we just picked a person in the group to say nice things about in a circle and passed them the roll to pass on to another person. Jack K passed me the roll and talked about how his support group back home was his fraternity, which happens to be Lambda Chi, how coincidental and wholesome is that? I'm so glad he's got great character and setting a good example for a historically problematic institution.

Friday, 1 September 2017

Peux ce que veux, allons-y

‘Rwanda is the Singapore of Africa, small and smart’ -Arsenal shirt wearing neighbour

‘Singapore is a small country, but a big idea’ - ex-Minister of Foreign Affairs George Yeo


I feel like I will not be able to really write out everything I’ve seen or heard that interests me, or that I won’t have the patience to outside of point form. And yet I feel so saturated with cool stories and observations it would be a terrible waste outside of my notebook ‘quickies’. I just hope my subconscious keeps up all this time. I am generally, I think, not ‘surprised’ by much, which makes me quite stoic/stone-faced to many. It was more a surprise to my host family for example, that I have washed my own clothes by hand before in my life, rather than me being nervous or surprised at having to do it here. It is not that I know everything already, but many things I know I don’t really know and so can’t really assume much and so come here and see, which excites and intrigues me, but doesn’t ‘surprise’ me or ‘break stereotypes’. It does help to confirm/unconfirm ‘commonly-held’ stereotypes that I know and gives me something to tell people who do hold them. I am not perfect of course, but it does mean I don’t know ‘where to begin’ outside of listing everything I’ve heard and seen and felt and smelled chronologically. I guess I’ve chosen, like always, to talk in general, in abstract, in weird jumbled blog-bytes.

^Wrote all of the above a day or two ago and have not just started my genocide classes here in Kigali, beginning with a movie called 'Ghosts of Rwanda', focusing a lot on the US perspective (it was made by PBS). I consider myself quite a stoic person who has loosened in outlook because I think it is more humane; the one part that did move me to tears was seeing Captain Mbaye's death in the movie. There can certainly be no heroes in a genocide, but he might have been the closest.

Practicing language is a good thing, because it is hard and it forces you at first. Alors je vais écrire un peu en français et peut-être en kinyarwanda. C'est la raison je n'ai pas publié ce poste plus tôt. J'ai décidé à essayer de faire la conversation avec le gens ici. C'est ce que je dirai: Muraho! Amakuru? Nanjye, ni meza. Nturuka he? Nturuka muri Singapour. Ndi umuyeshuri. Wowe se? Ukora iki?

C'est tout pour maintenant.

Saturday, 29 July 2017

Epilogue

In waiting listlessly for my phone to charge before I try to go to sleep for a nice day tomorrow, I went back to read posts from when my blog was slowing down to its current pace. If I didn't know any better just from reading some of them during the beginning of army, I should think I was actually going through some high-functioning depression, Man, really throws a wrench into when people ask me how army was, and usually I just start reminiscing about the end days and not basic training, when it was really quite... lonely.

^
Holy crap, I wrote that in a now deleted draft titled 'Montréal'. I wanted to switch my title to what my post is going to be about more... which meant I could actually just have changed the title oops. Ah well I think there is a different feeling (completely irrational of course) of changing to a 'new post', which in the interests of time I won't finish tonight, but maybe on the bus tomorrow...
Don't want to forget about this so I'll insert some placeholder text but keep it... so I guess it's not...
There is a very specific feeling when you end a novel. When you read... the epilogue. I'm on said bus right now and just like the showing, I'm going to finish this post. I'm first going to say a few more words on Chester Bennington's death, starting with what I wrote on facebook:
actually placeholder text? Anyway, Samurai Jack has become my number 1 favourite cartoon, over
I know this random longass post is abit bourgeois melodramatic, but "Linkin Park and its lead singer were especially popular in South-east Asia..." - BBC; so write abit... Singlish abit.
When I was 10, P4, was when Linkin Park was blaring in my classroom's radio/CD-player, actually supposed to be for Chinese listening compre. I think 'was Numb or Faint. Anyway teacher not happy when me and Darren Chong ++ sing their songs, so kena. That's when I shy abit, start to don't like all this nonsense 'angsty satanic shit'. In P5 got singing competition, end up 2 teams, me and Charlie Zhao and my 2 friends Alfred Ang and Dennis Tohin finals. They sang 'In the End', 'Numb' (we sang Where is the Love by Black Eyed Peas). I still listened to their songs, but I felt repulsed because I thought it was 'bad music' for all the angsty guailan kids, so I listened to other stuff more. That was me being angsty and guailan.
"Despite the cascades of distorted guitars that surround him, there are moments in Linkin Park’s discography where Bennington sings as though he’s one-fifth of a boy band or like he’s whispering over the top of an acoustic guitar at a Midwestern coffee shop...It’s like he’s telling a secret to you and only you, never mind the half-dozen other kids still on the bus." - Consequence of Sound
The article I reference above uses Crawling as the example, for me, it was Waiting for the End. This was 2010, after Metallica was blasting in the media lab played by Yeo Tze Yang, appreciated by Marcus Liu. That's when I changed my mind, stopped being a prick about music (and then stopped being a prick much later) I bought Hybrid Theory Meteora and Minutes to Midnight when HMV had a sale and after a nostalgia sesh convo with Rifdi Bin Rosly .
It's a different feeling, honestly kind of stupidly hipster, to listen to old music that people have 'moved past from' etc, made me feel more special lor. Edgy af, then I decided, nvm other people la, liked the sound, liked the clear lyrics, liked to smile when listening to angsty shit, so let yourself have fun. I listened to them in the army, alongside Paramore and Muse. I never properly listened to their later things, but I might soon. I want to say to folks, don't be embarassed about your angsty, edgy, teenage music, some people might give you shit about it, and maybe they don't like it, that's fine. Everyone has their own taste, own problems. There's nothing wrong with having a phase, nor having 'the phase' your whole life, even if it changes from really feeling it to laughing at yourself, and getting the meaning without feeling in real dire straits anymore.
Fast forward, and I find random pockets of people at NU who listen to or 'used to listen in middle school' (I mean more than Numb and In the End) always with that nervous laughter or sheepish grin. Have even jammed a few tunes with Mike Pitorak. Fair enough, it can even come off as angsty white people music sometimes (mental health is not a joke). But it means something important to some people, and that's good enough for me. The magic might have been lost to some when it turned out Linkin Park was listened by so many and not just you, but that also became the point for me and for many - it seems like you were alone with the music, but in fact many people might empathize. For me, it's a whole lot of nostalgia, with a spoonful of eternity, and good friends along the way. For others, the music was welcome sincerity from a lead vocalist with a range and a backstory. K, finish my rant liao. RIP Chester Bennington.
the last airbender and Korra, although they are close 2nd and 3rd. I'd go into full detail, but I don't
Linkin Park is really, in a true sense of the word, cathartic. I gave the 3 albums I had + Waiting for the End another go on the flight from Kansas City to DC, and it was, cathartic closure, something you only feel with a band you grew up with.
think I have the space. Metaphorically, it's like your favourite simple/local/mother's dish over the
Similarly, the end of a movie, this time an indie film set in Thailand, directed by a Singaporean. As one writer put it, paraphrased, it was a conventional 'quirky till redemption' road trip sort of deal but for me was nonetheless wholesome and very charming. Melancholic old men always get to me. It reminded me of Logan, and even though it's concept was unoriginal, the details were fresh, kind of like an extended short film.
technically expert, culinary masterpiece. Avatar was almost too perfect, and the ending too grand.
And then what I wanted to write about most at this moment was the finale of Samurai Jack, in all regards, magnificently noble, if short. A really well-crafted and fitting end that the artistic cartoon deserves in a bittersweet wholesome epilogue - the feeling you get when getting to the end of a long novel, the indescribable, often described anyway as 'bittersweet' - after everything, it ends. After all this time? Always. I want to point out how well done this final season and season finale towards a longtime fan of the show, a show I grew up with and whose philosophy I hold close. Spoilers ahead (don't think anyone who reads my blog watches anyway!)

To start, the very clever writing trick - using the opening of the first 4 season, including the late voice actor Mako's voice to in fact be Aku's propaganda was a rare example of appropriate fan-service. The audience, instead of cringing, feels almost outsmarted in a way and enjoys it thoroughly, like a friend telling a witty inside joke to a friend joke. What follows pretty much follows the same formula in my books - tons of shoutouts/fanservice that at its worst felt only slightly shoehorned and fleeting. They were all mini-flashbacks of the grand adventure, except that instead of being the final 30 minutes of a 2 and a half hour movie, it was the last episode of 5 seasons of masterful storytelling. There's no 'I'm doing this for my friends!!!' type deal here, (cept maybe the love interest Ashi); because 50 years has passed, and Genndy took that plot device seriously. The way Jack finally manages to go back in time is exactly how the 5th season plays out - with the fruits of his struggle playing out and returned by the people he has saved - although it is cheesy, it's written in an artful storytelling genre that feels ok - even the abruptness of his escape, without saying a word to his friends in the future feels realistic to me because other shows might play it out with sorrow, sentimentality, and slow-motion. This is how he was meant to go back to where he really belongs, despite his adventures. This is how he receives peace. While a heroic new beginning in the future is possible and acceptable, I find this outcome much more in line with the show's philosophy of classical endurance.

But it's really the ending that's so great - because of how much it captures the cartoon in real-life, watched by an audience that has grown up. As I've said above, it was poetic, it was bittersweet, it was appropriate and emphatically understood it's audience - probably adults now, watching an old show. Many 'revivals' and 'reincarnations' either change too much or don't change, but Samurai Jack has truly hit the sweet spot with me - by not pretending, and by understanding what watching an old cartoon must feel like. To me, the final episode is a grand allegory - the opening starts with... the opening, the center reminds us of all his adventures and allies, the wedding and Ashi's disappearance, the abruptness and sadness and frustration of not finishing, the gray forest - the absence of the show, so vivid and full with no closure with the young audience growing up in a perhaps dreary world where Samurai Jack and other old cartoons have ran out of time - and the epilogue.

The epilogue is where a colorful ladybug, reminding Jack of Ashi, lands on his hands, and Jack is reminded of a great lesson, the running philosophy of the show, that Robert Frost puts as 'life goes on'. In my opinion, whether intentional or not, this scene evokes a calm feeling of nostalgia and joy - the same that the long-time fan, who has grown up with the show, watched Jack, and Genndy by extension, in their glory, and the final season, while being super important, is also a reflection and epilogue in its fullest. The lesson the ladybug helps Jack to realize is that Ashi may be gone, but his experiences and memories have been lived and created; season 5 may have been but a short and sweet adventure down memory lane, but despite its end, despite any favourite novel or TV show or movies end, the story has been told, and we have been lucky to always hold it in our hearts. The final scene in other words, is one of the most masterfully done epilogues that breaks the fourth wall in an emotionally emphatic way, and could only have been done because of the time jump, both in the show and in real life for the final season. It almost looks intentional, goddamit I'm not supposed to be crying. So many parts of this final scene is reminiscent, classic, nostalgic, wordless, subtle but in full-view... indescribable. It reminds me of how many prior samurai jack episodes end, with the melancholic Shakuhachi (Japanese flute) playing that says 'life must go on'. Jack's quest has reached its noble end, and now our lives must go on - yet it does so in a soft breeze and soft pink of cherry blossoms, not in melodrama or delusions of grandeur.

Didn't manage to finish again so I'm finishing it now, a little tipsy.

#79 Good Endings
Instead of explaining, I'll maybe list examples. They need not be 'satisfying' endings if that wasn't the point.
Samurai Jack
Harry Potter
Momento
American Gods
Brave New World
Witcher 3

There are too many to recall comprehensively. The obvious trend being that all of these have been great stories and storytelling, but not all great stories and storytelling have significantly standout good endings in my books.